Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

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 an eighth minutes,” Lower called loudly. “Quickly, Cola. The tube.”

I handed it to him as Sarah’s lifeblood 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 ten minutes,” I said. “Make it twelve to be sure.”

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 lightheaded.

“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 after, 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 humors 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. Tuppence, 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 favorite 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.”