Dr Bain shook me warmly by the hand. ‘Good to see you, Jem,’ he said. ‘And you, Quartermain. You’ll be glad to hear that I’ll not be excising any hip joints tonight. Just a little taste of something to see what its actions might be. Jem knows the drill. We’ve done it before, haven’t we, Jem?’
Dr Bain led us down the hall and into the drawing room. I saw Will wrinkle his nose at the smell of the place – the ammonia reek of rats’ piss and spirits – and stare in surprise at the scorch marks on the carpet, the table covered with glass retorts, beakers and condensers, crucibles . . .
Unrestricted by the expectations of a wife or the demands of propriety, Dr Bain conducted his life as he chose. If he wanted a laboratory in his sitting room then he could have one. If he wanted to keep a cage of rats on the floor there was no one to stop him. And yet, his mode of living was not without difficulties: he was forever looking for a new housekeeper, as they appeared unwilling to preside over so unorthodox a household for long. Servants too were in short supply, and Dr Bain was obliged to turn a blind eye to all manner of insubordination, laziness and pilfering, simply so that he might have someone to kindle his fire and get him his breakfast in the morning. It always surprised me how well turned out the doctor was, given how often he had no one to clean his shoes and brush his clothes for him.
‘Dr Bain and I are working on a treatise on poison to rival Christison’s,’ I said.
‘Oh?’ Will raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes,’ said Dr Bain. ‘The art of the poisoner has become quite the fashion – if the penny broadsheets are anything to go by. More favoured by women as a means of murder than the knife, the bludgeon, or the pistol.’
‘Are you including physicians and surgeons in the tally?’ said Will. ‘I’m sure your fellow medical men are most adept.’
‘Oh indeed,’ I said. ‘With a death rate at St Saviour’s of ten patients in every one hundred, the men here show an unusual degree of expertise in the use of physic as a means of despatch.’
Dr Bain laughed. ‘How dare you deride my brilliant and gifted colleagues, Jem Flockhart,’ he said. ‘And you a mere apothecary. As for you, Quartermain – I can’t imagine who you might be referring to.’
‘I would not presume to name names,’ said Will. ‘The question was general, rather than specific.’ He looked askance at the cage of seething rats. ‘But what of this evening—’
‘Well.’ Dr Bain rubbed his hands together. ‘I thought we might examine the actions of spindle tree bark. I believe it may have tonic and diuretic effects. I tried a little yesterday – no more than five grains. But we need a proper experiment. I have a dog at the ready and have prepared a decoction—’
‘Dr Bain, I am always telling you.’ I sighed. ‘You will kill yourself and I will have no way of knowing what finished you off.’
Dr Bain appeared not to have heard. ‘We tried bloodroot last week,’ he said, addressing Will. ‘The tubers weep sap like blood. Quite alarming to see – especially for a chap like you, Quartermain. Good job we did it last week and not tonight – might have had you fainting at the sight of a severed tuber! Ha, ha!
‘But one can’t allow oneself to be deceived by appearances, can one? The thing might look like something from the Devil’s banquet, but we are men of science here and as such we grasp superstition and turn it on its head. We had a right old time of it, didn’t we, Jem?’
‘Yes, Dr Bain.’
‘Of course, I gave the stuff to a dog first—’
‘A dog?’ said Will.
‘Christison tells us that the responsiveness of dogs to medicines and toxins most closely resembles that of man,’ I said.
‘The streets are full of stray dogs,’ said Dr Bain. ‘What better use for them than to be the assistants of scientific inquiry? There are suggestions that bloodroot might exert a powerful effect on the heart and lungs.’ He shrugged. ‘How else might we find out more unless we try the stuff? But most physic is poison, Mr Quartermain. Did you know that? That’s where the dogs come in.’
‘And so the dog was given fifty grains of powdered bloodroot,’ I said.
‘It died, of course,’ said Dr Bain. ‘When we cut the beast open we found its heart and liver engorged, the blood thick and sluggish, and copious in the heart chambers – just what we expected—’
‘I think Mr Quartermain has heard enough,’ I said, perceiving Will’s growing pallor.
Dr Bain blinked. ‘Oh! Yes, well . . . Well, after that I had to try the stuff. Took half a drachm.’
‘Far too much,’ I said.
‘I nearly died,’ said Dr Bain.
‘You did die.’ I turned to Will. ‘There was no evidence of pulse or breath. I had to beat the life back into him. Thumping on his chest like a monkey on a drum . . .’ I stopped. I did not like to think of it. Dr Bain was my friend. Time and again I had sat with him while he spewed and retched, his bowels gurgling, his skin sweating, my fingers clamped to his pulse. And always we were observing, noting down, comparing – how else might medicine move forward? That evening, however, he had gone too far. I had forced an emetic between his lips; blown lungfuls of my own breath into him, sobbing as I applied my lips to his, my face salty with snot and tears, willing to try anything to bring him back. How we had clung to one another when he had finally gasped and coughed back into life, asprawl on the floor of his drawing room surrounded by mess and filth, our arms around each other like lovers.
‘An exciting evening, what?’ cried Dr Bain now.
‘You shouldn’t make light of it,’ I said. ‘I saved your life that night, and not for the first time. You should treat it with more respect.’
Dr Bain seized me by the hand, his expression suddenly serious. ‘So you did, Jem, so you did. And I thank God for your prompt action that night.’ He wrung my hand. To my surprise, his eyes shone with tears. ‘You’re a true friend. God knows, I don’t have many of those at St Saviour’s.’
‘Well then, perhaps you will do as I ask, for once.’
‘But of course—’
‘And tonight we will examine the coffins Will and I found, as we agreed.’
‘Oh.’ Dr Bain’s glance strayed to the sack containing the coffins which lay on the table top. For a moment, I thought I saw a look of apprehension cross his face. ‘Is that what we agreed? But I already have the dog.’
‘The dog can wait,’ I said. It was only afterwards that I had cause to reflect upon his reluctance. But by then it was too late.
I cleared a space amongst the books and papers on the table top. Dr Bain rummaged in the drawer of the desk and produced a large ebony-handled magnifying glass. ‘You’ve already looked at them?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I told him what we had found – the blood, the flowers.
‘I doubt there’s much else to see.’
‘I wanted to look at the lining paper,’ I said. ‘Some of them are lined with notepaper, foolscap – something. There’s writing.’
‘Mm,’ said Dr Bain. He poured himself a glass of Madeira.
I opened the first of the coffins – the smallest and most crudely formed – and emptied the contents onto the table. I took the magnifying glass and peered at the paper. There was definitely something written there. A phrase? A name? Perhaps a date? I handed the glass to Will.
‘The words are back to front,’ he said. ‘On the other side of the paper. Far too faint to read. And the paper is too old to peel away.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Dr Bain. ‘Shall I get the dog—’
‘Steam?’ I said.
‘But the paper is too thin,’ said the doctor. ‘Too brittle.’
‘What about oil?’ I said. ‘Oil changes the properties of paper, so that it doesn’t reflect the light. The paper becomes translucent. It might be possible to read the words on the other side of the page.’
‘The writing would still be back to front,’ said Dr Bain.
‘Then we must use a mirror.’
‘Dr Bain,’ said Will. ‘Do you ha
ve any oil?’
‘No,’ said Dr Bain.
‘Turpentine?’ I asked.
The doctor rubbed his chin.
‘Dr Bain?’ I said.
‘Yes, yes.’ He went to a glass-fronted cabinet that stood against the wall. We heard the chink of glass as he searched amongst bottles and jars. I knew the turpentine was in there. Was he about to say he did not have any?
‘It’s at the back,’ I said, determined not to be forestalled. ‘I saw it last week.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He held up a bottle containing a brownish coloured liquid. ‘There’s not much of it.’
‘And a mirror,’ I said, plucking a pipette from amongst the table-top apparatus. ‘Do you have a mirror?’
‘I don’t think I do.’
‘You must have!’ I cried.
‘Perhaps upstairs.’ He vanished into the hall. We heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Will was regarding a pair of wing-backed armchairs, one on either side of the fireplace. Both of them were blighted with scorch marks and loaded with books and papers. ‘Why does he bother to have chairs if he has no intention of sitting on them? Why not simply get another book shelf? I don’t know how he lives like this.’ He looked in distaste at a pair of bloody aprons draped over a brocade-covered screen that was folded against the wall. ‘Is this his drawing room?’
‘I suppose it is rather disorganised,’ I said. The room was furnished as one might expect, with well-stuffed chairs and an ottoman, and a fire burning in the grate. There was a heavy Persian rug on the floor, and framed paintings on the walls. But the paintings were indifferent – dark and formless landscapes, chosen to fill up the walls rather than to reflect taste. The hearth was littered with clumps of dried masticated coca leaves and the mantelpiece home to an eclectic mixture of medical paraphernalia – a gas jar, a phrenology bust, the skull of an ape. In the corner beneath the window a cage of rats squeaked and rustled.
Will ran a finger across the rim of a picture frame. ‘Dust an inch thick,’ he muttered.
‘So?’
‘And what are these black blobs on the hearth?’
‘I can’t remember,’ I said.
We heard Dr Bain thumping about overhead. I began to wonder whether he would return with a mirror after all. Perhaps he was preparing for bed. Will went over to the cupboard beside the fireplace and looked along the shelves, peering at the exhibits in their dusty jars. He held up a large, wide-necked bottle filled with a viscous yellow fluid. Inside, something bobbed, grey and wrinkled. ‘A brain?’ he whispered.
‘Of course it’s a brain,’ I replied.
‘Whose?’
‘It belonged to the last person who looked through Dr Bain’s things, and asked too many questions.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Will. He put the brain back on the shelf. He crouched down, and lifted a flap of old sacking. The sack had been on the bottom shelf of the cupboard for as long as I could remember. I never looked at it. I was always too busy. But now Will had extracted from it something I had never seen before – at least, not in a doctor’s rooms.
It was a large curved hook, smooth and sharp, the handle ending in a rounded, wooden ‘T’ shape. ‘What’s this?’ A long iron jemmy followed it, black and oily looking in the lamplight. There was also a mattock and a thick coil of mouse-nibbled rope. ‘And these? What are these for?’
I ran my hand across the cold iron of the hook. The worn wooden handle fitted comfortably against my palm. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said.
‘I’ve seen hooks like this before,’ said Will. ‘Butchers use them to haul carcasses.’
I had seen them too, but I didn’t acknowledge it. ‘Well.’ I took the hook and the jemmy and put them back on the bottom shelf. I covered everything with the sack, just as it had been. ‘That sack has not moved from that spot for ten years, at least. The dust down here tells us as much. I imagine Dr Bain can hardly recall what he used these things for.’
I dusted my palms and stood up, just as we heard Dr Bain’s boots upon the stair. ‘And we’ve more interesting things to attend to this evening than to waste our time speculating about Dr Bain’s gardening tools.’ But I knew, in my heart, that those tools were not used for gardening. I glanced at Will out of the corner of my eye. I was sure, almost, that he too knew their purpose.
Dr Bain appeared. He was holding a small, circular mirror, edged in gold and backed with mother of pearl – the kind a lady might carry in her reticule. It was quite at odds with the brutal, iron instruments we had just been looking at, and it appeared small and fragile in Dr Bain’s large brown hand. The hook, and mattock, I could imagine would look far less incongruous.
‘This mirror belongs to Mrs Catchpole,’ I said. I had seen it in her hand many times, as she pored over her complexion when she thought no one was looking.
‘Does it?’ Dr Bain grinned. ‘Never mind. I’m sure she has others. Now then, let’s get on with it, shall we?’
I looked down at the six rectangular boxes, lined up before us on Dr Bain’s work bench. ‘“These six things doth the Lord hate:”’ I said, ‘“yea, seven are an abomination unto him. A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood—”’
‘You sound like a lady almoner,’ said Will. He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Shall we continue?’
I sucked a droplet of turpentine into the pipette and held it over the corner of the coffin where the writing was faintly visible. Slowly, gently, I squeezed the rubber teat. For a moment a muddy golden tear hung from the crystal tip. It swelled and trembled, and then it fell, spreading a perfect circle of oil into the parched paper lining. ‘Pass me the mirror,’ I said. ‘Quickly now. And the magnifying glass.’
The coffins yielded no more to us that evening. The bandages remained nothing other than strips of dirty cloth; the boxes that held them no more than a crude assemblage of roughly cut boards; the dolls slivers of kindling wrapped in string. Once we had read the words, revealed by a single droplet of turpentine, I had not the heart to look at them further. Dr Bain seemed relieved; Will perplexed.
‘But there’s another box,’ he said. ‘Another box with writing inside. Fragments, admittedly, but words nonetheless. Aren’t you curious?’
I shook my head. ‘Not now, Will.’
‘I think it’s time for Sorley’s,’ said Dr Bain briskly. ‘Come along, gentlemen.’
I nodded. My mind was filled with only one thing: the name, and the date, which we had found in the coffin.
‘Elizabeth Maud,’ said Dr Bain, pulling his coat on. ‘Who might that be?’
‘And the date,’ said Will. ‘18th July 1822. I can think of no significant event that occurred on that day. Does it mean anything at the hospital? Or would we be correct to assume that it was torn from some old case notes?’
‘The latter, I think,’ said Dr Bain.
‘1822. That was a long time ago.’
‘Twenty-four years.’ I was determined to say something, even though my throat was dry, and my words felt strange in my mouth. Elizabeth Maud. 18th July 1822. Elizabeth Maud . . . I could sense Will’s gaze resting upon me and I glanced up. He smiled, his blue eyes grave, worried. I looked away and caught sight of myself in the over-mantel mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, my cheeks like whey, my birthmark a gash of strawberry-coloured skin about my eyes. Once, when I was young, I had tried to rid myself of that hideous stain. Whilst my father was on the wards I had attached half a dozen leeches to my face in an attempt to drain the area white. He had returned to find me crouched behind the apothecary table. The leeches, speedily engorged, had slipped off. But the bites had continued to ooze, as they always did, so that the blood ran in thick crimson ribbons down my cheeks, over my fingers and onto my collar.
My father’s expression was stony. ‘Clean yourself up, Jem,’ he had said. ‘Before someone sees you.’
But no one had seen me. No one ever saw me. I was hidden from the world behind that birthmark as surely as if I had died on the day of my birt
h and someone other substituted in my place. My nativity was a source of sorrow and regret, never to be acknowledged or noted. But I knew its date, and I alone had marked its passing for twenty-four years. The 18th of July 1822 was a day I would never forget. It was the day I killed my mother; the day she exchanged her life for mine. Her name was Elizabeth Maud Flockhart.
I had no memory of my mother, and there was no portrait, no miniature or sketch, to allow me to trace my features in hers. But where art failed, science succeeded: an image of her pregnant belly graces the pages of Dr Sneddon’s anatomical paper on the gravid uterus like a ripe pear in a recipe book. Sliced open, a dead baby is visible curled within. She was sketched by Dr Sneddon himself – a fat apoplectic surgeon with meaty fingers and a surprisingly light touch with the ink and watercolours – and published for all to see in the London Chirurgical Review the autumn after she died.
The babe in her womb was my brother. No one could say when, or why, his tiny heart stopped beating, but it was clear that I had grown alongside his corpse for months. Beside my brother, who looked as pale and shapeless as a nub of coral, the doctor had drawn a large tear-shaped void. This space I had occupied, lying back on crimson cushions getting as fat as a grub.
Appalled by the living succubus fate had handed him in exchange for his wife and son, my father sent me to a wet nurse in the country. The woman looked after me well, and the time passed quickly enough. When I returned some seven years later, Dr Sneddon was dead. In my absence, I had been referred to only as ‘the child’, so that no one could remember which of us had survived, or what my name was.
‘Jem,’ my father said when, at last, he summoned me home. ‘That’s your name.’
‘Jemima,’ I corrected him. ‘You are Jem. Mr Jeremiah Flockhart, Apothecary to St Saviour’s Infirmary.’
He shook his head. ‘Jem,’ he repeated. ‘That’s your name now, mind you remember it. It takes a man to run this apothecary, and man you must be. You’ll have cause to thank me one day.’
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