The Art of Dying Read online

  He waited for Sarah to respond but she said nothing, her face partially hidden by the thick woollen scarf she had wrapped round it.

  ‘He said it would be better if she put her guineas into some struggling doctor’s pocket,’ he continued. ‘I thought: there is a struggling doctor not three feet from you, sir. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine ever being in a position to refuse such a sum. I’ve half a mind to go to Brighton myself.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t have the money.’

  Raven hadn’t intended it so, but he saw the joke when a hint of amusement finally appeared upon Sarah’s face.

  ‘Perhaps the doctor thinks he has wealth enough and his interests extend beyond lining his pockets,’ she said. Her tone was sincere, but from the look on her face he could tell that she was teasing him. ‘And the large fees he does collect allow him to treat those with nothing for nothing.’

  ‘He could certainly treat a great deal of them if he acquiesced to the Brighton lady’s wishes.’

  Sarah rolled her eyes pityingly. Raven had to bite back a remark about her own new-found financial comfort.

  As they neared the upholsterer’s, Sarah softened her voice, as though concerned about eavesdroppers.

  ‘Have you heard anything about money going missing? From Queen Street?’

  This was the first he had learned of it.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Money is rarely discussed with me, for as you know I have none.’

  Nor was he likely to for some time. What he earned now as Simpson’s assistant would have to go towards repaying the debts he had incurred on his travels. Quinton had asked to borrow some from him the other day, a request he had greeted with wry amusement. It was clear the man was new to the place and didn’t know him very well.

  ‘What of it?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Just rumours. It’s probably nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps Jarvis has been forgetting to check the professor’s pockets.’

  Sarah’s expression indicated she thought he was being facetious. He wasn’t, entirely.

  ‘You are right that the professor cares little about his wealth,’ Raven said, ‘and it is my contention that it makes him somewhat careless about money. He can be careless with other things too; forgetting appointments and visits.’

  ‘He never forgets anything that is interesting or important. Imaginary megrims are another matter.’

  ‘He’s not infallible, Sarah,’ Raven said, thinking that this was worth repeating.

  ‘None of us are.’

  They had finally reached Mr Hardie’s shop.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Sarah said as she pushed open the door. ‘I’m freezing.’

  They entered the premises, Sarah breathing into her cupped hands to warm them. The shop was clean, tidy and smelled of wood shavings. A small man stood behind the counter, a large leather apron covering his clothes.

  ‘Good morning,’ he greeted them. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

  ‘I am Dr Raven, assistant to Dr James Young Simpson.’

  Mr Hardie’s smile disappeared as soon as Simpson’s name was mentioned.

  ‘I have already provided Dr Simpson with the letter that he requested,’ he said. ‘I had nothing to do with the rumours regarding the late Mrs Johnstone. I never stated, and could not state, that she died of bleeding. I am a simple tradesman, why would I say such a thing?’

  Raven opened his mouth to reassure the man that they had not come to accuse him of anything, but Mr Hardie was not done.

  ‘I heard that she had died of inflammation after some operation, and I casually remarked to a medical gentleman who came into my shop that she must have been very ill, as there was some staining of blood on the surface of the mattress. I thought it to have been the result of bleeding from the arm. This medical gentleman and another afterwards came and asked me about the size of the stain on the mattress, and I answered them. I do not consider myself responsible for what occurred after that.’

  Raven wondered how many visits the man had been subject to regarding this mattress. It did seem odd that the medical gentlemen should take such a keen interest.

  He smiled at Mr Hardie, hoping to calm him a little. The man seemed to be unduly harassed given that Raven had yet to ask a question.

  ‘Where is the mattress now? Might we take a look at it?’

  ‘It’s been sent to Mr Harrower.’

  ‘Mr Harrower?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at them as though it should be obvious what he was talking about. ‘He has charge of an establishment where beds go to be steamed and cleaned after people die. Whatever might be the cause of death,’ he added quickly, seemingly afraid of further incriminating himself.

  ‘When was this?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Sometime last week.’

  ‘So, it is likely to have been cleaned by now?’

  ‘Oh, it has been. Won’t do to leave these things lying about for any length of time. Mr Harrower said that when he opened it up, little or nothing of it was spoiled, only the surface was stained with a small amount of blood. Just as I said. No clotting or anything like that. Most beds he sees are in a thousand times’ worse state.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hardie,’ Raven said. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

  Mr Hardie visibly relaxed at this, loosening his grip on the counter.

  ‘I sincerely hope that’s the end of the matter,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen so many doctors since my youngest got run over by a cart and broke his leg. Bit of bone came right out through the skin. Was in the Infirmary for months.’

  Raven thought it best not to enquire about the outcome of that but thanked the man again as he and Sarah left the shop. They walked away from the door and then stopped.

  ‘What now?’ Sarah asked. ‘Obviously that vindicates Dr Simpson, but with the mattress having been cleaned, we have no proof.’

  ‘I doubt it would make much difference if we had,’ Raven admitted. ‘Matthews Duncan and Professor Miller heard the same from Mr Hardie as we did. So I am now curious as to why two medical men would so misinterpret the upholsterer’s account.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  n pursuing his investigation on Dr Simpson’s behalf, Raven stood by the wisdom that – Edinburgh medicine being something of a snake pit – he ought to avoid making new enemies. To that end he reasoned it would be best to continue his enquiries with someone who never thought much of him to begin with.

  He intercepted his quarry coming out of the grand building where he now lived on Wemyss Place. James Duncan was unquestionably a bright and gifted doctor, but one who had an arrestingly high opinion of himself and who was impatient for the renown he felt was inevitably his due. He had famously been something of a prodigy, having procured special dispensation to allow him to gain his MD at the age of only twenty. He had then continued his studies in Paris, making use of his fluent French, into which he had translated one of Dr Simpson’s papers on the use of ether. Raven knew these details because he had been repeatedly availed of them when they worked together at 52 Queen Street.

  Despite his obvious pride in having advanced so far so young, he had always struck Raven as a man in a hurry to seem older. To that end, since last Raven saw him, he had attempted to grow a beard. This undertaking had met with a success sufficiently partial as to merely draw attention to his difficulty in completing the project. He wore a three-piece tweed suit that looked expensive and seemed not so much the style of an older man as of a bygone era. Raven suspected this was merely affectation rather than lack of attention to current fashions. Much like the ‘Matthews’ he had, in Raven’s opinion, unnecessarily appended to his name, it was an attempt to seem more august and distinguished.

  ‘Dr Matthews Duncan, I would trouble you for a brief word.’

  Raven hailed him using his augmented moniker, having decided upon a strategy of flattery and friendliness. Given the man’s dismal social graces, it would not serve to be confrontational.
r />   Duncan sighed, indicating he was a busy man and that such an interruption had better be of valuable import.

  ‘Very well. And you are?’

  When they last saw one another, Raven had himself worn a beard to hide the swelling and stitches upon his recently ravaged face. Nonetheless, he had no doubt that Duncan recognised him without it. He masked his annoyance behind a warm and enthusiastic smile.

  ‘I have not been away so long, surely, James. I’m Will Raven. We worked together at Queen Street.’

  ‘Of course, yes. Will Raven. You must forgive me my confusion. I have had so many apprentices working under me that it can be hard to keep track.’

  Raven noted the implication that he’d been Duncan’s apprentice rather than Simpson’s. Duncan then proceeded to tell Raven how his own practice was now well established and expanding at such a rate that he thought he might have to recruit an assistant.

  Belatedly he appeared to remember that Raven must have had some purpose for apprehending him.

  ‘I believe you had an enquiry. Are you looking for a position?’

  He said this in a weary tone, as though it was a bore to be fending off would-be assistants.

  ‘No. I am recently returned from studies abroad and have accepted the position of assistant to Dr Simpson. However, there is a matter that is troubling me, as I am concerned that I might be tainted by association. News comes to me of a patient of Dr Simpson’s who died, and I believe there is some controversy over his treatment of her.’

  ‘Indeed. A most disreputable affair. One does not like to impugn the judgment of a fellow practitioner, but it appears Dr Simpson might have been gravely at fault.’

  ‘Can you tell me how?’

  ‘He conducted a procedure that went badly wrong, and there was haemorrhage. The mattress was soaked in blood.’

  ‘How awful. Where did you see this mattress? Did you visit the house?’

  ‘No. But I spoke to the upholsterer who took it away.’

  ‘Is it possible he exaggerated, or misremembered? Lay people can be easily shocked by a little blood and imagine it to be a great deal more.’

  ‘He told us the mattress was soaked, and yet Simpson claimed there was very little blood. I find the inconsistency highly suspicious.’

  ‘But presumably you had reason to enquire about the mattress because of some other aspect of the case?’

  ‘Indeed. Professor Syme carried out a similar procedure on the patient with no such dire complications as were precipitant from Simpson’s work. Mrs Johnstone died three days after Simpson left her. It appears obvious he botched the operation and has sought to conceal the truth of it.’

  Raven was bemused by Duncan’s mention of truth. He and Professor Miller were effectively in conspiracy, as they were both lying about what the upholsterer had told them.

  ‘It is a pity there was no post-mortem examination,’ Raven suggested.

  ‘I find that highly suspicious also,’ Duncan replied with great vehemence.

  Raven had dangled this before him for a purpose, and he had seized upon it, confirming what he suspected. They had nothing else.

  ‘I gather you and Dr Simpson have had an unfortunate parting of the ways during my time abroad.’

  ‘His conduct has been unconscionable, and I would thus warn you to be wary if you are working for him. He has been striving to make his name synonymous with chloroform and chloroform synonymous with his name. He is bent on erasing my part in its discovery.’

  Raven would have to concede that there was some truth to this. Despite Sarah’s unshakable faith in Dr Simpson’s righteousness, Raven knew that all medical men sought recognition, and were disinclined to share the glory when it shone upon them.

  ‘The world ought to know that it was I who suggested and produced the sample we used in its discovery. I had been experimenting for months, trying all manner of compounds and mixtures.’

  Duncan perhaps did not remember that Raven had been there that night, possibly because he had been unconscious at the time Raven made his entrance. Consequently, Raven doubted this part of his claim, but it would do no good to tell him as much. It would serve only to antagonise him. People often misremembered and reassembled the facts in a way that suited what they already wished to believe. Though Duncan had indeed worked with Simpson for months to find an alternative to ether, Raven did not believe that he had suggested or provided the successful sample on that famous evening. In fact, they had narrowly missed inhaling something rather toxic that might well have killed everyone in the room. It was a happy accident that this draught was misplaced and a bottle containing chloroform was tested instead.

  What was clear was that he knew precious little about the treatment of Mrs Johnstone and had merely seized upon the outcome as a stick with which to beat the man he perceived as his foe. In this enterprise he had happily joined with two other, more senior medical men who, as Dr Ziegler suggested, held their own grudges. Raven suspected neither would be any more inclined to respond to contradictory evidence than the man before him now.

  If he truly wanted to clear Dr Simpson’s name, he would have to go to a first-hand witness.

  THIRTY-TWO

  arah entered the darkened bedroom with a tray bearing Archie’s breakfast. She told herself it was an affectionate indulgence to be bringing it to him in his bed, but in truth she was trying to spare his energy by delaying when he had to get up. As always the meal itself was an exercise in optimism. He rarely ate much of it, whatever it was. This morning: a soft-boiled egg and tea. She put the tray down and helped him to sit forward, plumping up his pillows. He looked tired but then so was she. He was having disturbed nights, only managing to sleep for short periods. Sarah, more often than not, slept in a chair beside the bed.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said and kissed his forehead.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ he responded. ‘I fear you’re getting less sleep than I am.’

  ‘Not exactly what every young wife wants to hear,’ she replied as she pulled open the curtains. A thin grey light entered the room, doing little to cheer it. She sat on the bed beside him and he took her hand.

  ‘Perhaps I should consider moving to Queen Street as Dr Simpson has been suggesting,’ he said. ‘It would let you sleep at night, let one of us get their strength back at least.’

  Sarah shook her head, but he continued.

  ‘It won’t do for you to become ill too.’

  Sarah had been resisting this, seeing it as her duty to look after him, but she knew that she couldn’t keep going on in this vein indefinitely. She thought of Mrs Glassford’s refusal of the same offer. She had said it was to preserve her autonomy and the comforts of home, but Sarah suspected that her reluctance was down to the knowledge that it would mark the beginning of the end.

  ‘I prefer having you all to myself,’ she said.

  Archie smiled and then sipped his tea, grimacing slightly as it went down.

  She knew they would be revisiting this topic soon enough, but for now felt some relief at heading it off.

  ‘Nonetheless, there will come a time when you won’t have me at all. We should talk a bit about the future. Your future.’

  Sarah shook her head again.

  ‘You need to start thinking about life without me.’

  ‘It may not come to that.’

  ‘Sarah,’ he said simply, an appeal for her to acknowledge what they both knew.

  ‘We still have time,’ she said, ‘but as we do not know how much, I would sooner not spend it talking about what will happen when it is at an end and I am left on my own.’

  ‘But you won’t be left on your own, will you?’ he said softly. ‘And that is why we must talk about it.’

  Sarah swallowed. She felt guilty to be so lacking courage in facing a future Archie would not get to share. A child he would not live to see.

  ‘That is the aspect I least wish to think about,’ she admitted. ‘I am scared, Archie.’

  ‘You will be provided
for. Have no fear.’

  ‘That is not the greatest source of my fear. I do not think myself ready to be a mother.’

  He squeezed her hand. Was his grip weak, she wondered, or was he merely being tender?

  ‘I’m sure you had a good example set you, or you would not be the woman you are. Tell me about your mother,’ he said, resting back against his pillows.

  Sarah looked at his handsome face and wondered how she would feel if she saw it reflected in a son once Archie was gone. And if it was a girl, would she see her mother again? The thought was simultaneously cheering and melancholy.

  ‘She was kind,’ she told him. ‘She worked hard. She suffered a great deal.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Multiple pregnancies that ended badly: miscarriage or stillbirth. I was born early and thought too weak to survive.’

  ‘How wrong they were.’

  ‘It weakened her. She was frequently ill, and I missed a lot of time at school to stay home and look after her. It made me impatient when I was there. I was a constant source of irritation to the schoolmaster.’

  Archie grinned eagerly. It reminded her of the times when they first met, discovering each other through intimate conversation.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I finished my work too quickly. It made the boys look bad.’

  Archie laughed, sipped his tea again and then placed his cup and saucer on the small bedside table where it would probably remain.

  ‘Tell me about the women who inspire you,’ he asked.

  It was Sarah’s turn to laugh.

  ‘They are mainly women who refuse to do as they are told,’ she said. ‘Who ask questions and demand answers. I have been exposed to all manner of unconventional types at Queen Street.’