Anatomy: A Love Story(63)

Jack sank in his chair.

“We can find something for you at Hawthornden,” Hazel said. “We always need someone to help tend the grounds. And—and you shoot? I’m certain Cook would be delighted with a few more rabbits.”

Munro puffed out his chest. “Even one-handed, there’s no one in Scotland who’s a better shot, I can promise you that. Thank you, miss. Most sincerely.” And he swept off his cap and stood just to bend at the waist in a deep bow. A few playing cards and false coins fell out of his pockets onto the floor, and he blushed as he snatched them up.

“There’s nothing else to the story? Nothing else at all you remember? Is it possible that there was a one-eyed man? That the doctor, in the operating theater, was wearing an eye patch?”

Munro took another sip of whisky. “That’s the story. Stayed in hospital for a while till they sent me home, went to the pub, then came to find Jack here. As for the doctor … I can’t say for certain. All of that part goes a bit hazy. I wouldn’t even know his face if he had three eyes, if I’m telling the truth.”

Hazel sat, thinking. Someone had kidnapped Munro, used ethereum on him—what else could it have been?—and took his arm. That was what she knew. The unknowns were why and who. The unknown who was worrisome, but not so worrisome as her next unknown: When were they going to strike again? Because it seemed, at least to Hazel, that whoever was kidnapping and maiming the poor in Edinburgh had no intention of stopping.

Hazel sent Charles to summon the police constable, who arrived at Hawthornden at sundown. He had a mustache as thick and straight as broom bristles, and his nostrils were flared in annoyance from the moment his boots crossed the threshold.

“Please, do sit,” Hazel said to him. “Iona, fetch a fresh pot of tea.”

“Thank you, miss,” he said, and stiffly sat on the chair across from Munro, who was lounging on the couch. Hazel winced, seeing Munro through the constable’s eyes: streaked with grease and soot, the sleeves of his shirt yellowing, the smell of booze floating around him like perfume.

“So,” the constable stated when Munro’s story was complete, “you got drunk and had a nightmare, and woke up without your arm.”

Hazel stood in anger. “No, that’s not it at all! Something is happening at the Anatomists’ Society—whether or not someone there is directly involved, they’re using the surgical theater. And using their ethereum. At the very least, you need to embark on an investigation!”

Now the constable rose. His mustache shook as he spoke, and clutched the drops of spittle that came out of his mouth with every punctuated p sound. “You—miss—do not tell me what I ‘need’ to do. In this or any case. Now, you come from a fine family, and I will assume this—this—this pitiable, pitiful charlatan has fooled you in a scheme for your sympathy and your money, and not that you have willfully summoned me here as part of a crude prank.”

“Sir, you’ve misunderstood,” Hazel said. “He’s telling the truth. He’s not the only one who’s had body parts taken. Something—”

The constable interrupted her with a snort. He shook his head. “Your brain is too idle, miss. It runs away with you.” He put his hat back on and leaned down close to Hazel to speak to her where Munro couldn’t hear. “Between you and me, this sort of thing happens all the time with the riffraff from the Old Town. They find a sympathetic ear, and come up with all sorts of wild stories to arouse your pity.”

Hazel twisted away from his grip. “I can assure you, sir, you are not correct.”

The constable’s upper lip twitched and his mustache vibrated. “I served with your father, in the Royal Navy, some years ago, against the French. I came here to Hawthornden as a courtesy. But I say to you now, miss: I hope your father returns before his daughter becomes a public disruption instead of just a fool.”





29




NONE OF THE ROMAN FEVER PATIENTS Hazel was treating with wortflower root were becoming well, but to Hazel’s profound relief and surprise, none of them were dying either. It seemed as though she was able to contain the disease—limit its spread and mitigate its deadliness—even if she wasn’t able to defeat it altogether. Yet.

Hazel took careful note of each of her patients and their progress. She had sent a copy of her notes in her letter to Dr. Beecham, to which, to Hazel’s dismay, she had still received no reply.

“What could he be doing?” she moaned to Iona while removing a splinter from a young boy’s shin. “How long does it take to write a letter?”

Iona handed her the cotton wrap and alcohol to disinfect. “It hasn’t been very long, miss. He is a quite famous doctor, isn’t he? He probably gets lots of correspondence.”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” Hazel mumbled. The splinter slid out of the boy’s leg before he even had a chance to cry out. “There you are. Right as rain. And avoid rickety banisters from now on. You’re lucky a splinter was all we had to deal with.”

Iona showed the boy out and brought in Hazel’s next patient, a young man with red hair and a brown jacket that had seen better days. The boy looked weary and pale. His threadbare shirt was torn at the neck, and someone had attempted a repair.

“Burgess!” Hazel cried in surprise. She had to resist the strange urge to hug him out of sheer shock at seeing him like an apparition in her dungeon laboratory at Hawthornden.