Anatomy: A Love Story(76)
Instead of replying, Beecham stepped out from behind the lectern. He flexed his fingers in the black leather gloves he always wore and raised an eyebrow.
“Take off your gloves,” Hazel said.
Wordlessly, Beecham obeyed, carefully peeling away the leather from his wrists and then gently tugging each finger until both his hands were naked.
Every single one of Dr. Beecham’s fingers was mottled and dead, ten fingers from ten different hands. They ranged in skin tone and size, sewn to Beecham’s hand with thick black stitches, neat but visible.
“As you can see,” he said, “my handiwork wasn’t always so masterly as it is today.” He displayed the fingers for Hazel to see, flipping each hand a few times. “May I?” Hazel nodded, and Beecham replaced his gloves. “Fingers were the easiest thing to lose, early on. And before I perfected my tonic for limb transpositions, I’m afraid I just did the best I could. Injuries are so easy when death never comes. So there it is. You discovered my little secret. May I offer you a cup of tea?”
“So it’s true, then,” Hazel said. “You’re the only Beecham. You’re the one who wrote the book, the treatise. You—”
“Solved the puzzle of immortality,” Beecham said. “The ultimate aim of any physician, I imagine. Turns out the rest of them just weren’t as clever as I am.”
The thoughts in Hazel’s mind fit together with a satisfying click. “There never was a son, let alone a grandson. Only you.”
Beecham consulted with the kettle in a small fireplace behind him. “That actually is where you are incorrect, Miss Sinnett. There was a son. Two sons, my boys Jonathan and Philip. And my beautiful daughter, Dorothea. And my wife, Eloise. Early on, I thought that my biggest struggle with immortality would be my limbs and my organs deserting me one by one. And then I realized it would be watching everyone I loved die around me. When Eloise was dying in childbirth, I begged her to take my tonic, pleaded with her on my knees so that she would survive, and live alongside me. She refused. I thought she was a fool. Most days I still do. But on days like today, on Christmas, well, sometimes I think perhaps she was right all along. I wish I could see my children again. She is spending eternity with them, and I am still here.” Beecham poured himself a cup of tea. “Do have a cup of tea. It’s a marvelous oolong. And I haven’t been able to talk to someone as, well, myself since Eloise died. It’s surprisingly freeing.”
“How did you do it?” Hazel asked, unable to resist.
Beecham smiled like a cat, and from deep within the breast pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a small vial of gold liquid.
Up close, it rolled like magma or liquid mercury, viscous and glistening at its edges with a metallic gleam, but still translucent. It was a universe encased in glass, infinite and eternally changing. “A tonic,” he said. “My tonic. If you’re asking how I came to discover it, I suppose the only answer is fear. Fear of death. Fear of being forgotten. I knew even from childhood that I was destined for something greater than the tannery where my father worked, where he expected me to work. It wasn’t until much later in my life that I actually perfected the tonic. It took nothing short of obsession. If you were hoping to know what the tonic actually contains, well, Miss Sinnett, I decided long ago that the formula would belong only to me. Let’s just say the answer is ‘sorcery.’ Isn’t all science magic to those who don’t understand it? The burden of knowledge is that it turns the world mechanical. I am immortal in a world in which all the miracles have been explained away.” He placed the vial on the table. Hazel, still standing, locked her eyes on it.
“What does immortal mean, then?” asked Hazel. “In a technical sense. Do you age? No, I suppose. Can you be killed?”
“An interesting question! It’s been so long since I’ve had an interesting question. Are you planning on killing me, Miss Sinnett? The simple answer to both your queries is no. Stab wounds, pistol wounds, strangulation. No effect. I imagine that a more systemic approach could do me in—taking apart the pieces, burning me to ash—but as you can imagine, I’ve been reticent to experiment thoroughly. Please sit. If I can’t offer you tea, at the very least, I can offer you a chair.”
Hazel organized her thoughts in her head. After a moment, she sat opposite Dr. Beecham and looked him in the eyes. “You’re going to kill Jack Currer. They’re going to hang him for the deaths of the people you killed.”
Steam swirled above Beecham’s cup. “You love him,” he said simply. It was not a question, merely an observation. “Then I’ve done you the greatest service of all, Miss Sinnett. Love is nothing but the prolonged agony of waiting for it to end. The fear of losing the ones we love makes us do selfish and foolish and cruel things. The only freedom is freedom from love, and once your love is gone, it can be perfect, crystallized in your memory forever.”
“He doesn’t deserve to die,” Hazel said.
“Every one of us deserves to die,” Dr. Beecham said. “It is our only birthright.”
“What of Straine?” Hazel said, “They arrested him too.”
Beecham cocked an eyebrow. “You defend him? The man who thwarted your medical ambitions?”
“No,” Hazel said. “Not him. But he’s not guilty of this. I’m defending the truth.”