“I should have guessed because of your accent,” Eva told him. “But you are a physician?”
“Not much of a one, I’m afraid.” He smiled ruefully. “What do you make of a doctor who hates the sight of blood?”
“We all go through that phase, don’t we?” Eva said. “I remember feeling quite giddy the first time I assisted. Of course I got used to it.”
“That’s just the point,” he said. “I never did. When I studied for my degree at the University of Michigan I witnessed my first dissection. Somehow I got through it, but immediately after the session I fainted dead away. Luckily the instructor had already left, and Herman managed to drag me out before anyone noticed.”
“Herman?”
“One of my fellow students, Herman Mudgett. Now there was a cool one for you — he could carve up a cadaver with a dull butter knife and never turn a hair.” Mark Robinson sighed. “I often wonder what became of him; he’s probably enjoying a brilliant career as a surgeon right now.”
“I take it you don’t intend to specialize in that field?”
“Correct. I find myself more interested in the study of mental disorders.”
“Psychology?”
“It’s still more a matter of theory than actual practice, but I’ve a hunch it’s the coming thing. Once we start to learn the secrets of the human mind we can extend the boundaries of medical knowledge—” He broke off abruptly. “I’m boring you,” he said.
“Not at all. It’s quite fascinating, really. I’d like to hear more about it, but—”
“But what?”
Eva glanced at the wall clock. “It’s past two,” she said. “I’m on ward duty within the hour.”
The young man nodded. “Well, then, suppose we continue my lecture over dinner the next time you’re free?”
“Sorry.” Eva shook her head. “I’m leaving on holiday tomorrow evening. I’ll be visiting my father in Reading until the end of the month.”
“When you return, then.”
“Perhaps.” She hesitated. “But I won’t be staying in quarters here at the hospital. The probationers’ dormitory is quite wretched, really — we sleep in shifts and there’s no such thing as privacy. I’ve just arranged for lodgings over on Old Montague Street, at Number Seven. It’s only a single room, but at least one can have a quiet moment there.”
“You say you’ll be back on the thirty-first,” he murmured. “Suppose we dine that evening, at seven?”
“Very well, Mr. Robinson.” Eva paused. “Or should I address you as Dr. Robinson?”
“Mark will do nicely, thank you.”
“As you wish.” She turned with a smile and crossed to the door leading back into the outpatients’ hall. As she reached it he called after her.
“Have a pleasant holiday.”
Eva didn’t reply, but when she moved through the doorway her smile had faded.
Papa didn’t approve of holidays. And whatever awaited her in Reading, it would not be pleasant.
~ FIVE ~
Assyria, 850 B.C. King Ashurnasirpal declared, “All the chiefs who revolted against me I flayed alive. With their skins I covered the pillars. These warriors who had sinned against me — from their hostile mouths I tore their tongues and I have compassed their destruction. As for the others, who remain alive, their lacerated members I have given to the dogs, the swine, the wolves.”
Mark was still staring at the door through which Eva had made her exit when it reopened abruptly and Dr. Trebor came into the room.
“There you are,” he said. “I was hoping to find you here. Is the lecture over?”
“No. I stepped out for a moment to speak with Miss Sloane.”
“Ah yes — I saw her passing by in the hall just now. Bright girl, Eva. She should make an excellent nurse.” Trebor smiled. “But I take it your interest isn’t necessarily professional.”
“Not entirely.” Mark avoided the doctor’s inquisitive eyes.
“Well, no matter,” Trebor said. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. I’ve just come from seeing a friend of yours — Martha Tabram, or Turner, as she calls herself.”
“Who?”
“The woman who offered you the privilege of her person the other evening at the Angel and Crown.”
Mark paled. “You spoke to her?”
“Hardly that. Despite the claims of spiritualists, there is no way to communicate with the dead.”
“Dead?”
Trebor nodded. “Murdered. I’ve just come from the inquest. She was stabbed — thirty-three times.”
~ SIX ~
Persia, 500 B.C. Special prisoners received a special punishment. The victim was placed between two small boats fitted together with openings for the head, hands, and feet. keeping his face to the sun it attracted insects and was soon covered with a swarm of hungry flies. Sometimes it took several weeks before the release of death.
“You didn’t know?” Trebor said.
Mark shook his head. “How did it happen?”
“Come along and I’ll tell you about it.” Trebor led the way and the two men left the room together, moving past medical wards and into the quiet confines of the hospital library.
“Here, sit down and make yourself comfortable.” As Mark sank into a leatherbacked chair in the corner, Trebor turned to the wall buffet’s display of carafes and glassware. “Care for a spot of port?”
“No thank you. I’m all right.”
“As you wish.” The older man filled a glass and carried it over to a chair opposite Mark, seating himself with a sigh of satisfaction, long legs sprawled before him. “That’s better. At least we can have privacy here.” He peered up at the portraits of long-deceased medical practitioners which lined the walls above the rows of bookshelves. “That’s one of the chief virtues of the dead — they may listen, but they never interrupt.”
Mark stared at him impatiently. “The inquest,” he said. “Why were you attending?”
“There were newspaper reports of the crime. The moment I read them I connected the circumstances with that little episode at the public house on Bank Holiday night, but I couldn’t be entirely sure. So when I saw the notice regarding today’s proceedings I made it a point to be present.”
Mark leaned forward. “What took place?”
“The usual formalities.” Trebor sipped his wine. “George Collier presided. Sound man, no nonsense. According to him the Tabram woman was only thirty-five. I’d have guessed her to be a good bit older, but of course one must make allowances for the sort of life she led. Drink and disease—”
The younger man nodded quickly. “The murder,” he said. “How did it happen?”
“Ah yes.” Trebor nodded. “The woman had nine wounds in the region of the throat, eleven in her breasts and thirteen in the abdomen and pelvic girdle, almost any one of which could have proved fatal. Quite obviously her assailant continued his attack long after realizing she was dead. And the nature of the incisions indicated that two weapons were employed — one a dagger and the other a much longer and broader instrument.”
“What sort of instrument?”
“Perhaps a soldier’s bayonet.” Trebor twirled his glass. “Tabram’s companion — Pearly Poll she calls herself, though her real name is Mary Ann Connelly — took the stand. She said that when the two left with the soldiers they paired off. Pearly Poll and her corporal did their business in a close called Angel Alley. Martha Tabram and the other soldier headed for the George Yard buildings down the street. That was the last she saw of them.”
Mark tugged at his mustache. “Did they identify the soldier?”