The Art of Dying Read online

  He found that he was disproportionately pleased by the things in the household that had remained the same: the irascible Jarvis, Mrs Lyndsay’s cooking, even Glen the Dalmatian, who was sitting by Simpson’s right hand waiting for scraps.

  ‘Tell me, Will, how fares chloroform on the Continent?’ the doctor asked, interrupting his ruminations.

  ‘Almost universally used in surgery in preference to ether.’

  ‘And in midwifery?’

  ‘It tends to be reserved for difficult cases. There are concerns about its safety.’

  ‘I am entirely convinced that it is safe,’ Simpson said emphatically. ‘Problems only arise when there is a want of caution in its administration. If improperly given, chloroform may well prove injurious or even fatal – as will opium, calomel or every other powerful remedy or strong drug.’

  ‘When in London, I heard John Snow speak at a meeting of the Westminster Medical Society,’ Raven said. ‘He advocates the use of an inhaler to determine and control the precise amount of chloroform the patient receives.’

  ‘I find a handkerchief serves well enough.’

  Raven felt that the professor was being a little dismissive.

  ‘Snow maintains it was an excessive amount of chloroform that was responsible for Hannah Greener’s death.’

  Hannah Greener was a fifteen-year-old girl who had perished within minutes of receiving chloroform for the removal of a toenail. The case had provoked a prolonged debate about why she had died.

  ‘As I understand it, in that case the girl fell into a state of syncope which I have occasionally seen myself,’ Simpson replied. ‘But then cold water was poured into her mouth followed by brandy, which of course she was unable to swallow. She was no more able to breathe than if her whole head had been submersed. The girl died of asphyxia. She died not of the chloroform but of the attempts made to revive her.’

  Raven was beginning to feel discomfited, as though his contributions were not being given due weight. He decided to change tack.

  ‘In London, concern is still expressed about anaesthetic midwifery being anti-scriptural.’

  Raven sat back, expecting an entertaining eruption of some kind. There was none.

  ‘I am pleased to say that religious opposition has almost entirely ceased here, if we except the occasional remark from some caustic old maid whose prospects of using chloroform are forever passed.’

  Mrs Simpson frowned a little at this remark, but the professor continued without pause.

  ‘An Irish lady said to me recently how unnatural it was for the doctors of Edinburgh to be taking away the pains of labour. Painless labour, she said, was both unnatural and improper. How unnatural it is for you, I replied, to have swum over from Ireland to Scotland against wind and tide in a steamboat.’

  The professor laughed at his own story, a laugh that became infectious the longer it went on, until Mrs Simpson and Raven joined in.

  Raven thought that, on this point, the professor was probably right. There was always a certain prejudice in some minds against anything new, a resistance to breaking with tradition and custom. He remembered the concerns expressed about the speed of the new railway carriages, how such unaccustomed forces applied to the human frame would induce apoplexy. He was about to say as much but was prevented from doing so by a knock at the door. A man entered carrying a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Mr Quinton, I thought you had already left,’ Dr Simpson said. ‘Your wife will be wondering what has become of you.’

  The newcomer looked curiously towards Raven, whereupon the professor made introductions.

  ‘Dr Will Raven, this is Mr James Quinton, who I have hired as my secretary. Mrs Simpson finally prevailed upon me that I ought to engage help in organising my papers.’

  He said this as though talking about some trivial undertaking over which his wife had made an undue fuss. Mrs Simpson’s expression betrayed nothing, but Raven knew the truth of it. The professor was quite chaotic in his organisation, often forgetting appointments. And his lackadaisical attitude to certain practical matters was best summed up by the fact that it was one of Jarvis’s tasks to go through his pockets at the end of the day and collect the payments he had secreted there, as he was liable to forget about them altogether. Jarvis had also complained that Dr Simpson’s keen interest in archaeology led to him wrapping arrowheads and old coins he had found in banknotes of high denomination, lest the butler be tempted to throw them away.

  Quinton was a thin man with a long face. He had a sombre look about him, as though heavily burdened by something. Raven could well imagine that organising the professor’s affairs was the cause.

  ‘Quinton is currently assisting me with a most vital project,’ the professor said. ‘I am in the process of collating the results of my enquiry into the mortality attendant on surgical operations and whether anaesthesia makes any difference.’

  ‘As well as the papers on the suction tractor, galvanism and hospital fever. Not to mention the professor’s voluminous correspondence,’ Quinton added. Still the severe face; not even a hint of a smile. ‘I have left some papers on your desk that require your signature,’ he stated. ‘I bid you good evening.’

  ‘He is a graduate of Oxford University,’ Simpson said as the dining-room door closed, as though this explained everything.

  ‘What is a suction tractor?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Something that I have devised as a substitute for forceps in tedious labour, a rubber cup attached by suction to the infant’s head.’

  ‘Mrs Quinton has kindly agreed to take one of our babies,’ Mrs Simpson added, deftly changing the subject.

  Raven wondered what she meant. He thought about the Simpsons’ children – David, Wattie, James and Jessie, who had been born just before he left on his travels – and wondered which one Mrs Simpson was planning to give away; trying and failing not to form a preference. Surely not the infant, he thought. Mrs Simpson noticed his confusion.

  ‘From time to time it is necessary to find foster homes for babies; orphans and those who cannot be looked after by their own parents.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Raven said, thinking she had described the matter with admirable delicacy. The unwanted, inconvenient progeny of upper-class indiscretion would perhaps be a more accurate description. He had not appreciated that the Simpsons were involved in such a project.

  His thoughts returned to an odd sight he had once witnessed, despite the efforts of Simpson’s coachman to conceal it. The professor had visited a house on Doune Terrace, where through the window Raven saw him embrace a woman and then delightedly hug her child, an infant dressed in pink. The sight had troubled Raven ever since, unavoidably speculating as to Simpson’s role. Now, however, there appeared to be an alternative explanation, one that could account for the coachman’s discretion.

  It might be a mystery solved, though it was not the prime question Raven sought an answer to. He desperately wanted to ask about Sarah but remained unsure how to broach the subject. He opted for an oblique approach and decided to enquire about the professor’s former assistants first.

  ‘I imagine that Mr Quinton is an extremely useful addition to the household,’ he said. ‘Of course, there have been a number of changes since I left on my travels. I believe Dr Keith has set up a practice of his own.’

  ‘Indeed. With his brother Thomas, who was once my apprentice, like yourself. They have premises on Great Stuart Street.’

  ‘And Dr Matthews Duncan?’

  If there had been a thermometer in the room, Raven was convinced it would have indicated a sudden drop in temperature. He noticed an involuntary stiffening on the part of Mrs Simpson, her eyes darting towards her husband. He frowned before replying.

  ‘He too has set up his own practice.’

  Raven decided not to pursue this, although he sensed that there was more to be said. He would find out soon enough, no doubt.

  ‘And Sarah,’ Raven continued, swallowing to clear his throat. ‘I understand that she
has married.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Simpson. ‘To a doctor, would you believe.’

  ‘A doctor?’

  Raven struggled to keep the incredulity from his voice.

  ‘Yes. Dr Archibald Banks. A truly charming man. From a very good family.’

  Raven did not know how to respond. His recently consumed dinner suddenly felt heavy in his stomach. How could she have married a doctor? Given his own history with Sarah this added a new and perplexing dimension to the whole thing. He noticed Dr Simpson was still frowning, his mind on undisclosed matters.

  ‘They have taken some rooms on Albany Street,’ Mrs Simpson continued. ‘They wanted to remain close by.’

  ‘Sarah is indispensable,’ Dr Simpson said, brightening a little. ‘She has become quite skilful in administering chloroform.’

  Presumably with a handkerchief, thought Raven.

  At that moment there was the sound of running feet and the dining-room door burst open. Jarvis entered looking as rattled as Raven had ever seen him.

  ‘Come down, Dr Simpson. For God’s sake, come down. I think I’ve killed the cook.’

  TEN

  am the equal of any man, as you will come to know, though it took me a long time to understand the truth of this. For there were those who drove it into me that I was a lesser being. Who beat it into me that I was worthless.

  Worth less.

  My mother seldom had time or money, but my most treasured memory is of her taking me to the theatre when I was a child. It was a realm of artifice and illusion, a respite from reality. Perhaps that is why, when I look back upon certain times in my life, it is as though I remember watching those events played out upon the stage, rather than happening to me. It appears my mind will not permit me to recreate the view from behind my own eyes, and instead places me without, watching: sometimes staring up from the stalls, other times gazing down from the grand circle.

  Look, there I am now, see? Emerging between the painted flats. Emerging from the interstices between what everyone else notices.

  The set is small, requiring only a fraction of the stage to recreate the cramped room in Cumberland Street in the Gorbals, where Murdo MacDonald and his family lived in a tenement single-end.

  We moved there from Ayrshire, where my father worked as a farm labourer in places where his reputation did not precede him. He was known as the angry bantam, for his scrawny build and sudden temper. Others simply called him Mad Murdo. He was disruptive and unreliable: prone to fury and drunkenness. When we left for Glasgow, he claimed it was because he had bested the farmer in a brawl and been dismissed, although the truth was less palatable.

  On this stage, in my mind’s eye, he was not present. He had secured employment at a mill, where he worked long hours, though he should have been home by now.

  My mother stood at the sink, scrubbing clothes. She had little to her name but took pride in the appearance of her two girls.

  Her belly was round, swelling with another child. She had borne two who did not survive infancy, both sons.

  I was practising my letters upon a slate. My younger sister was playing at our mother’s feet. I was eight years old, my sister six.

  There was a pot upon the stove, cabbage and potatoes simmering within. It was beginning to smell, the odour provoking a feeling of unease, though it was not the taste that concerned me. I was hungry, we were all three of us hungry, but it was not yet time to eat. Or rather, it was past time to eat, but we had to wait for my father’s return before the frugal meal could be served.

  Mother was looking wan and tired. She wiped sweat from her brow with a hand reddened by scrubbing in the cold water. Then she spoke the words that I had been dreading.

  ‘Go and look for your father, would you?’

  There was no curiosity or concern in her tone, only a beaten resignation.

  Upon the stage, there is now an outside scene, a street.

  I walked along it, my dragging feet a measure of my reluctance to reach my destination. There was no mystery to this quest. He had finished at the mill more than two hours before.

  On this occasion I did not find him in the tavern, but barrelling out through its door as I approached, propelled by a bigger man at his back. I recognised the fellow from being sent on this sorry errand before. A few others followed him through the door, sensing the sport to come.

  My father was short and wiry, his gait unsteady. The man at his back was tall, brawny and calm.

  ‘Go home, Murdo. You have already drunk more than your fill. See, here is your daughter come to fetch you home. Go while you still have a little money in your pocket so that you might be spared the wrath of your wife.’

  The others laughed. There was a wildness in Murdo’s eyes owing to more than drink. The bigger man saw it.

  ‘And spare the girl the sight of me putting her father to the ground.’

  His tone appeared to be one of reason, but even at that tender age I recognised the scorn within it. I knew what it was likely to precipitate. What it was intended to precipitate.

  My father let out a cry and flew at the man, but no quantity of rage is a substitute for size and swiftness. It was this fellow’s job to keep order in his tavern, and this was an angry bantam flying at a bear.

  The bear did what he had offered to spare the bantam: put him to the ground in the sight of his daughter, rapid blows landing without reply.

  My father was left prostrate, winded. He was staring down at the mud in his daze, spitting blood, his ears ringing with laughter from the men who had come out to watch. They did not tarry, though. They got what they came outside for. The show was done.

  But this play is not.

  I ran to my father’s aid. He lashed out to ward me off, as though offended by my very intention. The back of his hand caught my mouth, my tooth piercing my lip.

  I did not cry out, nor weep despite the pain. I knew this would anger him further: a show of weakness, womanly weakness, despised by a man not blessed with sons.

  ‘What use are you?’ he often demanded of me. ‘What use are any girls to a father? Just a draw upon a man’s pocket. Worse than worthless.’

  My mother tried to convince him that the next child would be a boy, afraid of his disappointment should she be wrong, his wrath should another son fail to survive.

  I remember my mother’s keening grief as she held the little bodies of my brothers. I remember my mother seeking me out for comfort once they were cold, lying down on the bed with her arms wrapped around me as she wept. These were perhaps the only times I knew her tender embrace beyond infancy.

  My father climbed to his feet. I told him Mother had dinner ready at home.

  He eyed the tavern door with a glower that lacked intent, but this did not mean his anger had been doused.

  He walked with me towards Cumberland Street, his head low. He said not a word. To any other spectators watching the stage from the circle, he might appear meek and chastened, but to his daughter, this lengthening silence only added to her growing fear.

  The stage now shows a tenement stair, where I am climbing three steps behind my father.

  Still he had not said anything. I scented it long before we had reached the top landing. The meal had cooked far too long. There was an acrid odour of burning, the water having boiled away. I feared Mother must have become distracted by her washing, or even worse, fallen asleep.

  Sometimes Father would be too drunk to notice. That night, though, I sensed a quiet focus about him. It was not the drink that had put him in this mind. The rage was already there, and the ale gave it fuel. But nothing fed the flames of it like the beating he had suffered and the laughter of his fellow drinkers.

  He wrinkled his nose as he reached the door to our room, an expression of distaste swiftly becoming something deeper. Then he walked across the threshold, and here the curtain closes upon the stage, for there are scenes that the Lord Chamberlain would not pass as fit to be performed.

  I do not know if this is because
I looked away in my fear, or if it is truly that my mind will not permit me to remember.

  What I do know is that the next morning, though the blood on her face had dried, my mother woke to find she was bleeding from below. She dragged herself to the hospital, where the stillborn child had to be drawn from her. By nightfall she was dead.

  ELEVEN

  arvis had not killed the cook.

  As Raven stood by the window in the professor’s study, he thought about the events of the previous evening. Following the panicked entreaty from the butler, they had risen instantly from the table and hurried down to the kitchen, to discover that Mrs Lyndsay was not dead but merely anaesthetised. Encouraged (and quite possibly misled) by Jarvis, the normally abstemious and rigidly decorous woman had taken a large glass of the doctor’s special champagne, shortly after which she had collapsed onto the floor. It took several hours for her to fully return to her senses, during which time Jarvis had required several glasses of the doctor’s brandy.

  Raven had never seen him shorn of his impermeable equanimity and wondered if his upset was primarily over Mrs Lyndsay’s well-being or the ramifications of his own culpability. Raven noted that the latter would have been simple enough to conceal. Jarvis often gave off an air of detachment, but this indicated that there was something warmer beneath the surface.

  More troubling to Raven was the question of how Dr Simpson reconciled his certainty that chloroform was safe if administered properly, with his practice of serving it as a recreational beverage. He was concerned too by how quickly Simpson had dismissed John Snow’s advocacy of precision in chloroform’s dispensing. Simpson’s passion and enthusiasm for anaesthesia was invaluable to a cause that required such an indomitable champion, but Raven questioned whether the professor might be cavalier to the point of reckless in his defence of it.