he hour was getting late by the time Raven left the Maternity Hospital, sharp pangs of hunger bringing him back to more immediate concerns. Dinner would be over by the time he returned to Queen Street, but Mrs Lyndsay should be able to offer him something, he was sure. Perhaps Sarah might even keep some leftovers aside for him, though he knew not what he would tell her about today’s contradictory discoveries.
What made it worse was that though he would be too late for the meal, he would most likely return in time for the testing afterwards. His brief exposure to the nasty stuff Duncan had concocted was sufficient to suggest that all his previous headaches would prove joyous memories compared to the after-effects of that.
With this thought, he realised he had a means of avoiding it. Duncan had exposed him to a preliminary distillation, and Raven had been instructed to pick up a more refined sample. Professor Gregory might well have gone home by this hour, but he would take a walk up past the college building anyway. Either way, it would provide a plausible reason to delay his return until the testing was over and everyone had removed to the drawing room to smoke pipes and sip whisky.
Professor Gregory’s laboratory was housed in a far corner of the university buildings, Raven attributing its remote location to the potentially explosive nature of his work. It was not easily found, Raven traversing a labyrinth of passages and stairs, though it was possible to discern that he was drawing nearer because the smells became stronger.
The laboratory was the very antithesis of Duncan and Flockhart’s pristine premises: a claustrophobic and permanently cluttered chamber lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases and shelves, its floor an evolving hazard of boxes, crates and discarded equipment. The bookcases housed an extensive collection of ancient and in some instances dusty tomes, some of which Raven suspected had not been disturbed since being placed there, not by the incumbent, but by his predecessor.
In the centre of the room was a large wooden table etched with stains and scorch marks. A stooped figure was holding a flask above a spirit lamp, the purplish flame licking the underside of the glass, which caused the liquid inside to bubble furiously as though incensed by the application of such heat. Raven waited in the doorway so as not to interrupt, but without looking up the professor beckoned him with a wave of his hand before brushing a long strand of black hair from his forehead.
William Gregory was a thin man who appeared older than he was. He hobbled when he walked, the result of a childhood illness from which he had never entirely recovered, but he had a lively energy about him when his enthusiasm was piqued – usually by his work. His father James Gregory had been the renowned formulator of Gregory’s powder, the most prescribed medicine in the Edinburgh Pharmacopoeia and thus the standard by which James Duncan intended to measure his own success.
According to Simpson, Gregory Sr had been by nature a belligerent man, prone to feuding with individuals and institutions alike. He had carried a cane and on one notorious occasion used it to attack the then Professor of Midwifery, James Hamilton, following a dispute. This resulted in a court hearing at which Gregory was ordered to pay Hamilton £100 in damages, which he said he ‘would pay all over again for another opportunity of thrashing the little obstetrician’.
By contrast, William Gregory was known for his calmness and self-possession, having inherited only his father’s academic brilliance. Simpson told Raven that early in his career, he had developed a process to produce morphine in a high state of purity. However, Dr Simpson could not help but also impart that Gregory was an enthusiast for phrenology and hypnotism, and it was said that his choice of wife had been made only after phrenological examination.
Raven approached, stepping around a three-legged stool upon which sat a beaker with a long retort just asking to be knocked over and smashed. Next to that was a pile of leather-bound volumes and what appeared to be two dead rabbits in a wooden crate. Raven wondered if they had been delivered thus on order, though he did not wish to dwell upon what purpose they were about to serve.
Gregory removed the flask from the flame and held it up, swirling the contents under the dim light of a gas lamp, a look of dissatisfaction upon his face at the results.
Raven took in the ramshackle chaos of bottles, jars and vials arrayed close to the professor. His eye was also drawn to several jars of a bright red powder, one he did not recognise.
‘Mr Raven,’ Gregory said. ‘Here at Dr Duncan’s request, I assume?’
‘Indeed.’
‘He’s fairly got you people fetching and carrying for him. The initial distillation of this stuff was collected by some young girl. Gave me quite the interrogation, too. Would you know who that might be?’
Raven could not help but smile. ‘She is Dr Simpson’s housemaid.’
‘Really?’ Gregory replied, given pause. ‘His housemaid. I wish my students were half so inquisitive. Or as informed. Now, where did I . . .’
Gregory turned to the array of glass containers before him, reaching towards the vial Duncan was waiting for, but then his attention suddenly diverted to the red powder.
‘I forgot to say to the young girl when she was here. You must take this to Dr Simpson as a gift. I was sent a batch of the stuff by Professor Joao Parreira of the University of Coimbra in Portugal. We met in Paris over the summer.
‘Is he a chemist?’
‘Yes, and an esteemed one, but this is not a chemical compound. It is a powder ground from dried capsicums: a powerful strain originally deriving from Africa, I believe. They call it peri-peri.’
‘What does it do?’
Gregory became animated, his face charged with enthusiasm.
‘It adds the most enlivening flavour to food. It is the stuff of miracles, believe me. It can transform the most miserable and mundane of stews into something that will delight your palate.’
Having had his scale of miserable cuisine calibrated by life at Ma Cherry’s, Raven looked sceptically upon the jar Gregory was proffering.
‘Try some,’ he said, unscrewing the lid. ‘Just take a pinch.’
Raven dipped three fingers into the neck of the jar and scooped out the equivalent of a teaspoon, transferring it swiftly between his lips.
Gregory’s admonition – ‘I said just a pinch!’ – hit his ears at the same moment the powder had its seemingly incendiary effect inside his mouth. His tongue felt aflame and his eyes began to stream. He spat it out, but the burning continued.
‘Water,’ he coughed, to which an amused Gregory held out a cup. Raven poured it into his maw, but this only seemed to exacerbate the intensity, like pouring water upon burning oil.
He would have to admit that there was an intriguingly smoky flavour about it, but worried that he was tasting his own burnt flesh.
Gregory’s eyes were moist too, but merely from mirth at Raven’s affliction.
‘I won’t have to warn you to tell Dr Simpson’s cook she should use it sparingly.’
Raven was sceptical as to whether Mrs Lyndsay could be prevailed upon to use it at all. She was a fine cook, but according to Sarah, extremely set in her ways. Nonetheless, Raven looked forward to offering a taste to Jarvis, and to Duncan. He would recommend a generously heaped spoonful to each of them.
He replaced the lid and placed the jar in the pocket of his jacket so that his hands were free to carry the vial for which Gregory was now reaching.
‘I thought I could improve the distillation process, but in truth it is all but identical to the first attempt. I wasn’t so sure about some of the ingredients Duncan suggested. The combination struck me as potentially lethal, a danger he seemed to be blithely ambivalent towards.’
Yes, that sounded like Duncan, Raven thought. He couldn’t imagine the man shedding many tears if his experimentation happened to kill somebody. He’d probably view it as a necessary sacrifice on the altar of progress. With that thought, he resolved to walk home slowly despite his rumbling stomach.
‘That said, I think he may be onto something,’ Gregory added. ‘I was reluctant to test the formula on myself, so I experimented on some animal subjects a short while ago. They became quickly unresponsive, proving impervious to painful stimuli. I was intending to check on them again, but your arrival distracted me.’
‘What manner of animals?’ Raven asked.
‘A couple of conies.’
‘Do you have a lot of rabbits that you experiment on?’
‘No, just the two over there.’
Raven felt something solidify within him, like mercury in the chill. He reached into the crate, placing a hand on each of the rabbits in case he had misapprehended their condition.
He had not.
‘These rabbits are quite dead. How much did you give them?’
‘It was but the slightest dose of vapour. A single drop upon the muslin.’
A single drop.
Raven bolted from the lab, clattering his way down the staircases and halls. In keeping with the normal testing practice, Simpson and the others would be gathered around the dining table, dispensing ever more liberal quantities, sniffing it deeper and deeper until it had an effect or was declared useless. He had to get back to Queen Street, though it may already be too late.
Raven barrelled out of the college and onto rain-swept Nicholson Street, where he looked about for a hansom cab. He didn’t have the funds for such a journey but he would borrow the fare from the professor, and if he got there too late, payment would be the least of his worries.
The streets were all but empty: a few damp souls wending their way home upon the pavements, and not a carriage to be seen. Ruefully he recalled guests to Queen Street complaining that there was never a cab to be had in Edinburgh, particularly when it rained. The hour was late too: most respectable people would be digesting their dinner or preparing for their beds. The only people on the street were drunks. One of them swayed into his path, suddenly enraged and irrationally regarding Raven as his enemy. He screamed out an oath and challenged him to fight. Raven checked his stride and harmlessly passed around him.
Then up ahead he saw a carriage approach the junction with Infirmary Street. The gentleman inside was bound to have heard of the professor. Surely he would assist when he heard how he was imperilled.
Raven ran towards it, waving his arms and beseeching the coachman to stop. He heard an urgent voice from within as the coachman urged his steeds to hurry, cracking his whip at the approaching Raven to warn him off. He was not surprised. He must have looked like a madman trying to attack them.
He had no option but to run. And though it burn his muscles and crush his lungs, he would drive himself without rest until he reached Queen Street.
He calculated the most direct route as he ran, his splashing footsteps echoing off the buildings. The rhythm of his lengthening stride was soon accompanied by another beat in his chest, though he felt a welcome easing as his route took him steeply downhill on Cockburn Street, where he was able to run faster with less cost to legs and lungs. As he picked up momentum, he skidded on something – he didn’t stop to consider what – and almost tumbled. It was a near thing: a twisted ankle would have ended his mercy dash right then and there.
Righting himself, he stepped up the pace again, his eyes trained upon the flagstone and cobbles, straining to pick out potential hazards in the gloom. Then he felt an impact that shuddered every bone, and almost bit through his tongue as his teeth clattered together. It felt as though he had run into a wall, except walls weren’t usually warm and clad in cloth. He rebounded and tumbled to the ground, feeling a blow against his thigh and a crack as the jar in his pocket smashed between his falling weight and the hard stone beneath. As he tried to focus in his daze, two horribly familiar faces loomed over him beneath the glow of a street lamp.