An Instance of the Fingerpost (14 page)

‘My dear child,’ said Lower in his most friendly and reassuring fashion, ‘do you understand fully what my colleague has proposed? You understand the dangers, both to yourself and to your mother? We may be linking your souls and your lives together, and if it fails for one, it may be catastrophic for the other.’

She nodded. ‘We are already linked as closely as mother and daughter can be. I told her but don’t know how much she understood. I’m sure she would refuse because she has always accounted her own life of little value, but you must ignore that.’

Lower grunted. ‘And you, Cola? You wish to proceed?’

‘No,’ I said, doubtful now the moment had arrived. ‘But I think we must.’

Lower then examined the patient and looked grave. ‘I certainly cannot fault your diagnosis. She is very ill indeed. Very well, then, let us begin. Sarah, roll up your sleeve, and come and sit here.’

He gestured to the little stool beside the bed, and when she was sat, I began wrapping a ribbon round her arm. Lower got to work uncovering the thin scrawny arm of the mother, and wrapped another ribbon – a red one this time, it has stuck in my mind – around her upper arm.

Then he took out his silver tube and two quills and blew through them to make sure there were no blockages. ‘Ready?’ he asked. We both nodded grimly. With a neat and experienced movement, he slipped a sharp knife into the girl’s vein, and inserted one quill into it, with the end pointing against the flow so that the natural movement diverted the blood out into the air; then he slipped a cup under it and began to collect the liquid. It poured in a ruby red rush into the bowl, faster than either of us had anticipated.

He counted slowly. ‘This can hold half a gill,’ he said. ‘I will just see how long it takes to fill, and then we can guess more or less how much we are taking.’

It filled swiftly, so much so that it overflowed and the blood began to splash on the floor. ‘One and a eighth minutes,’ Lower called loudly. ‘Quickly, Cola. The tube.’

I handed it to him as Sarah’s life blood began splashing on the floor, and I inserted the other quill into the mother’s vein, the other way around this time so that the new blood would flow in the same direction as her own and not set up turbulence. Then, and with surprising gentleness, as the girl’s blood began to flow copiously out of the silver tube, Lower moved her over, and connected the tube to the quill protruding out of the mother’s arm.

He peered intently at the join. ‘It seems to be working,’ he said, barely managing to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘And I can see no sign of coagulation. How long do you calculate we should wait?’

‘For eighteen ounces?’ I did the calculations as swiftly as I could while Lower counted. ‘Ah, about fourteen minutes,’ I said. ‘Make it fifteen.’

Then silence fell, as Lower counted intently to himself, and the girl bit her lip and looked worried. She was very brave, I will say that: not a sound of complaint or worry came from her throughout the entire proceeding. For my part, I was in a state of anxiety, wondering what the result would be. There were no effects either way to start off with.

‘. . . Fifty-nine, sixty . . .’, Lower said eventually, ‘that’ll do. Out we come,’ and he pulled the tube out and put it on the floor, expertly putting his finger over the mother’s vein and pulling out the quill. I did the same for the girl and then we both busied ourselves in bandaging their arms to stop the bleeding.

‘Finished,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘How do you feel, my girl?’

She shook her head, and breathed deeply once or twice. ‘A bit dizzy, I think,’ she said faintly. ‘But all right.’

‘Good. Now you sit down quietly.’ Then he turned his attention to the mother. ‘No change there,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

I shook my head. ‘Not better, not worse. But of course, it may take time for the youthful blood to have its effect.’

‘Whatever that effect might be,’ Lower murmured. ‘Normally in a case like this one would recommend a strong emetic, but I hardly think that would be wise at the moment. I think the only thing to do, my dear sir, is to sit and wait. And hope and pray. Your treatment will either work, or it will not. And that’s an end of it. It’s too late to change our minds now.’

‘Look at the girl,’ I said, pointing out how she had begun yawning mightily; she was also pale about the face, and complained of feeling light headed.

‘That’s just the blood loss. We have tapped her spirit, and so she is obviously reduced. Lie down, my girl, beside your mother, and sleep awhile.’

‘I must not. I have to look after her.’

‘Don’t you worry about that. Cola here will want to watch her progress, and I will send someone I know later, so we can be informed of any developments. So get yourself into bed with her, and don’t worry. What a day, Cola! What a day. First Dr Grove, then this. I am quite fatigued by the excitement of it all.’

What?’ Sarah said. What about Dr Grove?’

‘Hmm? Oh, you know him, don’t you? I’d forgotten. He’s dead, you know. Cola here found him in his room this morning.’

The girl’s composure, apparently untouched by the blood loss and even by the thought of her mother dying, was affected for the first time by this news. She turned even paler than she already was, and we noticed, to our great astonishment, that she shook her head sadly, then curled up on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Very affecting and surprising, but I noticed that, for all her distress, she did not ask what had happened.

Lower and I exchanged glances, and quietly decided that there was nothing we could do: the tapping of her blood had weakened her,
and the starvation of her womb had let slip the humours held in it, causing the body to react with all the symptoms of hysteria.

My friend was splendid, revealing a kindness and skill which his flippant exterior did not suggest, and which made the darkness of his occasional rage all the more perplexing to me. Having assured ourselves that there was enough food and heating, and acquired warm bed clothing for our patient, there was little else to do. We wished her well, and left. I came back a few hours later to see what progress had been made. Both mother and daughter were asleep, and I must say that the mother looked the more at peace.

BY THE TIME
I joined Lower that evening at Mother Jean’s – a woman who ran a cookhouse not far from the High Street and offered edible food for only a small amount of money – he seemed in a far better mood than he had been earlier.

‘And how is your patient?’ he cried from his table as I walked into the small, crowded room, full of students and the more impecunious of Fellows.

‘Largely unchanged,’ I said, as he pushed an undergraduate aside to make room for me. ‘She is still asleep, but her breathing is easier and her complexion more sanguine.’

‘So it should be, considering,’ he replied. ‘But we must talk of this later. May I introduce you to a good friend of mine? A fellow physician and experimentalist? Mr da Cola, I present you to Mr John Locke.’

A man of about my age with a thin face, supercilious expression and long nose raised his head from his platter for a second, muttered something and then descended back into the food.

‘A brilliant conversationalist, as you see,’ Lower continued. ‘How he can eat so much and remain so thin is one of the great mysteries of creation. When he dies he has promised me his body so I can find out. Now, then. Food. I hope you like pig’s head. Two pence, with as much cabbage as you can eat. Beer a ha’penny. There is not much left, so you’d better shout the good mother over.’

‘How is it prepared?’ I asked eagerly, for I was starving. I had quite forgotten to eat in the excitement of the day, and the prospect of a nice head, roasted with apples and liqueur, and perhaps with a few shrimp as well, made me salivate with anticipation.

‘Boiled,’ he said. ‘In vinegar. How else?’

I sighed. ‘How else, indeed? Very well.’

Lower called the woman over, ordered on my behalf and presented me with a tankard of beer from his jug.

‘Come Lower, tell me, what is the matter? You have a look of great amusement on your face.’

He raised his finger to his lips. ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘It is a great secret. I hope you are not doing anything tonight.’

‘What would I be doing?’

‘Excellent. I wish to repay you for your consideration in allowing me to assist you this afternoon. We have work to do. I have received a commission.’

‘What sort of commission?’

‘Look in my bag.’

I did as I was told. ‘A bottle of brandy,’ I said. ‘Good. It is my favourite drink. After wine, of course.’

‘You would like some?’

‘Most decidedly. It will wash the taste of boiled pig’s brains out of my mouth.’

‘That it would. Look at it carefully.’

‘It is half empty.’

‘Very observant. Now look at the bottom.’

I did as I was told. ‘Sediment,’ I said.

‘Yes. But there is sediment in wine, not in brandy. And this has a granular appearance. What is it?’

‘I’ve no idea. What does it matter?

‘It came from Dr Grove’s room.’

I frowned. ‘What were you doing there?’

‘I was asked to attend. Mr Woodward, who is a distant relation of Boyle – everyone is a distant relation of Boyle, as you will discover – asked his advice, and he declined to assist on the grounds that this was not an area in which he could claim competence. So he asked me to go in his stead. Naturally, I was delighted. Woodward is an important man.’

I shook my head. It was already clear what was going to happen. Poor Grove, I thought. He never had time to escape to Northampton. ‘I thought he’d called in someone else. Bate, wasn’t it?’

Lower flipped his fingers contemptuously. ‘Old Grandfather Bate? He won’t even leave his bed if he thinks Mars is in the ascendant, and
his only treatment is leeching and burning herbs. It would take his entire training even to see poor old Grove was dead. No; Woodward is no fool. He wants the opinion of someone who knows what he’s talking about.’

‘And your opinion is . . .?’

‘That’s the clever bit,’ he said craftily. ‘I examined the body briefly and decided further investigation was required. Which I will do this evening, in the warden’s kitchen. I thought you would like to be there. Locke wants to come as well and if Woodward provides some wine, we should have a most instructive time.’

‘It would be a great pleasure,’ I said. ‘Although are you sure I would be allowed? Warden Woodward did not seem a very welcoming man, when we met.’

Lower waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘You did meet him in distressing circumstances.’

‘He was offensive’, I said, ‘in accusing me of giving countenance to slanderous tales.’

‘Really? Which ones?’

‘I don’t know. All I did was ask wheather the poor man might have undertaken some physical activity. Woodward turned dark with anger and accused me of malice.’

Lower rubbed his chin, a faint smile of understanding on his face. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Maybe it was true, then.’

‘What?’

‘There was a little scandal,’ this man Locke said, for he had finished his food now and was prepared to give his attention to other things. ‘Nothing too serious, but someone put it around that Grove was fornicating with his servant. Personally, I thought it unlikely, given the source of the story was Wood.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

Locke shrugged, as though unwilling to continue. Lower, however, would have none of this decorum.

‘The servant in question was Sarah Blundy.’

‘I must say that Grove always struck me as an upright man, well able to resist the wiles of someone like her,’ Locke said. ‘And, as I say the tale originated with that ridiculous man Wood, so naturally I discounted it.’

‘Who is Wood?’

‘Anthony Wood. Or Anthony à Wood, as he likes to style himself, having delusions of quality. Have you not met him? Don’t worry; you will. He will seek you out, and suck you dry. An antiquary of the most burrowing sort.’

‘Not so,’ said Lower. ‘I insist on justice. In that field he is a man of excellent abilities.’

‘Maybe so. But he is a pernicious gossip, and a melancholic little bundle of envy; everybody is less deserving, and succeeds only through connection. I’m sure he believes Jesus only got his job through family influence.’

Lower cackled at the blasphemy, and I surreptitiously crossed myself.

‘Now, Locke, you are upsetting our papist friend,’ Lower said with a grin. ‘The point is that Wood lives a monastic life with his books and manuscripts and rather took up with the girl in some way. She worked for his mother as a servant and poor Wood felt greatly deceived by her.’

Locke smiled. ‘Only Wood, you see, would have been at all surprised by such things,’ he said, ‘but he did find the girl a position with Grove and then constructed these notions about them. As he is malicious, he started spreading this around the town, with the result that Grove was forced to dismiss the girl to guard his good name.’

Lower poked him in the arm. ‘Hush, my friend,’ he said, ‘for here is the man himself. You know how sensitive he is to being talked about.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ said Locke. ‘I can’t take it. Not with food. I must apologise, Mr Cole.’

‘Cola.’

‘Mr Cola. I hope to see you later, perhaps. Good evening, gentlemen.’

He rose, bowed swiftly and headed for the door at an uncivil speed, bowing to an absurdly scruffy man shambling towards us.

‘Mr Wood, sir,’ cried Lower civilly, ‘do sit down with us, and meet my friend Mr Cola, of Venice.’

Wood was already about to do so in any case, without being asked, and squeezed in alongside me, so that the smell of his unwashed clothes became quite impossible to ignore.

‘Good evening, sir, Good evening, Lower.’

I could see why Locke had been in such a hurry. Not only did the man smell, not only was he bereft of any elegance, even wearing his spectacles in public, as though he had forgotten he was no longer in a library, but his presence instantly cast a pall of gloom over what had previously been a jolly table.

‘I understand you are an historian, sir,’ I said, trying to make polite conversation once more.