“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.
“I—I’m sorry,” Burgess said, pale eyebrows knotting in confusion. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. But—they said that this was a place for treatment?” He looked beyond Hazel, assuming a male doctor was somewhere behind her. From one of the cots in the sunroom came a low moan.
“Gilbert Burgess,” Hazel said again. “You don’t recognize me. Of course.” She pulled her hair up at the nape of her neck. “George Hazleton, at your service.”
And then—whether it was shock or his fever or both—Burgess fainted.
* * *
“I JUST CAN’T BELIEVE IT,” HE SAID WHEN HE finally woke up in one of the cots in the castle. The examination hadn’t taken long—he had a high fever and fresh sores forming all over his body. It was the Roman fever. Iona had brought him a bowl of oatmeal with jam. He stirred it absentmindedly, unable to bring himself to eat. “A girl, the whole time. Pardon me, a lady. And no one ever knew. God, I would kill to see the look on Thrupp’s face about now.”
“Well, someone knew. Dr. Straine recognized me, and had me banned from lectures.”