The Corpse Queen

by Heather M. Herrman

  After shoving down a quick meal of herring and crackers, she hurried to lecture. Instead of her usual dress, she wore the new pants Ginny had given her, along with a loose white undershirt tucked into their top. She finished the outfit with a fitted navy jacket from Pierre. She looked more like the male students now, and yet Molly felt more like a woman in these clothes than she ever had in any of her dresses. On the way out the door, she’d shoved a fresh notebook into one of the pants’ large pockets.

  She didn’t know what she had expected—perhaps someone to comment on her new outfit, maybe even to laugh—but her appearance passed unremarked. She slipped into a small knot of students talking as they waited for the doctor. Only Edgar gave her a sour frown.

  “I bet we do something special,” a farmer’s son named Peter Brule said, rubbing his gangly hands together in delight. He wore a shirt whose sleeves were much too short, and his hair stuck out awkwardly in its country cut. “Mondays are always the best! I wouldn’t be surprised if we got something as fine as an aneurysm on the table!”

  James, though in black-and-white dress like the other students, also wore a canary-yellow cravat, tied in the newly fashionable asymmetrical bow. He seemed to be emulating the doctor’s bold style. When he saw Molly approach, he offered a smile. “Here,” he said, digging into his pocket and pulling out a tin. Opening it, he handed Molly a pink mint. “For the smell.”

  “Doesn’t she make her own?” Peter leaned in, curious.

  “What is he talking about?” Molly asked.

  “Nothing,” James said. “It’s a hobby of some of the ladies is all. They make sweets for amusement and then hand them out to particular gentlemen they fancy. Of course, there are those like your aunt who make them for more practical purposes, such as to mask the smell for the doctor while he’s in the operating room.”

  Molly popped the candy into her mouth and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “Sorry,” James said. “Ursula tends to favor a rose flavoring.”

  “Ursula?” Molly thought back to the desperate girl last night. “Did she—”

  “What do you think the lecture will be today?” James said, blushing, as he swiftly changed the subject.

  “A round at the Carousel says it’s a little.” Elijah Solder, a judge’s son, had elbowed in beside them. “We haven’t had a proper crib death in ages.”

  This immediately set off a round of betting, and Molly listened, fascinated, as the students hazarded their guesses. For her part, she thought it more likely to be an old drunk she and the twins had dragged home from an alley two nights ago.

  But when Dr. LaValle entered the church twenty minutes later, he did not have a corpse at all. Instead, in his arms he clutched the writhing body of a small dog, clearly alive, its jaw muzzled.

  The room fell still as he laid the shaking creature onto the operating table’s surface.

  Though its whole body trembled in distress, the animal could hardly raise its head. It was so emaciated that Molly could see each of its ribs neatly outlined beneath its patchy black-and-white fur.

  “Hey, boy.” Peter Brule reached out a hand to calm it.

  “Don’t touch it.” Dr. LaValle’s voice was firm. “This creature is suffering from the final stages of Lyssavirus.” He lifted a glass carafe of water from the tray behind him. Careful not to get within biting distance, he held the vessel toward the animal.

  The dog immediately lurched backward, nails clicking in a terrified retreat.

  “Hydrophobia,” Dr. LaValle said, pulling the water away. “One of the better-known signs of infection. Excessive salivation may also be present.”

  The dog licked its foaming muzzle.

  “Rabies,” Peter said, his soft brown eyes wrinkling. “If it were on the farm, we’d shoot him. It isn’t right, leaving him like this.”

  “Nor is it safe,” Dr. LaValle said. “Though usually confined to animals, the disease has been known to pass between species, and once that happens, not even Saint Hubert’s Key can cure you.”

  On the table, the dog’s panting grew to a rattle.

  “Death, in these cases, is a certainty. The kindest thing we can do at this point is to relieve the creature’s pain.” Dr. LaValle pulled forward a clear bottle from the table along with a syringe and a needle. The syringe gleamed a shining silver against his gloved hand, from the operating light above. “Thanks to Dr. Francis Rynd, an Irishman such as yourself ”—he nodded at Molly—“we now have the benefit of a hollow needle.” Here he tapped the instrument as if to demonstrate. “Dr. Charles Pravaz successfully demonstrated its subcutaneous use on sheep to prevent coagulation of the blood.”

  He paused to fill the syringe with liquid from a blue glass bottle on the table, then turned the screw to adjust its flow. “Dr. Alexander Wood has had some success with this delivery method as concerns morphine. His paper, which is about to be published in a Scottish medical journal, will be worthwhile reading. New Method of Treating Neuralgia by the Direct Application of Opiates to the Painful Points.” He tapped the now-full syringe’s side and turned to face the students.

  “However, it is my proposal that a mixture of ether and chloroform, if administered in such a manner, might provide a more interesting tool for our profession than either one alone. We are going to use this animal to test my theory.”

  “Won’t it kill the beast?” Edgar asked, his eyes gleaming with interest.

  Dr. LaValle considered. “If injected into an artery, then, yes, I believe so. Such a dose administered directly to the heart, for instance, would most certainly be fatal for a creature of any size. But delivered subcutaneously, beneath the corium, I believe that we have an opportunity to localize pain management while maintaining vital functions.”

  He motioned to James. “Find an appropriate site for the injection.”

  Rolling the dog onto its side, James pinched a fold of skin on its thigh. Dr. LaValle handed him the needle, and James injected the mixture. The dog yelped frantically. It sounded like it was in pain. It tried to sit up, snapping at the injection site through its muzzle.

  “It may feel a slight burning,” the doctor conceded.

  A sympathetic look crossed Peter Brule’s face, and he reached forward.

  “Wait,” the doctor commanded.

  In seconds, the dog’s struggles subsided, and its head fell against the table. Though its eyes remained open, they were now glazed. Its breathing eased to a gentle rise and fall.

  “There.” The doctor looked triumphant. “Unlike the traditional use of chloroform or ether administered with a cone, here we are able to be much more precise with our dose.” He leaned over and selected a small, thin knife.

  In two swift strokes, the doctor used it to slice away a small square of skin from the dog’s leg.

  It did not move.

  Molly’s breath quickened. The cut had been flawless.

  “Of further benefit is the localized topical numbing achieved at the site. Though trials will obviously be needed to determine radius and dose, the possibilities for surgery are endless.”

  The students clapped, murmuring their admiration.

  “I think that will do for this afternoon.” Dr. LaValle wiped his hands on his apron, depositing the fatty tissue and furred skin he’d removed onto the dissection tray along with his bloodied knife. “I will see all of you tomorrow. Edgar, I’ll leave it to you to dispose of the patient.”

  Edgar waited until the doctor was out of sight before giving the dog a final, withering look. “I’m not wasting my time with this cur. One of you deal with it.”

  The other students quickly dispersed until only Molly and Peter Brule remained. After a few seconds, Peter went to the surgical tray. Picking up the needle, he refilled it with the doctor’s mixture of chloroform and ether.

  “The medicine will wear off soon enough,” he explained, seeing
Molly watching. “We can’t leave it here.”

  “No,” she said.

  Gently, Peter approached the dog and began to stroke its head. The needle in his other hand shook. “I don’t know why it bothers me. I’ve wrung the necks of a million chickens back home and slaughtered dozens of pigs. Only . . . I used to have a dog. Smart, she was. Slept with me sometimes in my bed.” He smiled sadly. “Drove my mom crazy.”

  “Here.” Before he could argue, Molly took the syringe, amazed to find her own grip steady. “I’ll do it.”

  And as Peter Brule whispered last words of comfort to the condemned creature, she plunged the needle into its heart.

  * * *

  “What the hell was that?” Tom stood waiting for her inside the church door.

  “What are you doing here?” Molly said, startled. She hadn’t seen him in nearly a week. Besides, Tom belonged in her nights, not in her days. Seeing him here was as shocking as a cold pocket of water in a warm lake.

  “Did you just kill that dog?” Tom stared past her into the classroom.

  “What business is it of yours if I did?”

  He held his hands up. “No business. And I didn’t come to bother you. Your aunt sent me over here to collect some things for her is all.”

  “Oh.” Molly felt foolish, thinking that he’d come to see her. “Of course. Go right ahead.” She stepped aside to let him by.

  He didn’t move. Instead, he reached out to touch her, a pent-up longing in his face. “Listen. There’s something I—”

  “Molly!” James Chambers hurried over. “There you are.” His attention drifted briefly to Tom and then away, as if he weren’t there at all. “A few of us are going to brush up on some lecture notes. Do you care to join us?”

  She couldn’t believe he was asking. The other students had kept their distance from her as much as possible thus far. To actually study with them . . .

  She gave Tom an apologetic smile. It was an opportunity that could not be missed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Tom. “I have to go now, but we can talk tonight. Will you be there?”

  “Sure,” he said. But he was already moving past her toward the curtain in the back of the room. “Do what you need to do.”

  James stepped forward, as if noticing Tom for the first time. “Ah, you’re the boy who brings in the bodies, isn’t that right?” He extended a hand. “Splendid job, really. We’ve been getting some real toppers lately. Hope you’re getting tipped well.”

  Tom ignored the hand. “Go fuck yourself.”

  Looking befuddled, James let it drop. “Right.” He turned back to Molly. “I’ll just wait for you out front, shall I?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re fitting in after all, then, aren’t you?” Tom said, his face unreadable.

  “Yes.” Molly smiled brightly. “Everyone’s been very kind.”

  “That’s good, then,” he said, though he looked defeated. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “See you then.” She was halfway out the door when his last words landed, tossed like a rock in her direction.

  “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Molly, but remember one thing. Being accepted by the parasites doesn’t mean you have to become one.”

  30

  James led her to a seat in the far corner of a café on Fourth called the Pickled Pig.

  The walls were papered a stylish pink, and the ceiling was covered in copper. Members of both sexes sat at the tables, sipping from white mugs, and the whole place smelled of roasting coffee beans. Molly looked around for the other students but couldn’t find them.

  “It’s just going to be us, if that’s all right.”

  “They didn’t want to study with me, did they?” She felt herself deflate, sinking down into a smartly upholstered cane chair. The anatomy students still didn’t count her as one of their own. Her mind and her blade might be as quick as theirs, but somehow it was only her body they saw. In their world, a woman would only ever be on top of an operating table, not beside it.

  “They’ll come around.” James offered a comforting smile.

  She wanted to believe him. But perhaps Tom was right. Perhaps she’d always be nothing more than an amusement to them.

  “The medical field is always changing, Molly, and anatomy is at the forefront. Once upon a time, everything was done by apprenticeship, and doctors weren’t men who knew anything about wielding a blade. Then the medical schools in America opened up.” He smirked. “Such as they are. But the real learning in this country is still done in private institutions, and LaValle’s is the best. As his students, we get to work on real bodies. And after we’ve proven ourselves with a few months of study, LaValle provides us the opportunity to assist with his patients at the free clinics.” He held her gaze. “If you want to earn a reputation that others can’t help but accept, regardless of your gender, this is the place to do it.”

  She nodded, touched that he felt her capable.

  “Now, where shall we begin?” Taking off his jacket, James pulled out his notes from a fashionable leather bag and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. A trio of young ladies at a nearby table began whispering, glancing at him appreciatively, but James seemed not to notice. The waiter appeared with two steaming mugs of coffee and a jar of cream.

  Molly poured the heavy cream into her cup, watching the colors swirl together, and then sprinkled a bit of nutmeg, from the accompanying shaker, on top. She was growing quite fond of coffee. At the orphanage, only the priests had been allowed it.

  People—mostly young—came and went. Women who looked like they’d stepped straight from the fashion catalogues, bankers on dinner break, and students from the nearby colleges mingled with local workers. There was an energy here not dissimilar to the Red Carousel, and Molly enjoyed her place in it, hidden by its busyness yet still drawing from the contentment everyone seemed to radiate. The unfashionable pinned-up braids she wore to keep the hair out of her eyes for anatomy lectures went unnoticed here, as did her new pants. For all anyone knew, she could be an artist or a suffragist. Amidst so many other people, she became simply a part of the crowd.

  They studied for hours, both from their notes and from a new copy of the Transactions of the American Medical Society that James had brought. He was a good partner. Patient. Molly was grateful that he, at least, seemed willing to accept her as an equal.

  The café was closing when they left. Molly clutched her new armful of notes to her chest.

  James hesitated outside the omnibus stop. “Can I show you something?” he said.

  She was rubbing her eyes, she was so tired. Worse, she still had work to do tonight. Ava had made that quite clear. “I’m afraid I don’t have time.”

  “Twenty minutes,” James said, and there was a sudden shyness in his voice. “Besides, it’s not out of your way. Let me ride home with you. I promise you’ll want to see this.”

  He’d been so kind to her . . .

  “All right. But only for a moment.”

  He grinned, helping her onto the bus.

  Together, they got off at Ava’s stop. But rather than walking her to the front door, James led Molly around back to the church.

  “James, really, it’s getting late. If there’s something at school, perhaps it can wait until tomorrow.”

  Something had been niggling at her. She kept returning to the doctor’s lecture. The clean slice of LaValle’s knife as he removed the dog’s skin.

  “Five minutes. Promise.”

  “All right. Five minutes.” James had been the only one willing to study with her; it was the least she could do.

  He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket.

  “You have your own keys?” Molly felt a faint twinge of annoyance that Ava still hadn’t given Molly a set of her own.

  James blushed. “No. The doctor gives me hi
s keys in the mornings to set up the operating theater, and then I give them back. I just . . . held on to them for a few extra hours today.”

  He pushed open the door.

  Her pulse quickened as he led her past the aisles to the back. What could he possibly want to show her here? She thought she knew the space by heart, but reaching up to the church’s ceiling, James pulled open a door she’d never noticed. A hidden ladder descended.

  Molly felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. James lifted himself onto the ladder, and she watched him disappear into the dim hole. Throat dry, she caught hold of the lowest rung and crawled up after him.

  She emerged in an attic room, the skeletons of dead moths clinging to its every surface, and spiderwebs lacing its corners.

  “What is this place?”

  Tall metal shelves full of glass jars and vials sat in the center. A single small window lit the room, filtering in a dirty light, so that it felt like they were underwater.

  “Do you like it?” She felt James’s breath on her neck, very close, and spun, knocking against the shelf in the middle. They were, she realized, completely alone.

  A rattling sounded as the jars shook.

  “Careful,” he admonished, wrapping his arm around her waist to steady her. “These specimens are priceless.” Gently, he spun her toward the light. “This is the doctor’s private collection.” His voice was filled with awe. “It’s considered one of the finest in the world.”

  On the shelves, every kind of abomination imaginable swam like preserves inside murky jars. To her right was a glass full of what looked like worms, white bits of flesh swimming together in a fetid dance. Beneath each of the jars was a neat label in perfect cursive. She leaned closer to read one.

  Peelings from a woman’s foot, collected by her over 40 years . . .

  Gagging, she averted her eyes, but the next was no better. A creature that looked like something from one of the orphanage’s paintings of hell swam in and out of focus. Its body was that of a fish, but its face looked human. Except for the teeth—row upon row of knifelike spears protruded from a ghoulish mouth.