Blood on the Strand (16 page)

‘Did he pick a quarrel with you, too?’

Lisle grimaced. ‘He once accused me of overcharging for a treatment. It was untrue, of course.’

‘Of course. Were you at the Guinea Company dinner?’

‘You mean did I see anyone there who was so offended
by Webb’s vile presence that they stuck a rapier into his black heart?’ asked Lisle with a wry smile. ‘I imagine there were
plenty, but I was not among them. I
was
invited to the dinner, but the moment my carriage arrived at African House, I received an urgent summons from a patient.
I never got inside.’

‘What about your colleagues?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Johnson or Wiseman. Or Fitz-Simons?’

‘Invitations were issued to all, but I cannot tell you who accepted and who declined.’ Lisle’s gaze strayed to the splint
on Chaloner’s arm, and his eyes narrowed in sudden anger. ‘Damn it! Wiseman has been practising with different glues again
– and after I forbade him, too! You will be lucky to regain the use of your hand once this comes off. He has been experimenting
with some exceptionally resilient substances recently, ones
I
feel endanger a patient’s life.’

‘I thought a blacksmith might—’

‘No!’ cried Lisle. ‘His splints set extremely hard, and you may find yourself seriously maimed if you let an amateur at it.
It is a task only a surgeon can perform.’

His vehemence was making Chaloner uneasy. ‘Wiseman intends to leave it in place for a month, but I shall need two good hands
long before that.’

Lisle patted his shoulder. ‘I can help you there, but not yet. I have learned from experience that Wiseman’s glues begin to
dissolve after a few days, which makes them easier for the professional man to remove. Next Saturday would be a good time.
Come to me then, but do not tell Wiseman – he will certainly object to me “poaching” a patient.’

‘Next Saturday?’ asked Chaloner, aghast. ‘I cannot wait until then!’

‘It is the best I can do, now the adhesive has been applied. Do not be too distressed. Miracles happen every day, and perhaps
your hand will recover in time.’

‘But there is nothing wrong with it,’ cried Chaloner, deciding it was the last time he would ever let a surgeon loose on him,
just for an opportunity to ask questions.

‘Wiseman misdiagnosed?’ Lisle was thoughtful. ‘Yes, he might have done. He believes himself infallible, which is a sure way
to make mistakes. But we shall put all to rights next week, so do not fret. And in the future, you will know to be more selective
about your surgeons. We are not all the same.’

Chaloner was tempted to leave Chyrurgeons’ Hall while he was still in one piece, but he was angry, and disliked the notion
that Wiseman had conducted an unlicensed experiment on him. He decided to stay and confront him about the matter.

‘Lord!’ groaned Lisle suddenly, looking towards the Great Parlour. ‘Wiseman and Johnson have just started one of their spats.
I do wish they would not squabble in public – and that it did not fall to me, as Master, to keep the peace between them.’

He hurried away, and Chaloner watched as he inserted himself between the two men. His intervention was not a moment too soon,
because Johnson looked as though he was girding himself up to swing a punch. Lisle spoke softly, trying to calm troubled waters,
but his colleagues did not seem inclined to be soothed. Their voices carried, and Chaloner heard it was something to do with
the dissection that day: Wiseman disapproved, and Johnson was telling him that was too bad. Eventually, Johnson threw up his
hands and stalked towards the Anatomical Theatre. The spy eased forward until he reached a
doorway, where he could hear what Lisle was saying to Wiseman, but could not be seen.

‘I refuse to have anything to do with it,’ Wiseman was snarling. ‘It is wrong.’

‘But Temple will expect you – our most celebrated theorist – to do the cutting this afternoon,’ said Lisle gently. ‘If you
insult him by refusing, he may not make a donation towards our new library, and our colleagues will call for your dismissal.
Think very carefully before you follow this course of action.’

‘I am a surgeon, not a performing monkey,’ raged Wiseman, although he looked very simian that morning, his hulking frame towering
over his Master. ‘I do not approve of so many Private Anatomies. Dissections should be for education and research, not for
the entertainment of wealthy courtiers.’

‘We live in turbulent times,’ said Lisle reasonably, ‘so we do not have the luxury of such choices. You
can
decline to cater to your Company’s requests, but it may see you banned from practising surgery. How else will you make a
living?’

‘With my splint,’ argued Wiseman. ‘It will make me so rich that I will not be obliged to practise. And Johnson can go to the
Devil, because I shall
never
bow to
his
demands.’

Lisle sighed. ‘I suppose I will have to make an excuse for your absence – say you have been summoned to White Hall, or some
such thing. You will see matters differently tomorrow when your temper has cooled, and you are almost certain to wish you
had acted more prudently.’

He walked away, and Chaloner stepped out of his hiding place to intercept Wiseman before he could disappear. The surgeon
peered at him.

‘You look thirty years younger without paint and grey hair. Did you hear any of my discussion with Lisle? He is obliged to
fabricate tales to cover Johnson’s appalling lack of judgement. Johnson is a serious liability for the Company, and he should
be dismissed.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, supposing the large surgeon had chosen to interpret the incident in a way that suited his inflated
opinion of himself. ‘How has Johnson misjudged, exactly?’

‘Because he has scheduled yet
another
Private Anatomy in our theatre. He organises far too many of them, and we are reaching the point where science is taking
second place to entertainment.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘I mean people
pay
to attend these sessions, and Johnson and Lisle have a long list of rich folk who are eager to commission one. It is not
right, and it goes against all I believe. Dissections should be about furthering knowledge, not amusement.’

‘It
is
an odd idea of amusement.’

‘The fellow who commissioned this afternoon’s spectacle is Sir Richard Temple, and I suspect he will bring a horde of friends
with him – a pleasant diversion for a wet Sunday. It will turn public opinion against us eventually. The common man has strong
ideas about anatomy.’

‘Temple,’ mused Chaloner. The toothless politician seemed to be cropping up at every turn, but only two days ago Chaloner
had never heard of him.

‘He is not a man with whom honourable folk should associate,’ declared Wiseman viciously. ‘He is planning to purchase a sugar
plantation that will be fuelled by slaves. It is disgusting!’

‘Who is going to be dissected today?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Fitz-Simons?’

Wiseman had been about to continue his rant, but Chaloner’s question stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘Of course not! Whatever
gave you that idea? We do not dissect people we know.’

‘Who do you dissect, then?’

‘Criminals, mostly – hanged felons.’

‘That accounts for the four Public Anatomies, but what about the private ones?’

‘The same. People die in gaol and no one claims their corpses; beggars and vagrants keel over on the street; and then there
is the river. We have the pick of them all. In a city this size, there is no shortage of material, and I assure you, we would
never slice up another surgeon.’

Chaloner was unconvinced. The legs that had protruded from under the sheet in the Anatomical Theatre had been those of a plump
man, and he doubted they belonged to a felon or a vagrant. Someone at the Company of Barber-Surgeons was not telling him the
truth.

Wiseman declined to examine Chaloner’s arm in the open, so led him to the old hall, where a number of elegant offices were
located. Wiseman’s had books lining one wall, and a large map on a table that showed the discovered parts of the Americas.
It was held down by what appeared to be human long-bones. Adjoining the room was a smaller chamber, which had a heavy oak
bench in the middle, and shelves containing an enormous number of bottles and phials. There was a window, but it had been
boarded over in a way that suggested
the breakage had been due to some kind of explosion. It reeked, and Chaloner detected the distinctive odour of sulphur.

‘Experiments,’ explained Wiseman. ‘I intend to bring surgery into the seventeenth century. It is time we stopped hiding behind
our medieval heritage and embraced new ideas and inventions. Take your splint, for example. Broken bones need to be immobilised
for at least four weeks to allow them to knit, but all we do is wrap them in a few bandages and hope for the best. My dressing
will keep your arm stiff and unmoving for as long as it remains in place.’

‘I could not play my viol today, and—’

Wiseman looked pleased. ‘Good! It is working – protecting patients from themselves. Has anyone else examined you? Lisle for
example? If he has, and has offered you treatment, I want to know.’

Chaloner would no more have revealed Lisle’s offer than he would have allowed Wiseman to splint his other arm. ‘Why?’

‘Because, despite the fact that he is the Company’s Master, he is not a good surgeon – he tells too many people they will
die, and I am sure some just give up the struggle because of his brutal honesty.’ Wiseman’s eyes narrowed angrily when he
inspected the dressing. ‘Someone has been hacking this with saws and knives. Was it Lisle? God help you, if it was. Still,
no real damage has been done.’

‘Not to the splint, perhaps,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘After a month, the glue will decay, and then it can be dissolved with a special compound I have invented. Until then, any
attempt to remove it will be futile.’

Chaloner thought about what Lisle had said, and
wondered which man he should trust. Each seemed confident of his own skills – and worryingly scathing of the other’s. ‘I
have already lost my place in Brodrick’s consort because of this damned thing, and I object to being used—’

‘Viols are outmoded,’ interrupted Wiseman. ‘And will soon be abandoned in favour of the more versatile violin. You should
take this opportunity to learn something else – the trumpet, perhaps.’

Chaloner gaped at him. ‘That is like me telling you to become a grocer, if Johnson succeeds in revoking your licence to practise
surgery.’

‘Rubbish. What
I
do is important. You cannot blame me for what happened, anyway. It is your injury that put you in this position, not the
medicus
who is trying to heal you.’

‘How much will it cost to remove the thing now?’ asked Chaloner, recalling what Eaffrey had said about Wiseman: that he would
charge a princely sum to dismantle his handiwork. He realised he was willing to go to considerable lengths to raise whatever
was demanded.

Wiseman was affronted. ‘Unlike some I could mention,
my
professional integrity is not for sale. The splint stays for a month, and not a day less. And if anyone says otherwise, then
I demand that you tell me about it immediately. Now, is there anything else, or can I get on with the business of transforming
the art of surgery into a reputable science?’

Chaloner considered holding a knife to the man’s throat and putting his request a second time, but decided he would be safer
waiting for Lisle. He stood.

‘I asked last night if you wanted to attend Saturday’s
Public Anatomy,’ said Wiseman, sitting back in his chair. ‘Have you decided yet?’

Chaloner was startled – he had not imagined the offer to be a serious one. However, watching some poor felon’s corpse being
anatomised was low on his list of pleasures for a free spring afternoon. ‘I am washing my hair on Saturday.’

Wiseman grimaced. ‘Do not be flippant, Heyden. These are auspicious occasions, followed by meals fit for a king, and invitations
are very difficult to come by – my offer is a great privilege, and you should be flattered. And, since
I
am performing the dissection, and not some blithering imbecile like Johnson, you are sure to learn a great deal.’

‘I
am
flattered,’ said Chaloner, trying to be gracious. ‘But surely you know someone more worthy of this honour?’

‘Actually, no. All the other surgeons are awash with guests, but I cannot think of anyone they have not asked already. And
I do not want them to think I do not have any friends.’

Chaloner thought that if he was the best Wiseman could muster, then the colleagues might have a point. ‘I hear your subject
will be a hanged felon. I do not suppose his name is Dillon, is it? He is due to be executed on Saturday.’

Wiseman nodded. ‘But we keep their faces covered, so if you know him, you need have no fear. He will not be looking at you.’

It did not make the prospect any more appealing.

Still holding forth about what he promised would be a memorable experience, Wiseman escorted Chaloner to
the gate and saw him off the premises. The spy walked along Monkwell Street until he reached a small, unnamed alley that
bordered the northern extent of the barber-surgeons’ estate, and gazed up at the wall they had built to keep out intruders.

Normally, he could have climbed it with ease, but the splint interfered with his grip, and he was obliged to pick the lock
on a neighbouring house instead. Hoping the closed door meant its owners were out, he made his way through the building and
into the garden, at the end of which stood the surgeons’ fifteenth-century hall. Here the protective wall was lower, although
scaling it was still an awkward struggle. Eventually he managed, and walked towards the Anatomical Theatre, taking care not
to be seen. Ever cautious, he turned his coat inside out and wore it in the manner of a cape, then changed his hat for a simple
black cap, tucking his hair underneath it, so he would look like an impoverished clerk to anyone who happened to spot him.