Keith was trying to sound like he was mulling over the possibilities, but Raven could tell he already had something specific in mind. Raven also suspected he had an agenda.
‘If it will deliver me from Christison, I am open to any suggestion.’
‘Have you heard of photography?’
Raven perked up. This was the remarkable means of capturing reflected light upon treated paper, creating images far more accurate than the hand of the finest painter.
‘I have heard of it, but I confess I have never seen an example. Do you know someone who has a camera?’
‘I know two people who are among the most renowned exponents of the art. You may remember my friend David Hill: he visited the house a few days ago.’
Raven nodded. He vaguely recalled Keith introducing an acquaintance to Simpson, but he had not heard the details as he was on his way out, having been dispatched to pick up some chemicals for Dr Duncan.
‘He and his partner Robert Adamson have their studio on Calton Hill, where they are utilising a new process, the calotype. They have requested Dr Simpson sit for a photographic portrait, but I doubt he could be imposed upon to remain still for the length of time required. The man is never at peace.’
Raven smiled at the thought of the professor attempting to hold a pose for more than thirty seconds.
‘You on the other hand would be ideal. They are looking for subjects with interesting faces. Would you sit for them?’
Raven didn’t like to think of his face as ‘interesting’. Among the medical fraternity this was seldom a complimentary adjective. He wondered if Keith was referring to his features in general or to his scar, which although healing still tended to draw unwanted attention.
‘As a subject?’
Keith nodded. ‘I am seeing Mr Hill later today. I will suggest we visit tomorrow, first thing. It has to be when the light is brightest.’
‘I should be honoured,’ Raven said.
Keith gave him an odd smile; approving and yet calculating.
‘You were out on Sunday with the maid, Sarah, were you not?’
Raven felt rather exposed. He had not thought of the repercussions of their excursion, beyond reporting back to Simpson about Grissom’s oratorical expertise in turning humility into self-aggrandisement.
‘What of it?’
‘If you have a certain rapport with her, then you might ask her to join us too. They are particularly interested in working women. I think she would make a splendid subject.’
Raven realised this was the agenda he had suspected. Hill must have caught a glimpse of Sarah during his visit, and it was she he was truly interested in. Keith was engineering a pretext to deliver her there, with Raven as his instrument.
He didn’t mind. He would rather be Keith and Hill’s instrument than be Duncan’s, and if it got him out from beneath the shroud of despond blanketing the house, he would welcome the chance.
Twenty-Nine
Sarah was walking into the teeth of a chill and blustery wind, but she was relieved to be outside. Even opening the front door to commence her journey had felt like lifting the lid on a boiling pot, venting the pressure that was building up within. An atmosphere of gloom had descended upon No. 52, and from experience Sarah knew it was destined to continue for at least another day or so.
Dr Simpson had a tendency to retreat to his room from time to time, when his reserves of energy and enthusiasm had been drained to the very dregs by what he was forced to confront on a daily basis. She understood there had been a case that had gone badly and for which he blamed himself. In the year or so she had been working at Queen Street, she had learned that Simpson was generous in spreading the happiness of his successes, but the corollary was that his failures he took very much to heart.
So when this outing was suggested, Sarah had seized the opportunity, despite Mrs Lyndsay’s reservations about the propriety of it.
‘Whoever heard of such a thing?’ she had said, kneading dough with a degree of violence provoked by having had her well-developed sense of decorum thus offended. ‘A housemaid accompanying the gentlemen of the house on a walking tour of the city? No good will come of it, you know.’
She would have forbidden it altogether, Sarah had no doubt, but that it was Dr Keith who had requested Sarah’s presence and secured Mrs Lyndsay’s agreement before telling her why he required her. The cook was already simmering that her suspension of Sarah’s clinic duties had been cut short at Dr Keith’s insistence, so Sarah knew she would be made to pay for this later in extra chores and Mrs Lyndsay’s glowering disapproval. Nonetheless, she was determined to enjoy her excursion in the meantime.
Sarah had thought that the walk might provide an opportunity for sharing any new intelligence on the matter of Evie and Rose. She had been attempting to make her way through Christison’s Treatise on Poisons (the book having been surrendered by Raven, who had entirely given up on it) but it was an imposingly weighty volume and her time was limited. She was finding the book fascinating, but her reading so far had failed to shed any light on their particular area of interest. She wished she had all day to study it. How blessed was the lot of a student, she thought.
Raven was unusually quiet, as if the pervading melancholy of the house was proving contagious. He was often sullen, but he usually had something to say for himself, even when it seemed inappropriate; in fact, especially when it seemed inappropriate. He walked beside her in silence, hands in his pockets, kicking at loose stones on the cobbles.
‘How did he talk you into this?’ Sarah asked. She nodded towards George Keith, who was striding on ahead, muttering excitedly about the clear conditions and the implications this had for the morning’s events.
‘He thought I was in need of distraction.’
‘Are you?’
‘I suppose I am. I’m beginning to feel that I am in over my head, entering into a profession that is doomed to be forever fighting a losing battle.’
Sarah felt her hackles rise at this pompous perspective, putting himself at the centre of an almighty drama. He was exhibiting the male trait of believing the world revolved around them, usually because it did.
‘That seems a rather self-indulgent interpretation,’ she told him, attempting to keep the annoyance out of her voice, though it was evident enough in her words.
‘What would you know about it?’
‘You forget that some would be happy to have your problems. To be learning a profession,’ she added pointedly.
Raven took on an unusually sheepish demeanour. Unlike some men, at least this indicated he had understood her point.
‘Nonetheless, that doesn’t make it any easier to be every day confronted with suffering and death.’
Sarah looked at his face, the dark circles around his eyes, the scar still livid on his cheek, and felt her anger subside.
‘My grandmother once told me about a king who sought a single thought that would raise his spirits when they were low, but keep him vigilant when he was happy.’
Raven lifted his head, curious if not optimistic about what she might be able to offer.
‘A wise man told the king but four words: “This too will pass.” Dr Simpson won’t remain cloistered in his room for long, and things have been worse than this before now.’
‘In what way?’
‘You’ll have noticed Mrs Simpson is in mourning?’
‘I had not thought black to be the new fashion.’
‘They lost their daughter in February. Mary Catherine. Just before her second birthday. They had already lost their first daughter, Maggie, at the age of four.’
‘What did they die of?’
In other company Sarah would have considered this to be a heartless and insensitive enquiry, but she was sufficiently used to medical men by now that it came as no surprise. It would have been unusual if he had not sought clarification upon this point.
‘Maggie was before my time,’ she replied. ‘Mary Catherine died of scarlet fever. It was awful. S
he kept crying out for water but couldn’t drink it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult watching a child die.’
‘It’s difficult watching anyone die, is it not?’
Raven looked pensive. ‘Some deaths are easier than others.’
‘I suppose you’re in a better position to judge, though I have seen my fair share.’
‘Have you, now,’ he said. His tone was distinctly sceptical.
Sarah stopped walking.
‘My mother died in childbirth and my father followed shortly after. Of a broken heart, the doctor said. That is how I came to be working here. I had no one, and our minister knew Dr Simpson.’
Raven had the decency to look contrite.
‘I’m sorry if I seemed insensitive. Hazard of the job.’
They walked on again in silence for a few yards, George Keith pressing on ahead of them up the slope. Despite the cold it was a fine day to be out, as the wind had blown away the fog and the sun was shining from a clear sky. As they ascended Calton Hill, Edinburgh fell away beneath them in all directions. To the north Sarah could see all the way to the Forth and beyond, sails dotted along the water in a procession in and out of Leith. The geometry of the New Town was strikingly vivid from up here too, its layout so precise and uniform in contrast to all the districts that surrounded it. It spoke of order and elegance, but also of rigidity and unbending rules.
When Raven spoke again, his tone was pitched a little brighter.
‘Miss Grindlay seems remarkably unaffected by the prevailing gloom, don’t you think?’
It was true that Mina had been in unusually high spirits for the best part of a week.
‘Why do you think that is?’ he continued.
‘I imagine we have your acquaintance Dr Beattie to thank.’
‘Beattie?’
She could be wrong, but Raven seemed oddly uncomfortable at the mention of his name. She had assumed they were friends, but she knew how medical men were in the habit of falling out.
‘Yes. They have been seeing a great deal of each other.’
Raven nodded to himself. ‘Now that you mention it, I was sure I had smelt his cologne on occasion when I returned from my duties.’
‘I would have thought you more surprised,’ she confessed.
‘Why?’
‘I had not thought Mina the type to take Beattie’s interest. She is older than him and I cannot think that he would want for younger ladies’ affections.’
Raven snorted. ‘Jealous, are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. What interest would I have in such a man?’
‘The same interest that a great many women seem to have. As you say, he does not want for younger ladies’ affections.’
‘Jealous, are you?’ Sarah batted back.
Raven ignored this. ‘Beattie is older than he appears, and he told me he has come to find such flirtatious attentions trivial and tiresome. I got the impression that he might have found something in Mina that these other women lack.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘her brother-in-law’s name and the connections attached to it.’
Raven seemed shocked at her bluntness, enough to make her fear she had overstepped the mark.
‘I only say this because I would hate to see Miss Grindlay deceived.’
‘It is not an outlandish suggestion,’ Raven conceded. ‘But equally, though Mina may be in want of a husband, she does not strike me as naive in such matters. What they see in each other may not be what the rest of us assume. She may be aware that the Simpson connection confers certain advantages, but that does not preclude a companionship.’
Sarah frowned. ‘You make it seem like a business transaction. It makes sense but it sounds terribly bloodless.’
‘In marriage, there are worse things to be than bloodless,’ Raven replied.
‘How do you mean?’
She could tell from his eyes that he was not going to elaborate.
‘Let’s just say that while you lost your father too soon, I did not lose mine soon enough.’
As they skirted the Royal Observatory, hurrying to catch up with Dr Keith, Sarah tripped on a loose cobblestone. Raven grabbed her arm to prevent her from falling, keeping hold of it thereafter. His grip was strong and she found she had no objection to it.
‘Do you have an interest in photography?’ he asked.
‘I can’t say that I know much about it, but Dr Keith has been kind enough to show me his daguerreotypes. From his travels in Palestine and Syria.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Raven, smiling for the first time that day.
Thirty
Raven felt himself already in better spirits by the time they arrived at Rock House, the walk having the effect Keith so faithfully promised. He would have to admit that the chance to talk with Sarah had done him good too. Perhaps it was merely relief at the contrast to how badly their early encounters had gone, but he derived a degree of satisfaction from merely conversing with her without rancour.
He had even found himself smiling for the first time in days, and was pleased that he could do so without producing any sense of pain or tightness in the left side of his face.
Rock House was a two-storey building with a courtyard to the front of it boasting a small fountain with a Grecian urn in its centre. It was only a stone’s throw from Princes Street and yet seemed to be held in an arboreal cocoon, sheltered from the noise and smog of the city. It was surprising then that Keith had to knock several times before the door was answered.
‘They’ll be in the garden, I should imagine,’ he said as they waited. ‘They generally take their photographs outdoors.’ He pointed at the sky. ‘For the light.’
When the door opened it was a woman who greeted them. She wore an apron but no cap, and had a black stain on the back of one hand, visible when she tucked a stray curl of greying hair behind her ear.
‘Good day to you, Miss Mann. We are expected.’
‘Of course, Dr Keith. Come in. We are all out at the back.’
She turned and led the way through the house to the garden. Raven followed Keith, leaving Sarah to close the door.
‘Miss Mann is the indispensable assistant of Mr Hill and Mr Adamson,’ Keith explained as they marched in procession through the narrow hallway.
They emerged into the garden, where it appeared that the house had extruded most of its furniture. There were chairs, a table, wall hangings and a birdcage all arranged as if it were the corner of a well-appointed drawing room. Two men were busy manoeuvring the camera into position. They were so absorbed in their task that they were initially unaware of the arrival of their visitors. Miss Mann loudly cleared her throat and the pair of them looked up in unison.
‘Ah, George. You have brought us some willing subjects, I see,’ said one, as though this had not all been carefully arranged. The speaker was lively in his features, a great mane of hair spilling about his face. He strode forth and enthusiastically shook their hands, including the surprised-looking Sarah.
‘David Octavius Hill at your service. And this,’ he said, waving his hand in the direction of the other man, ‘is my good friend and colleague Mr Robert Adamson.’
Mr Adamson was the younger of the two, thin and frail-looking. He merely nodded in acknowledgement and resumed his work.
‘Mr Adamson is the technical genius within this partnership,’ Hill continued. ‘He has mastered the method of creating the calotype. I know not the process though it is under my nose continuously, and I believe that I never will. I for my part organise the subject. Together we make art.’
Raven considered this a rather grandiloquent claim to make until he was shown some of the fruits of their labour. A picture of the Scott Monument before its completion made a particular impression upon him. The clarity of the image and the detail that could be discerned in it were remarkable, a moment frozen in time.
‘We had to climb onto the roof of the Royal Institution with the camera to get that one,’ Hill said.
He returned with another visitor, a tall woman towering a full head above him.
‘Here is Miss Rigby,’ he explained. ‘Writer, patron of the arts and a great supporter of our endeavours here.’
‘Not to mention occasional sitter,’ said Miss Rigby, removing her hat. ‘When you can be forced to drag your attention away from the fat martyrs of the Free Kirk,’ she added, indicating the prints Raven was looking at. ‘Mr Hill has spent an inordinate amount of time procuring the images of all these ministers for his great Disruption painting. But between you and me, I can’t see it ever being finished. He has fortunately begun to cast his artistic net a little wider.’
She regarded Raven with an intensity that he found disconcerting, as though he were being physically assessed. He looked instinctively for Sarah, uncomfortable beneath this woman’s forthright scrutiny, though he could not rightly say what succour he thought she might offer. In any case, she had wandered off to the other end of the garden, watching Mr Adamson and Miss Mann as they made various adjustments to the camera.
‘I think you will find that the Newhaven photographs are far more interesting,’ Miss Rigby said as Raven continued to turn the pages of the book, an on-going catalogue of grim-faced clergymen.
He stopped suddenly, recognising the face that presently glowered at him from the open page.
‘Here’s one I am familiar with,’ he stated. ‘The Reverend Malachy Grissom.’
‘You’re not of his congregation, are you?’
The manner of Miss Rigby’s asking indicated that an affirmative answer would be met with disapproval.
‘No, though I have heard him preach. He was blaming immodest women for male lust and railing against prostitutes.’
Miss Rigby wore a slyly amused smile. ‘Railing against them? That’s a term for it I haven’t heard before.’
Raven looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
The Way of All Flesh Page 19