by Elsa Holland
“But your reputation . . .” she walked faster.
“Are we back to ‘The Butcher’?” He bit out.
She was now trotting to keep pace with him as his hand, still at her back, propelled her at an unrealistic pace down the corridor.
“No, what I mean to say is that your reputation is for anatomy.”
They reached the double doors and, rather than slowing, he flung them out in front of them. Clap. Clap. They hit the walls and whooshed back.
Once through the doorway, Dr Vaughn came to a stop. They were in a small private surgery at the back of the first floor.
“And did all your investigations reveal what I was trained for?”
“Well originally as a surgeon—”
“Correct,” he said pointedly, “and that is the occupation for which I have hired staff.” At that he left her, walking into a small room.
The blasted man was going to be a handful. However, having lived with the Hurleys and her Collector, this man had a way to go before she found him demonic or unmanageable.
Edith pulled her gaze from his retreating back and looked around. The surgery and the surrounding rooms were another world, the world she’d dreamed of being part of since she was eleven years old. A place where pain was removed and people were saved.
There was a room for pre-operations and another for post-operations, partitioned by wood-paneled walls topped with glass. Old, grey curtains were hung for privacy on either end of each glass pane.
Across the hall Edith saw two operating theaters and what appeared to be a storeroom for supplies, linens and preparation of medicines. It was from this room that Dr Vaughn now emerged.
“Put this on.” He handed her a white smock to cover her dress. “Let me spell out the landscape as you seem to have difficulty recalling the position you applied for. My need and your behavior over the next few hours will determine whether you have a position at the end of the day. You will be judged and measured on your skill at supporting me in my surgery—not my anatomical work.”
She went to speak but his eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together.
“Ready yourself, we start immediately.” He strode off.
Edith fastened the smock behind her back, trying to prepare herself for the task ahead. Her future—her life—relied on her ability to demonstrate her depth of knowledge and expertise with complete confidence.
The whole space smelled of carbolic acid mixed with touches of ether and starch, and she drew the familiar odor into her lungs. These were the scents of her laboratory, her realm. She had plenty of experience to draw upon; not only had she practiced upon countless cadavers herself, she had witnessed a number of live operations from the hospital galleries as a member of the public, often the only woman in the stalls.
Many people had a moment when their hopes and dreams took them to the precipice. One jumped and grew wings or fell to a graceless death. In her experience, wings grew for those people who believed in themselves, even against all odds. In a few hours, Edith would know if she would fly, or land in a crumpled heap with nowhere left to turn.
Dr Vaughn shouted orders, causing staff to hurry out of rooms towards the theater. As if on cue, the patient’s screams again rang out as he lay in a small room off the theater. Other patients sat in a waiting room, pale at the cries and worrying about their turn on the gurney.
Voices, jarring sounds of metal on metal, cupboards slamming and bottles butting together punctuated the ongoing howls as the patient was prepared to enter the theater.
Through the glass, Edith watched Vaughn speak with those she assumed were the patient’s family. They were huddled on the bench, awkward, knuckles white, eyes cast down.
She couldn’t hear what was said. The doctor shook the older man’s hand and patted the woman’s shoulder.
“He only does charity ops.” A nurse threw over her shoulder.
Edith turned to ask why but the woman was already rushing into one of the theaters.
“Well come on then,” the nurse called. “He don’t half bellow if it’s not all sorted when he comes in.”
Another nurse hurried over.
“That’s Nurse McLaughlin. I’m Nurse Skellan. We only come in for operation days if he needs extra, you’ll be here permanent. Dr Vaughn said I was to help you settle. I’m afraid you’ll have to step right in. I’ll take care of set up until you find your way around. You focus on working with him. Being permanent staff is all about dealing with him.” Nurse Skellan gave a punctuating nod in Vaughn’s direction.
“I’m Edith, Nurse Appleby.”
Edith stretched out her hand. Nerves spiked through her as she waited for the woman’s response. Was shaking hands done in this profession? There were so many ways she could betray herself. It felt like the right thing to do, they were both professional women. Tension started to crawl up her arm as the seconds beat by.
Nurse Skellan placed a white cap in Edith’s hand and smiled warmly.
“Marie, and we’re not that formal around here when he’s not about. Come on. He’s a beast if things aren’t just so.”
Looking back at him through the glass, her body hummed.
In front of her the doors to the theater swished open as Marie rushed ahead. Inside, the theater lights were bursting bright. Dull blue-grey tiles with questionable grout covered the floor, the walls were marked, and the plaster chipped.
“Why didn’t you just start?” Edith asked, as Marie placed wadding into an antiseptic solution.
“Once he gets something in his head there is no changing it, and today we are ‘testing his new staff’.” Marie’s face softened, “don’t look so terrified, we’ll help you get through the day. Just remember, we only get called in if he wants to push a load of patients through like today otherwise you assist him on your own or with Dr Lam or Dr Frazer, the doctors he is tutoring. I hope you have stamina.”
Stamina. She had stamina, she just hoped her mind would stay sharp enough to stay ahead of what was needed as they progressed through the different operations. Edith hurried over to the sinks and scrubbed up with the others.
In the center of the theater, where the gurney would be wheeled over, was a box containing sawdust. Limbs usually needed a sawdust box. To the side a few tables were clustered together, white cloth and instruments laid out on them. Edith stepped closer to view the instruments contained within.
A large bone saw gleamed back at her.
CHAPTER 4
Amputation. Her first live operation would be an amputation.
Edith’s heart beat faster and she let out a slow, even breath. Stay calm.
Marie pulled a face and moved over to the bench and cupboards against the wall, collecting a face mask, and a bottle of chloroform to render the patient unconscious.
Edith stepped forward and grabbed some wadding and a tourniquet. If they would be performing an amputation they’d need wadding nearby and it had yet to be provided. She placed the extra wadding and tourniquet on the shelf under the tabletop. First win, she had spotted the items still needed and acquired them.
“I assume you know the instruments by name?” He growled and nerves flew through her like a blood pressure pump gone wild.
The man in the next room grew more hysterical.
“Well, do you?” Dr Vaughn moved over to the back wall and started to scrub his hands. He looked back at her. His gaze missed nothing as it assessed her with a ruthless clarity.
Heat flushed up her neck.
His eyebrows came down and doubt entered his eyes.
Edith looked at what was laid out on the table. For a moment she froze. If she made a mistake, a man could die, she would be found out and everything, absolutely everything, would be lost. Her heart pounded and the blood drained from her face. Her hand clamped and unclamped with uncertainty.
“Are you paying attention, Appleby? You’d better not faint.” A growl lay in those words. This man could smell fear from rooms away. His gaze dropped to her hands.
“Yes. Yes. I do know everything by name. And I don’t faint. Just a little stage fright.”
Turning away she looked down at the table of shiny instruments. Voices were hushed and Marie, good to her word, was directing Nurse McLaughlin in final preparations, leaving the room to get the patient.
With the others out of the room, Edith needed to get on solid ground with him after their rather odd and awkward start.
“What is the procedure, Doctor?” Edith noted the size of the saw. Whatever was coming off would be large, but she would engage him like a professional. “Will we be taking off his leg? Above or below the knee?”
Confidence flowed back as she focused on the task ahead. She’d practiced this particular operation a number of times but it was not the same when the body was already dead, when there was little blood and no one to complain if you’d left bone chips in the muscle after closing up.
The Butcher stopped, his face shuttered and thunderous.
What? What had she done wrong?
“We?” He took a step closer.
Her heart jerked.
He took one more step closer and her heart started a rapid military march, pounding phantom knees into her ribs.
She lifted her chin, determined not to break eye contact, there were some creatures to whom you never showed your fear and he was one of them.
He bent closer. The warm coffee scent of his breath puffed in her face. It was intimate. She looked away despite her intention and instead focused on the quality of his facial skin, a thick and flawlessly smooth epidermis. That should be safe.
She found herself staring straight at his lips. Her belly roiled as if she were on a boat. It was a strong mouth, the bottom lip full; a soft, sensuous feature in an otherwise chiseled face.
This man was brilliant, a professional she’d followed in the medical journals for years, and he was wiping her mind blank and making her body a riotous stranger.
“We do not need to know what the problem is, and we will not be taking his leg off.” His voice rumbled alarmingly through her chest.
Then she registered the words. Her chin pushed out a fraction further as she saw where this was going, and her usual, determined self-returned.
His brow came down in warning, daring her to push back at him. “Let us be perfectly clear, Appleby: you will hand what I ask for when I ask for it. Nothing more and nothing less will be required of you than what I ask. Are we clear?” Everything bristled at his words and their delineation of power, but she knew what was required if she wanted to stay.
“Of course, Doctor.” Her voice sounded reasonable.
For now.
Dr Vaughn raised those communicative eyebrows then his eyes roamed over her face, sending another unwanted charge through her body. She kept her face open and friendly, stopped her legs from stepping back. He was not sure of her. She straightened her back and opened her mouth to speak. But the theater doors opened and the Butcher turned. The nurses wheeled the patient into the room on a large wooden gurney. The patient saw Vaughn and screeched in blind panic, arching from the gurney so the leather straps holding him down strained to their limits.
Edith moved swiftly to the instrument table. This was it.
Nurse Skellan placed the chloroform over the patient’s nose and mouth and the anesthetic took hold. Promptly and on request, she handed first the scalpel and then the saw. The leg was off with the femoral artery neatly closed in exactly thirty seconds.
It was textbook perfect, better than perfect and yet the whole of the medical profession knew it may not be enough. Even with the antiseptic mist puffing indifferently in the space between patient and his now severed limb, lying forgotten in the sawdust box under the table, given the ease of infection, the man’s chance of survival was slim.
The day passed with very little time to think. Vaughn bellowed through the theater at any threat of variance from what was a tight sequence of procedures and practices. Patients were wheeled in one after the other, all charity cases as Marie had said. Instruments used, cleaned, then reused, defective body parts collected. Each operation was a dance of perfected cuts, slices and stitches. He knew his way around each area of the body as intimately as if he had made it himself.
Edith was run ragged as she worked to stay ahead of him. It was exhilarating, exhausting and more than she had ever dreamed an operating theater could be.
At the end of the day, the Butcher stood before the empty operating table. Blood clotted part of his hair and dried over his forearms and sweat slicked his shirt and undershirt against his back. The ferrous stench of blood overrode all others and under the harsh gaslights, his face was drawn and implacable.
Vaughn’s gaze met hers, daring her to look away.
“Ready to run?” His voice dropped low.
Heat rippled through her body.
She shook her head, the noises in the room floating away as she focused on him.
He stepped closer and held up his bloody hands but she couldn’t look away from those silver-grey eyes.
“Do I look like the Butcher now, Appleby?”
Her chest tightened and her body tingled, making her voice breathy.
“You look like you dueled with death and won.”
His eyes flared. A dark, hot look ignited the space between them.
He straightened to his full height and the organ called her heart, which had maintained a steady rhythm throughout hours of surgery, dropped all pretense of calm and raced. Her skin under well fitted clothes flamed.
“The Apple is an idealist.”
Her cheeks were hot. She moved her gaze to somewhere over his shoulder then back to his face.
“I consider myself a realist.”
He scoffed and stalked over to the sink. Her hand reached out to the small instrument table and held on while she willed her body back into equilibrium.
“Oh, you’re an idealist, Apple. The veritable glory of medical hope is etched all over your face.”
No doubt he was right. It had been glorious.
Edith stood mesmerized as he scrubbed the blood off his hands. To most he looked like their fears personified, but to her, he looked like a champion. A man who sliced away sure suffering and imminent death on the faint chance he could win a few back. He was brilliant. And a humanitarian to boot.
A cold weight settled on her shoulders.
Her freedom had just acquired a price; deceiving and betraying a man she now deeply admired.
CHAPTER 5
“Angel Meadows,” the cabbie called out as the carriage drew to a halt.
“Angel Meadows has the highest mortality rate in the country,” Master Brody said as he peered out the window. “The looms are said to go all night.”
Inspector Morrison looked across the bench at the pup, his newly acquired and unwanted ‘go fetch boy’. He’d been regaled with facts throughout the train trip from London to Manchester, and now on the carriage ride to the crime scene. No doubt a nervous blathering the kid needed to get sorted. Well he’d been given pups before and he knew how to get rid of them.
“Here’s a fact for you, pup: poor Mancunians who can only afford sleeping space, have to sleep back to back on the floor in a room with strangers. The thing is they have to do it naked to avoided spreading lice from their clothes. Any guesses at the unwanted pregnancy rate?”
The pup went red and his fine, pale fingers gripped the brown leather strap of his satchel that pressed into his odd little pigeon chest.
Morrison collected his hat from the bench beside him.
“Stay in the cab.” It would be the kid’s first crime scene and they wouldn’t have called him up from London if it wasn’t going to be serious. He may not have wanted a ‘go fetch boy’ and was annoyed that he now had one underfoot, but he would not traumatize the kid.
The pup straightened. “Absolutely not.”
Morrison barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. “For fuck sake, boy, grow some balls. ‘Absolutely not!’” He mimicked. The kid was going to be a laughing stock if he kept that up.
The pup went tense. “I resent your . . .”
Morrison held up his hand. “Just grow a pair. No one talks like that on the street and that is where we work. You want respect? Don’t dish out indignant little Molly statements. Now stay in the cab.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Inspector,” the boy said with all the earnestness those unsoiled by life seemed to have. “I’ve seen more than you might imagine.”
“More than I might imagine?” Morrison swore under his breath. “What I can imagine you don’t want to know.”
The cabbie opened the door, and Morrison went to exit then leaned over the pup. “If you absolutely have to come then stay back, watch and learn. You’re on probation, I can unhook you and throw you back anytime.” His pup scowled. The kid was going to be a stubborn, pain-in-the-ass priss.
Morrison stepped from the cab. Wind sent his black coat billowing behind him and he held his hat down as he made his way to the soot-encrusted, three storied boarding house. People dressed in shades of dust and grime milled about for word of the events within. Around them, a chimney-filled skyline purged black smoke into a sky that had no choice but to embrace the pungent fumes, as the city’s heartbeat filled the air with the ceaseless pounding of cotton looms. It was truly as Friedrich Engels, the socialist voice of the people, described: hell on earth.
“Inspector Morrison, Sergeant Briggs.” The Sergeant held out his hand. Morrison took it and received a firm dry-handed shake. The man was solid.
Sergeant Briggs looked to be mid-thirties, with tired eyes and a jacket that swam on thin shoulders.
“Glad you could get here so quickly, Inspector.”
“Steam is the master of distance, Sergeant Briggs.” Morrison moved into the house as the Sergeant filed in behind.
“The body is up on the top floor. It’s been near impossible to keep the lid on this one.” They walked through the small entrance foyer toward the staircase against the far wall. Morrison glanced over his shoulder to see the pup right behind them, determination setting his pretty little jaw.