The Way of All Flesh

by Ambrose Parry

  Beattie began the procedure and Raven felt for the pulse at the wrist. All was well.

  ‘I notice there is no painting of her,’ Raven said quietly.

  ‘No,’ Beattie replied. ‘It’s an expensive business, so they often don’t commission one of the wife until she has brought forth an heir. And survived it.’

  ‘Unless it’s a love match,’ Raven suggested, deducing that this was most probably not.

  ‘One should never assume in such matters,’ Beattie replied. ‘But no, I suspect not in this case.’

  ‘She certainly seems taken with you,’ Raven ventured, injecting a note of humour into his tone.

  Beattie seemed bemused in his response. ‘It is a double-edged sword,’ he said. ‘Women tend to think my appearance boyish and their maternal instinct draws them to me. It is therefore easy to strike up a rapport but there is a danger they may misinterpret my intentions.’

  ‘And is such attention so unwelcome?’ Raven asked, curious at Beattie’s thin-lipped expression and, he would admit, a little envious.

  ‘When a woman is attracted to my boyishness, that often goes with a tendency to regard me as junior, as trivial. Even worse is when the woman is young and trivial herself and thinks me an ideal match. You might imagine such attentions flattering, but I have quite had my fill of flirtations.’

  Raven thought of how Beattie had talked so long with Mina at dinner, and suddenly saw their conversation in a different light.

  His reverie was interrupted as Mrs Graseby uttered a moan and her hand shot up in apparent response to something Beattie was doing. It caught Raven on the left side of his face and he shouted out, more in surprise than pain, the noise causing Beattie to drop the instrument he was holding.

  ‘For God’s sake, Raven. Keep her still, will you.’

  Raven quickly poured more of the ether onto the sponge and pushed it roughly onto the writhing woman’s face. Within a few breaths she had quietened again. Beattie looked up at Raven as though he would like to stab him with the implement he had retrieved from the floor.

  ‘I shouldn’t be much longer here but I am at a critical point in the procedure. Please ensure that she does not move again.’

  Beattie’s face was flushed and Raven decided not to argue with him. He merely nodded and continued to feel for the pulse. He noticed that it had become quite rapid, much as his own in the last few minutes, but even as his calmed, Mrs Graseby’s continued to increase.

  ‘Is everything all right down there?’ Raven asked. ‘There isn’t any bleeding, is there?’

  ‘There is but a little,’ Beattie replied, a little testily.

  A few minutes later he threw his instruments down on the table and wiped his brow.

  ‘I am done,’ he declared.

  ‘I am worried about the pulse rate,’ Raven told him. ‘It is very high.’

  ‘It is the ether. You must have given her too much.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he argued, though in truth he knew he couldn’t be sure.

  They looked at each other as Beattie wiped his hands. ‘There is no bleeding,’ Beattie said again. ‘We must simply wait for her to recover.’

  The next few hours were among the worst that Raven had ever known. Mrs Graseby remained drowsy, never fully regaining her senses. Her pulse rate remained high and her pallor corpse-like.

  ‘All will be well,’ Beattie assured him, no more flustered than had she been suffering a nosebleed. ‘Time and patience are all that is required. You should leave her in my care and get yourself home.’

  Raven had no intention of abandoning her in this condition, and steadfastly refused to move from her bed. Finally, however, her pulse began to slow, which he reported to Beattie with some relief.

  ‘She will rally now,’ Beattie insisted. ‘Go back to Queen Street and get yourself some rest. You look quite spent.’

  ‘I would rather wait until she is fully awake.’

  ‘Your work is done, Will. But I will send for you as soon as she opens her eyes.’

  Raven did as he was bid, feeling the burden begin to lift as he made the short walk back to Queen Street. He suspected that his anxiety had been magnified because he was working for the first time without Simpson’s supervision, but perhaps taking difficult steps on your own was the only way to learn. Nonetheless, he knew he would not feel entirely secure about it until he had returned to Danube Street and seen Mrs Graseby fully conscious again.

  He ate little at dinner, which piqued the unwanted interest of Mina.

  ‘Are you troubled by indigestion? You might care to try one of my stomach powders. I got them from Duncan and Flockhart and they work very efficiently indeed.’

  Raven respectfully declined and excused himself as soon as he deemed polite, unable to concentrate on the conversation. He retreated to his room, waiting impatiently for word and emerging to disappointment twice when the doorbell rang with messages for the professor.

  The longer he waited, the more he began to fear, as it did not augur well if it was taking this long for Mrs Graseby to recover. That said, it was possible Beattie had been tardy about remembering his promise, and was engaged in further flirty conversation with his patient.

  Finally, at about ten o’clock, there was a third ring on the doorbell. A few moments later Jarvis knocked on Raven’s door.

  ‘Dr Beattie is here to see you,’ he said quietly. Raven wondered anxiously what he might infer from the butler’s soft tone, but told himself his quiet delivery was more a reflection of the hour. Nonetheless, he hurried down the stairs and found Beattie awaiting him in the half light of the hallway.

  He was clutching his hat. Raven’s stomach turned instantly to lead.

  Beattie waited until they were alone, and when he spoke, his words were barely above a whisper.

  ‘She did not recover.’

  ‘Dear God. How?’

  ‘I fear it was the ether.’

  Raven felt himself shrink, the darkness around threatening to swallow him. ‘I am finished. I will have to tell Dr Simpson.’

  Beattie gripped his arm and whispered into his ear. ‘You will tell no one. I brought you into this. I will see you are not blamed.’

  With this, Beattie walked to the door and closed it quietly behind him. As Raven watched him withdraw, he felt an undeserving gratitude, but no relief and absolutely no comfort.

  Twenty-Three

  Raven was engulfed by the bleakest misery, confined within a prison of his own making, and what made it harder still was that he had to conceal his pain from everyone around him. He had to conduct himself as though nothing was amiss, there being no option to withdraw and hide away, as the following day had been hectically busy.

  It had begun with a typically rumbustious morning clinic, at which he was besieged by unwary souls to whom he felt he ought to admit to being a dangerous fraud. He felt nervous and under-confident in his diagnoses and the advice he dispensed. Consequently, several patients left him with the impression that they were not convinced by what he told them, and therefore less likely to take the steps he recommended.

  He thought of the homeopaths and the benefits their patients experienced due solely to the confidence they had in their doctors. If there was an opposite effect, then he was surely generating it.

  Nonetheless, there was one case in which he had no doubt regarding his diagnosis, though his confidence did not provide for any better an outcome. The patient was a Mrs Gallagher, who had presented with what she initially described as a stomach complaint. Raven had palpated her stomach to little response, but when he put the merest pressure against her ribs, she winced and withdrew. He instantly recognised what he was looking at, just as he recognised her reluctance to lift her chemise and show him her sides.

  ‘I need to check for a particular kind of rash that may be infectious,’ he lied, by way of convincing her to cooperate.

  He found the bruising where he expected, extensive but easily concealed.

  ‘Your husband did th
is,’ he stated.

  She looked hunted, afraid even that Raven had said this aloud.

  ‘It was my ain fault. I burnt the scones and there was nae mair flour. He had a tiring day and I should have been paying mair heed.’

  ‘Where might I speak with Mr Gallagher?’ Raven asked, but she was already on her way to the door.

  She departed rapidly, leaving him with the impression that he had made matters worse, or at least frightened her into leaving before he was able to do anything for her.

  This miserable morning had been followed by the usual diet of assisting at lectures and home visits. Adding insult to injury, one of the latter marked the first time he had accompanied Simpson to a rich client in the New Town, where inevitably he had been required to administer ether. When Simpson suggested it, Raven had looked around in the hope that he might see one of the Reverend Grissom’s pamphlets, but he was not so blessed.

  How his hands had shaken as he fumbled for the bottle, Simpson asking with a mixture of concern and irritation if he was all right.

  The final trial was dinner, when once again he had to conceal his torment lest someone enquire as to what was troubling him. The hardest thing about this burden was that he absolutely could not share it with anybody.

  Raven had seldom felt so isolated, so lonely, but at least his efforts at such concealment appeared to be successful. Following last night’s solicitations and attendant offer of stomach powders, Mina’s attention was notably not upon him this evening. She seemed distracted by some hidden excitation. She had news she was impatient to share, but had to await her moment.

  Raven suspected Simpson had divined this, as he seemed to draw out saying grace as though intent upon frustrating her. Ordinarily this would have frustrated Raven also, with his meal having been placed before him, but he was lacking in appetite.

  His head bowed, Raven observed that he had been given a larger portion than anyone else. He glanced up, caught Sarah’s eye, and saw a conciliatory expression upon her face which told him his true condition had not gone entirely unnoticed. She could have no idea what was wrong, only that he was suffering.

  He offered her a tiny nod of acknowledgement. He just hoped she wouldn’t misinterpret if he failed to clear his plate.

  The formalities concluded, Mina did not pause to eat before making her contribution.

  ‘I learned the most dreadful news today,’ she said. ‘Truly dreadful and most tragic.’

  Raven felt his insides turn to ice as it struck him that she was about to reveal the death of Mrs Graseby, right here before Dr Simpson.

  ‘You will remember the Sheldrake family’s housemaid, the one who had run away?’

  ‘Sheldrake?’ asked James Duncan with a sour curiosity, by way of emphasising that he had not been party to the previous discussion to which Mina was alluding.

  ‘Mr Sheldrake is a dentist,’ Mrs Simpson informed him, ‘with a very successful practice. One of his housemaids absconded recently.’

  ‘Rose Campbell,’ said Mina. ‘She was found dead, and there is a rumour that it was murder. Pulled from the dockside down in Leith. It’s thought the man she ran off with must have done for her.’

  ‘How awful for the Sheldrakes,’ said Mrs Simpson. ‘And for the staff who knew her.’

  ‘It is thought that her own behaviour might have contributed to her demise,’ Mina went on. ‘She was reputedly free with her favours.’

  Mina shook her head as though the relevance of this last statement was self-evident. Raven wondered at this sense of natural justice people seemed to draw from such judgments, as though any carnal knowledge of which they did not approve must inevitably lead to the direst of consequences. Perhaps they embraced this by way of reassurance that they could never meet a similar fate because of the morality they observed.

  He sometimes felt sorry for Mina in that she appeared to have no greater purpose in life than to get herself married off, and was making scant progress in this endeavour. Vicarious excitement and scandal were therefore of disproportionate significance to her, and she was a busy conduit for all manner of gossip. Mina spoke with ill-disguised fascination about this poor girl’s gruesome fate, as though she were reading from a penny dreadful.

  Raven’s eyes lit briefly upon Sarah. She was upset and attempting to conceal it. Her efforts were precisely as successful as his had been, in that only one person had seen through to the truth.

  Sarah knew the girl.

  Mina’s reverie was cut off by the professor, who had heard enough.

  ‘This kind of speculation is not appropriate for the dinner table, Mina,’ he stated firmly. ‘And it is no more than blethers. I happened to run into McLevy the police detective today, and he said nothing about murder.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’ Mina asked.

  ‘The details are not for sharing in gentle company,’ Simpson replied, which closed the matter for the duration of the meal.

  Raven made a point of seeking out the professor on his own once dinner was concluded. He intercepted him on his way to the stairs, before he could disappear into his study.

  ‘What did McLevy tell you, sir?’

  Simpson looked at him as though surprised at his interest, then a dawning passed over his expression as he remembered that Raven had been there at the quayside.

  ‘He is awaiting the results of a post-mortem by the police surgeon,’ Simpson said, his voice low. There was nobody in earshot, but he was perhaps concerned that a door might open nearby at any moment. ‘I implied to Mina that there was no murder, but the truth is McLevy has not ruled anything out until he knows more.’

  ‘So was there anything specific to suggest foul play?’

  ‘He was very guarded. Between you and me, McLevy sometimes says more than his prayers. He likes to exaggerate the enormity of what he is up against so that it reflects the greater upon his achievement when he gets his man. But on this occasion, I do not believe that to be the case. He asked for my discretion, which you understand I would therefore expect of you also.’

  ‘Unquestioningly, sir.’

  ‘With a young woman found dead like that, he does not want word to spread that there may be some monster at large.’

  Raven recalled the absurd talk of devils and Satanists that he had overheard. He well understood the hysteria that might ensue, not to mention the accusations. He recalled also the landlord, who had been keen to know the nature of Raven’s interest, and who had followed him later. He might even have discovered where Raven lived, had he not managed to give him the slip.

  ‘Had McLevy any suspicion as to what might have happened?’

  ‘As Mina has said, Rose Campbell was rumoured to have been seeing a number of men, and possibly to have run away with one of them.’

  ‘When we saw her by the quay, her posture was strangely contorted. What of that?’

  ‘McLevy made no mention of it. But as we have no notion how long she was in the water, that might have been the result of rigor mortis. Why do you ask?’

  What could Raven tell him? Because a whore of my acquaintance, and of whom I have occasionally had knowledge, died in a similarly twisted posture and I crept away like a coward in order to protect my own reputation.

  ‘I am simply curious as to what might have caused it.’

  He watched the doctor slip away quietly into his study. There was nothing further to be learned from him, but there was one person in the house who might know more.

  Raven waited until he knew her duties were complete and she would have retired to her quarters. He ascended the stairs to the topmost floor and knocked softly upon the door.

  ‘Yes, come in?’

  Despite the invitation, Raven opened the door but remained in place, not considering it appropriate to proceed fully inside. He knew that he was not who Sarah was expecting when she called out her reply. She was sitting upon the bed, a book open on her lap.

  She wore a familiarly implacable expression: a mixture of defiance and disapproval, thoug
h on this occasion missing the usual note of amusement bordering on scorn. Her face nonetheless failed to conceal that she was surprised to see him.

  She closed the book and got to her feet.

  The room smelled like fresh linen: clean and crisp. Sarah herself had a scent of cooked meat, smells that had adhered to her clothes from working in Mrs Lyndsay’s kitchen.

  ‘How may I help you, Mr Raven?’

  So, not Wilberforce today. She was caught off-guard and using formality to shore up a barrier. There was a redness about her eyes to indicate that she had recently wept.

  Raven was struck by how small and bare her room was. He had imagined it must be at least the same size as his, his position being temporary while hers was long-term. He realised with private embarrassment that this had been a baseless and indeed foolish assumption. It seemed so drab, so inadequate, and yet this was her lot.

  The furnishings consisted of a small bed, a trestle table, and a chest of drawers atop which sat a sewing basket and a washing bowl. There were no pictures on the narrow walls, no shelves full of books. He had imagined she would have a collection of novels at least, but understood now that she must borrow them from Dr Simpson’s library.

  Behind her on the bed was the volume she had just closed, an illustrated work concerning the cultivation of herbs and other plants. He recalled seeing her tending a particular patch of garden at the back of the house. On the trestle table sat Outlines of Chemistry, for the Use of Students, by Professor William Gregory, who taught at the university. Raven was intrigued as to what she could possibly be wanting with that. He had found it challenging enough, so what chance did she have of comprehending anything from it?

  ‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

  ‘I am interested in the healing properties of herbs,’ she replied, an impatience to her tone clearly not welcoming further discussion.

  ‘And what about the Gregory?’

  She glanced towards the volume that had once so tormented him.

  ‘Chemistry is the key to identifying the properties of individual plants which provoke specific effects. But as you had no way of knowing these books were here, I can deduce that this is not what you have come to enquire about.’