The Death of Jane Lawrence(14)

“Next time,” the woman said, approaching Dr. Lawrence in an almost inhuman glide, “wait to ensure your patient will survive before you send for me, then. I do not appreciate being called out on a maybe, when you are not willing to stand beside your instinct. You know that I have never cared for playing games.”

Dr. Lawrence clenched his jaw, but nodded and gestured Dr. Nizamiev out of the room. He walked her to the door, Jane following them both.

Before he showed the specialist out, Jane thought she heard him mutter, “I called you here to set my fears at ease, not stoke them.”

“I am not here for your comfort,” Dr. Nizamiev returned. And then she was gone, sweeping out to her carriage.

Dr. Lawrence stared after her, his breathing harsh and shallow. Jane drew up beside him. She should have commented on Dr. Nizamiev’s strangeness, or perhaps asked questions about what her specialty was, exactly, but she could not find the words.

The triumph of yesterday was sour. Everything had gone wrong. She wanted to roll back time.

“I must call upon the undertakers,” he said softly. “And Mrs. Renton, too, I must send word to her.”

“Of course. I—Should I return home, then?”

He turned to her at last, and seemed about to take her hands, but clenched his at his sides instead. “Jane, I am sorry that you had to witness death here today. I am sorry, so sorry, that I could not save him.”

“It would have been magic, if you had.”

He flinched. “I should not keep you.”

No, of course not. She took a deep breath, turned to go.

And then he said, “But I am weak, and I would ask that you stay. You do not have to assist me today, or work, but I do not want to … I don’t think you should be left to deal with this loss alone.”

His voice bled with pain.

She didn’t want to leave his side, not now, for a hundred selfish and virtuous reasons all twined together. And more than that, she couldn’t imagine going home, returning to Mr. Cunningham’s office, holding the death of Mr. Renton inside of her.

“Of course I’ll stay,” she said, turning back to him. “I can even come with you to visit the undertakers.”

“No, the weather is beginning to turn once again. I will go to them when it passes.” Outside, the gathered clouds had taken on the fullness of impending rain, blotting out the sun. “I’ll clean up, prepare the surgery for other visitors. Mr. Lowell will be back within half an hour and can take over for a short while, and then we can sit together. Upstairs, to the right of the landing, is my personal study. There is whiskey there, and books. Please, make yourself comfortable. I will not be long.”

Jane nodded, though she watched uneasily as he passed through the operating theater doorway once more. Saving Mr. Renton had given her such pride, and his death now perverted it, made her feel hollow and dirty. She was happy to flee the sensation, climbing the stairs to Dr. Lawrence’s study.

The walls were crowded with shelves, and on all of them were books piled upon books. His desk here was a smaller thing, but more well-loved. Behind his desk, as he had promised, was a decanter and two glasses. Jane poured herself a draught despite the early hour.

She sipped at it, standing before a glass-fronted cabinet. Within were many strange things she did not recognize: several branches with thick blisters on their bark, a stone cracked open to reveal a lattice of brilliant crystal, a string of something white and creased like cauliflower. What first appeared like a strange red flower in full bloom resolved on closer inspection to be a wax model of a human head, the nose gone and the skin falling away from disease.

Strange and gruesome, all of it. Jane drew back and made to turn, then noticed a newer addition, free from dust. It was a large glass jar, filled with a lump of something floating in pale golden liquid, somewhat cloudy, sediment already accreting at the bottom.

It took her a moment, but then she recognized the mass. It was the warped tissue Dr. Lawrence had excised from Mr. Renton’s abdomen yesterday morning.

The specimen. Was this what Dr. Nizamiev had wanted to see? She frowned but could not take her eyes away from it, even as she remembered it lying, inert, on the operating table, even as she remembered that Mr. Renton’s lifeless body still lay below her.

Would he get rid of it now that his patient was dead? Why keep it in his study? But even as she questioned, she began to suspect the answer.

It was fascinating.

She traced the curves of it, and, this close to it now and with less panic clouding her mind, she could see that it did disappear into itself, the way she had perceived the day before. It twisted not in the way of rope or sausage, nor was it knotted like string. She could not make sense of its exterior and interior, its top or bottom. It made her head ache.

Footsteps on the stairs. She turned to face the door just as Dr. Lawrence entered, still looking worn, drawn. He regarded her silently, then looked behind her to the cabinet.

“What do you think of it all?” he asked. “I confess, I forgot you would see my collection when I recommended you come up here.”

“What is it for?” Jane asked, caught between disgust and interest.

He came to her side and poured himself his own small glass of whiskey, then leaned back against his desk, regarding the shelves filled with stones and wood and jars. “My own education. I collect curiosities,” he said. “I have for many years. Models or samples of medical oddities, strange natural phenomena, that sort of thing.”