Threading her way among dogcarts, traps and wagonettes jamming the thoroughfare, she crossed to the opposite side and made her way up the walk and through the doors of London Hospital. Pausing for a moment, she loosened her bonnet, freeing the mass of auburn curls beneath.
Now, as she moved into the round front lobby, the porter faced her in his long-skirted blue uniform and touched a finger to his cap.
“Good afternoon, miss.”
“Thank you, Jenkins.” She nodded, blue eyes peering up inquiringly. “Would you happen to know if the lecture has started yet?”
“Most likely it did,” the porter told her. “I saw Dr. Hume come in about ten minutes ago.”
“Then I’m late.”
Quickening her pace, Eva crossed before the front reception desk and approached the corridors beyond. The one at her right led to the medical wards; the left would bring her to the surgical section.
It was in this direction that she turned now, moving through the narrow confines of a long hall. The inner wall was lined with consultation room doors, each bearing the name of the physician or surgeon occupying the premises. The outer wall loomed above a row of black benches on which outpatients waited to be summoned for examination and treatment.
They were a mixed bag, as always; a few elderly men in grimy, sweat-stained work clothes and a far greater number of drably dressed women, many carrying infants or clutching the hands of small children. Aside from the occasional echo of consumptive coughing there was no sound to indicate the presence of those assembled here. The men sat motionless, lips compressed, and the women did not speak. Even the children sat strangely silent as they stared at the brown doors opposite.
Behind their silence Eva sensed the dread. All of these unfortunates were pondering what awaited them in the rooms beyond — the peering and the probing, the mysterious medication, the jabbing of the needle or even the horror of the surgeon’s knife. And for some there was a prospect even more ghastly; the shrug of resignation, a few words of meaningless consolation, then the curt dismissal which indicated there was neither treatment nor hope to be had for their affliction. Fear was almost a palpable presence here — the fear of pain, the fear of death.
Eva passed by quickly and parted the swinging double doors at the end of the hall which brought her into the glass-roofed outpatients’ surgery. It was unoccupied at the moment, and she crossed the room to open the door at the far side which led to the operating theater.
Lining the green walls of the chamber were frosted windows reflecting the glitter of gas jets. Below the translucent panes a semicircle of benches held an audience of onlookers. Eva halted for a moment as she scanned their ranks — nursing sisters in blue uniforms, probationers in stripes and white caps, young students clad in street clothing, older men wearing the frock coats of practicing physicians.
In the central area before them was the operating table, surrounded by smaller tables displaying an array of scalpels, probes, forceps and other medical instruments along with vials of chloroform, bowls of hot water, rolls of cloth bandages, bundles of sutures and clumps of sponges ready for use. Posted behind them, several house surgeons stood waiting, easily identifiable in their white aprons and sleeve-covers. At the head of the table a student adjusted the nozzle of a carbolic spray pump — Dr. Lister’s innovation, used to sterilize instruments, the patient’s wound and even the hands of the surgeon, should he happen to believe in the controversial new theory of germs and antisepsis.
On the table itself, lower limbs decorously draped with a white sheet, was the patient, a corpulent middle-aged man with a swollen belly. Chloroform had already done its work and he lay quietly, eyes closed, fat stomach rising and falling to the accompaniment of his stertorous snores.
The operating surgeon bent over him, scalpel poised in his hairy left hand. That, plus the sight of his florid face with its bristling mustache surmounted by a bulbous nose and slightly slanted eyes, served to identify Dr. Jeremy Hume.
Frowning, Eva hesitated. Had she known Hume was operating she wouldn’t have made such an effort to attend. There was something about him that disturbed her — not his appearance, but his manner. He’d never been brusque; on the contrary he seemed almost effusively cordial and eager to acknowledge her presence. On reflection perhaps it was his appearance after all; the way she’d caught him staring through those slitted eyes, as though he were studying her with a kind of mocking amusement.
Silly goose, Eva told herself. No sense imagining things. Resolutely she moved forward to a bench just left of the doorway and seated herself on the end.
Certainly Dr. Hume wasn’t staring at her now. His attention was directed at the patient — or, more accurately, to the gleaming tip of the scalpel poised above the recumbent figure as, with a self-assured smile, he brought it down to incise the exposed abdomen, deftly slicing through a layer of fatty subcutaneous tissue.
The blood gushed forth and one of the house surgeons stepped forward, gripping a sponge with which he swabbed the outer edges of the incision.
Nodding, Dr. Hume gestured him back and parted the flaps of skin on either side of the opening, then bent forward to insert the tip of his scalpel into the cavity. His eyes were intent on the task before him but he was still smiling; to Eva came the realization that he actually seemed to be enjoying himself.
Not so the man seated beside her.
He squirmed uneasily on the bench, and as Eva glanced at him she was startled to see that he’d closed his eyes.
There was something else about his appearance which disturbed her — the pale face with its heavy brows and thin mustache looked oddly familiar. In her mind’s eye Eva tried to picture his profile, but the image was blurred, as though by fog.
Fog.
That was it. Fog, and the deerstalker cap. This was the stranger who’d come to her rescue the other night.
Now he seemed to be the one who needed rescuing. Eyes averted, he lurched up and stumbled past her, groping for the door which led back into the deserted outpatients’ surgery.
No one else seemed to note his departure; all attention focused on Dr. Hume as he interrupted his procedure, scalpel in hand, and glanced up to address the assemblage.
“What we have here is an acute inflammation of the vermiform appendix, characterized by the usual edema and consequent sensitivity in the lower abdominal area—”
The sound of his voice was cut off by the closing of the door after Eva rose and followed the young man.
She found him standing before an open window, breathing deeply, his lips compressed and fists clenched. But now he turned at the sound of her approaching footsteps and his brown eyes widened in surprised recognition.
“You?”
Eva nodded.
He stared at her. “I don’t understand. How did you know where to find me—?”
“I didn’t.” She smiled. “I came for the lecture.”
“You’re a medical student?”
“No, a probationer here at the hospital. I was away this morning and didn’t have time to change into my uniform before the demonstration.” Still smiling, she held out her hand. “My name is Eva Sloane.”
He accepted the greeting; his fingers were ice-cold. “Mark Robinson,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Not nearly as pleased as I was the other evening. I wanted to thank you then but you disappeared so quickly—”
“Sorry. Emergency. I was on my way to a patient.”
“Are you on the staff here?”
“Just as an observer, though I do lend a hand in assisting from time to time. The patient I attended the other night was Dr. Trebor’s case.” The young man’s voice softened, his features relaxing. “Actually, I’m from the States.”