Beloved Poison (Jem Flockhart)

by E. S. Thomson

  Was that what Will Quartermain wanted to know?

  ‘Of course, it’s people who interest me most,’ he said, as if reading my mind. ‘The men who work here, for instance. What are they like?’

  I shrugged. ‘Dedicated.’ It was bland, I knew. And predictable. Should I tell him what I really thought? I had been schooled to revere them all, but I had formed my own opinions. I prided myself on never joining in the gossip, but I heard everything. Mrs Speedicut was the worst. That Dr Graves . . . The way he boils up the bodies of the dead . . . Human broth, that’s what’s in that great copper cauldron of his, human broth. And don’t he just stink of it? As for anatomy, I’ve seen them at Smithfield making a cleaner job of it . . . I had heard it so many times, though I could not disagree. And that old stick Dr Catchpole. Married to that young slip of a girl? There’s trouble! I knew it soon as look at her. She was after Dr Bain quicker than a toddy-cat once he’d thrown her a smile . . . On and on she went, sitting before the stove in the apothecary, her pipe clenched between her blackened teeth, her mug of gin and coffee in her hand. That Dr Magorian, thinks he’s God, so he does . . . That Dr Bain, you’ll never imagine what he’s come up with now . . . Although I did not join in, I did not stop her either. Mrs Speedicut’s observations were always perspicacious. Certainly there was little that happened at St Saviour’s that she didn’t know about. I could see her now on the far side of the courtyard, her great thick arms folded across her huge bosom, her matron’s cap sitting drunkenly awry on her greasy hair as she whispered and cackled into the ear of one of the laundrywomen.

  Will was talking again. ‘And why is there a statue of Edward VI out here?’

  ‘He reopened the place after his father, Henry VIII, closed it down.’

  ‘Is that all? How dull.’

  ‘Indeed he was.’

  ‘Unable to live up to expectations.’ Will slid me a glance. ‘Like so many men. And yet his sisters were quite the opposite – always their own masters. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I’m sure there’s more to many women than meets the eye, Mr Quartermain.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ He grinned. ‘And what of the other women here, at St Saviour’s?’

  ‘Other women?’ I said. ‘Other than whom?’

  ‘I mean the women who work here. Other than you. That is to say, in addition to you.’

  I stared at him through my devilish mask, unsmiling.

  ‘Not that you’re a woman, of course. I can see that quite clearly. What I meant to say was other than you, and the doctors, there must be women at St Saviour’s—’

  ‘Nurses,’ I replied. ‘Naturally. And the usual complement of domestics, cooks, cleaners, washerwomen. Women’s work is done by women, Mr Quartermain, here as elsewhere.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, his eyes now fixed meekly upon the ground. ‘It is the natural way of things.’

  ‘You think they’re not capable of more?’ I said. ‘But of course they are! Give them an education so that they might think, listen to their opinions so that they might gain confidence, treat them as you treat a man and they’ll succeed at anything. I have no doubt about it.’

  At that moment we heard women’s voices echoing from the passageway that led to the governors’ building. ‘“If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him. For God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple!” Ladies, where in the scriptures might we find those words?’

  ‘Oh! Corinthians!’ came the answer.

  ‘Quite so,’ said the first.

  I groaned. ‘Not them. Not now.’

  Will grinned. ‘Give them an education so that they might think?’

  I laughed. ‘Exactly my thoughts.’

  ‘“A joyful heart is good medicine,”’ cried the voice, ‘“but a crushed spirit dries up the bones”. Yes, ladies, yes?’

  There was a rustling of skirts, the sound of soft shoes in the passageway, and a trio of lady almoners swept into the yard – Mrs Magorian, her daughter Eliza, and Mrs Catchpole. The lady almoners were unstoppable. Their activities were endorsed by the hospital governors, who had quickly come to appreciate the healing qualities of the Scriptures. The evidence was clear: malingering had come to an end since the almoners had begun their Bible readings about the wards. Mrs Magorian thanked the Lord. I thanked the lady almoners, and their unbearable piercing voices.

  ‘Oh! Proverbs!’ cried Mrs Catchpole, clapping her gloved hands together. That morning she was wearing a long black coat, open at the front to reveal a gown of emerald silk – far too fine for skirting spittoons and chamber pots on a ward visit. She was hoping to impress someone, that much was certain. Her husband? It seemed unlikely. Her gaze swept the yard. ‘Dear Dr Bain said he would be on the wards this afternoon. Monday afternoon, he said.’

  ‘I do not see him.’ Mrs Magorian, the tiny bird-like wife of the great surgeon, was their ringleader. She licked a forefinger and leafed through the large, dark-skinned Bible she always carried when she was about the wards. ‘Perhaps he is inside.’

  ‘But he said he would come. I expected to see him today.’ Mrs Catchpole looked about as she spoke, as though at any moment Dr Bain might burst out from behind a door, like a partridge flushed from a thicket.

  ‘Eliza!’ cried Mrs Magorian. ‘Carry those flowers with their heads up, my dear. Up and proud. That’s it!’

  Eliza glided toward Will and me, a tattered bunch of pus-coloured chrysanthemums carried stiffly in her arms. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Jem,’ she murmured.

  ‘Miss Magorian, what a pleasure to see you.’ I meant it too, despite my more general view of the lady almoners. ‘This is Mr Will Quartermain,’ I said. ‘The surveyor. Mr Quartermain, this is Miss Magorian, Dr Magorian’s daughter.’

  Will gave a bow, and swept off his tall hat. ‘Will Quartermain, junior architect for Shaw and Prentice.’ I could see that he was unable to take his eyes off her. And no wonder! She was so beautiful today. Her mouth as red as berries, her hair curled into shining ringlets. Her skin was white, almost translucent, her eyes dark and huge. I had known her all my life and I knew she was as spirited as a boy and tough, tougher than any of them.

  ‘I see you have become a lady almoner, Miss Magorian,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘It was my mother’s idea. Mrs Catchpole and I are her new recruits. We are to start off with the less gruesome wards.’

  ‘The Magdalenes?’ The Magdalene ward was Mrs Magorian’s favourite.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Mrs Catchpole is not really dressed for the occasion,’ I murmured.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Eliza. She plucked a petal off one of the chrysanthemums the way a schoolboy might tweak the wings off a fly, and released it into the air. ‘She’s dressed exactly for the occasion. She’s in love, you see. But not with her husband, though one can hardly blame her for that. He’s an old brute.’

  ‘Dr Catchpole is very distinguished.’ I glanced at Will, alarmed by Eliza’s reckless heresy. Would he disapprove? For a lady to express an opinion about a man’s character – but if he was surprised by her unguarded comments he did not show it.

  ‘He’s a beast,’ Eliza continued undaunted. ‘He told my father I would become barren if he allowed me to read anything more stimulating than Blackwood’s Magazine.’

  ‘Blackwood’s?’ I said. ‘How very modern! I would have drawn the line at Household Words.’

  ‘She despises him.’ We watched as Mrs Catchpole sneaked a mirror out of her pocket while Mrs Magorian was examining her Bible.

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’ I said.

  ‘Because she told me. And because he has hair up his nose. Surely every woman hates that?’

  ‘One cannot judge a man by the content of his nostrils.’

  ‘And he smells of old books and stale things.’

  ‘Unlike Dr Bain, I presume?’

  Dr Bain.

  ‘There’s Dr Bain!’ It was Mrs Catchpole’s voice. Dr Bain had emerged from the door
s to the lower operating theatre, carrying what looked like a bucket and stirrup pump. He glanced up. Apprehending Mrs Catchpole hastening towards him, he bounded through another doorway, vanishing into the darkness of the male surgical wards.

  Eliza Magorian regarded me over the shaggy heads of her chrysanthemums, and raised an I-told-you-so eyebrow. Then, when Will was not looking, she winked. The blood rushed to my face, my birthmark throbbing in time with the violent beating of my heart. Could she hear it? Did she feel as I did? And yet how could she? How could anyone? Instinctively I put my hand to my eyes, shielding my hideous face from her gaze, and looked away.

  I had hoped to show Will around the place without the whole of St Saviour’s knowing what I was about, but it seemed my luck was out that day, for hardly had the lady almoners disappeared up the staircase to the Magdalene ward when a shadow fell across our path.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Flockhart.’ Dr Magorian, St Saviour’s most revered surgeon now stood before us. The man was tall and well built, with broad shoulders and long muscular arms, but his stride was quick and silent, and I had not heard him approach. His face was gaunt, his eyes pale and blue above a hawkish nose. He was always perfectly dressed, from the shine of his top hat to the red silk lining of his coat. He leaned on his stick, blocking our way – though seeming not to – and staring at my companion with a belligerent expression. ‘St Saviour’s is not a place for sightseers.’

  Will bowed an apology. ‘I realise that, sir—’

  ‘I am to perform an operation at two o’clock. Amputation at the hip. Perhaps you would care to join us, since you’re here. I have been a surgeon at St Saviour’s for almost twenty years, and other than Dr Syme in Edinburgh, there is not a man alive who can excise a hip joint faster.’ Dr Magorian slipped long, thin fingers into a pocket of his waistcoat, and drew out a small silver case. Prising open the lid, he selected a large chunk of lump sugar from inside, and popped it into his mouth.

  As a child I had been intrigued and excited by Dr Magorian’s sugar box, though he had never given me a piece. He did not give his sugar to anyone – apart from those who were his special favourites. As assistant surgeon, principal anatomist and chief sycophant, Dr Graves was the most regular recipient. He collected them like treasure, ostentatiously emptying his pockets during lectures to allow students to see how often the great Dr Magorian had bestowed upon him this sugary benison.

  Dr Magorian snapped the case closed, and stowed it back in his waistcoat pocket. He crunched his sugar lump noisily, with a sound like the distant march of boots on gravel. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You must come and watch, sir, since you insist on being here. It’s Quartermain, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Will. He looked up at the clock tower that projected from the sagging roof of the men’s foul ward. It was almost one o’clock.

  ‘I performed this very operation on a Quartermain in 1830. I remember all my cases, you know. Tricky job, I seem to recall. Any relative?’

  ‘My father, sir.’

  ‘Oh! And is he well?’

  ‘He’s dead, sir.’

  ‘But not killed by his amputation, I hope. Though there is a tendency to suppuration and gangrene.’

  ‘He did not survive it,’ said Will.

  Dr Magorian licked his lips. ‘Oh. Well, one does one’s best. Afterwards it’s in God’s hands. And now you must tear us limb from limb, eh?’

  ‘Hardly, sir,’ said Will. ‘The demolition men will do that. I’m merely here to take some preliminary measurements of the body, so to speak.’

  Dr Magorian’s face grew stony. ‘And will you be plundering her, too?’ he said. ‘Stripping her corpse of anything useful or valuable?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Will coloured. ‘I’m here to empty the graveyard. But I hope for work more worthy of my skills and knowledge when the time comes.’

  ‘Do you?’ said Dr Magorian. ‘Well, I shall put in a good word for you. Your master, Mr Prentice, was a patient of mine. Lithotomy. 1838. His gratitude was extraordinary.’ The doctor’s laugh was spiteful and joyless. ‘I’m sure yours will be too. I will do what I can to ensure you are correctly employed in future. But if you wish to see St Saviour’s, what better place than the operating theatre? I shall expect you there at two o’clock, sharp.’

  Dr Magorian’s voice was loud and arrogant, and a small crowd had gathered as he talked. On the edge of the group I saw the great bulk of Mrs Speedicut, a pair of underlings by her side, all three of them grinning like gargoyles. Dr Graves too had emerged from the shadows, his habitual crouching gait giving him the air of a burglar creeping along a garden wall.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Graves,’ said Dr Magorian. ‘This is Mr Quartermain. He is coming to see me perform this afternoon.’

  ‘Is he?’ Dr Graves smiled. ‘Good.’

  I looked at Will. His face had turned a sickly greenish colour at the very mention of the word ‘amputation’.

  ‘My principal dresser is absent this afternoon and Dr Graves has been kind enough to take his place,’ continued Dr Magorian.

  ‘I consider it an honour,’ said Dr Graves, as unctuous as ever. His grin grew wider. A brown snuff-laden droplet hung from his left nostril. On more than one occasion I had seen such a droplet plop directly into a patient’s open wound.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ cried Mrs Speedicut, noticing Will’s luminous pallor. She exposed her long peg-like teeth, one of which was missing, giving her a hungry, piratical air. ‘At least it’s not you what’s having your leg amputated.’

  ‘Not today, at any rate, eh, Mr Quartermain?’ Dr Magorian and Dr Graves laughed. Mrs Speedicut and her harpies nudged each other and cackled.

  Should I have stopped their game? Was it wrong of me to allow them to sport with him? After all, not moments before I had decided that I liked the man. And yet I did nothing to save him from his fate. Perhaps I was annoyed that he spoke about the rape and demolition of St Saviour’s so glibly. I was not usually so irrational – it was only a building, after all. But it was too late now.

  Behind us, the students were gathering outside the doors to the men’s foul ward. Dr Bain appeared amongst them. He said a few words, and smiled, and there was a gale of laughter.

  In the passage that led up to the Magdalene ward something caught my eye. There was a movement in the shadows and I saw the flicker of a pale face staring out of the gloom. Mrs Catchpole. She was watching Dr Bain with wide, anxious eyes, her face white as the dial of a clock. She wanted to speak to him, that much was clear, but she was held back by the presence of so many others, so many men.

  Dr Bain came over to us, his students trailing in his wake. St Saviour’s was a grey world – grey blankets on the beds, grey blinds at the windows, grey food on the plates, the patients’ faces grey with pain and sickness. Into this gloomy monochrome strode Dr Bain in his midnight-blue frock coat and azure watered-silk waistcoat. He was half a head taller than anyone else, with broad shoulders and thick dark hair. His eyes gleamed with mirth, and his whole frame seemed to radiate energy. The students loved him. ‘Sir,’ he said, addressing Dr Magorian. ‘I believe you’re operating today? If I might trespass upon your good nature, I have something I would like to try—’

  ‘I am assisting Dr Magorian this afternoon,’ interrupted Dr Graves.

  ‘Quite so, Richard,’ said Dr Bain, patting Dr Graves on the shoulder. ‘I hope you might also—’

  ‘I think not.’ Dr Graves’s voice was sharp. He gave a thin smile. ‘What is it this time? Using maggots to clean a wound? Scrubbing the operating table with carbolic like a cabin boy? And you need not pat me, sir, as though I were a dog to be pacified.’

  Dr Bain looked surprised. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘Yes, yes, you say you are sorry. One day perhaps you will be.’ Dr Graves shook his head, and turned to Will Quartermain. ‘This is Dr Bain,’ he said. ‘Dr Bain, this is Mr Quartermain – he represents our nemesis.’

  ‘The railway company, yes, I know. Welcome amongst u
s, Mr Quartermain.’ Dr Bain shook Will by the hand. ‘Come to pull us down, I hope? Can’t happen too soon.’

  Dr Magorian, suddenly finding himself eclipsed, spoke up irritably. ‘Well, Dr Bain,’ he said. ‘What is it this time? I’m hoping for a quick excision. Under fifty-five seconds, if possible. I don’t want to be hindered.’

  ‘A new idea, sir,’ said Dr Bain. ‘Simple measures, but ones that should make all the difference. No hindrance at all.’

  ‘In the operating theatre? During the procedure?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well.’ Dr Magorian looked thoughtful. He waited for the students to fall silent before he answered. ‘Come along and we will see what you have.’

  ‘Dr Magorian, I must insist—’ Dr Graves’s pale cheeks darkened with indignation.

  ‘Must you, Graves?’ Dr Magorian sighed. ‘Give the fellow a chance, eh?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Dr Bain inclined his head. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare.’

  He bounded off to where the laundry girl waited with a bundle of clean washing. Her arms were bare, her cheeks ruddy from the warmth of the ironing room. The neck of her dress was open, and her flesh was pink and white beneath it. I could not hear what he said as he bent his head to hers, but she nodded, and leaned back against the wall, smiling lazily as she offered him her pile of folded linens. I could see Dr Bain’s hands amongst the laundry. Partly concealed by his bundle, Dr Bain tweaked the girl’s nipple through her bodice. I saw her gasp and blush, and then he had taken the linen, and was carrying it off towards the operating theatre.

  The exchange had been quick, and furtive. But not quick and furtive enough, for it was clear that Mrs Catchpole, desperate and vigilant in the shadows, had seen it too. She staggered back, her hand to her breast as if reeling from a pistol shot. I saw her face crumple in anguish, stunned by his betrayal. Had she really thought she was the only one? She stumbled out of the doorway, calling his name. ‘Dr Bain!’ But her voice caught in her throat and he did not turn around. At the same moment her husband, Dr Catchpole, emerged from the library. He wore a long dark cape, like a European aristocrat, as though he were going to the opera, rather than the operating theatre. Above its tall collar his face was tragic. Mrs Catchpole took one look at him, and fled back into the shadows.