itken’s tavern was crowded, a thick pall of pipe smoke coiling up to the rafters. It was warm, almost uncomfortably so, the press of bodies elevating the temperature and causing the windows to run with condensation. As Raven returned from the bar, it took him a few seconds to locate Henry, who had managed to find a table in a corner, where he was chatting to a man Raven failed to recognise.
He wondered again why he had been summoned here. Henry had accosted him as he stood by Simpson’s carriage, waiting to accompany the professor home. Raven had confided in his friend about the French midwife and her medical accomplice, whereupon Henry told him he had news that might be of interest.
‘What news?’ he had replied, but Henry wagged a finger by way of denying him.
‘This is information I will only share with a tankard in my hand, for it has been too long since we supped together.’
Raven feared he was being sold a bill of goods, as he would have much preferred to know the value of this information before he traded it for a safe means of conveyance home.
The man sitting with Henry looked young but exceedingly weary, sporting dark circles beneath eyes that betrayed a profound want of sleep. Raven was unsurprised when Henry introduced him as a doctor at the Royal Infirmary.
‘This is Fleming,’ he said. ‘Replaced McKellar, Christison’s resident clerk who died of fever last month.’
Raven sat down and took a long pull of his beer, involuntarily calculating what fraction of Flint’s debt the price of a round would have redeemed. ‘“The poisoned breath of infection”,’ he said, wiping froth from his beard.
‘“A young and early sacrifice at the shrine of professional duty”,’ replied Henry archly. It was a well-worn phrase trotted out by the medical professors when such an incident occurred, which was a little too often in Raven’s opinion. Not for the first time, he felt relief that his present duties seldom required his attendance at the Infirmary.
‘We imperil our own health working in that place,’ said Henry’s lugubrious companion, staring disconsolately into his beer.
Raven wondered why Henry had seen fit to bring him along.
‘So what is the news?’ asked Raven, feeling disinclined to tarry. He had grown his beard since last he was in Aitken’s, but the very reason he needed it had stemmed from being recognised in this place on the night he was attacked. Flint had eyes in here, he had little doubt.
‘There’s been another one,’ Henry said.
‘Another what?’
‘Another death. Young woman.’ Henry nodded at his drowsy companion, who was still staring into his beer. ‘Fleming dealt with the case.’ He kicked the young man under the table, which caused him to rouse himself.
‘Yes,’ Fleming said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Moribund when admitted. Didn’t wake up.’
‘What was the cause of death?’ Raven asked
‘Peritonitis. All the signs of puerperal sepsis but no sign of a baby.’
Raven could feel his anxiety grow. He had a fear that if he was going to be caught by Flint’s men, it would be due to an avoidable lack of vigilance in the service of an ironically pointless risk. Diverting here merely to learn about yet another victim of their anonymous abortionist definitely came into that category.
As if sensing his friend’s deteriorating mood, Henry nudged Fleming again. ‘Tell him what you told me.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he responded, as though in his fatigue his brain needed a shunt. ‘She had an unusual smell about her. It was on her clothes when she first came in: a sweet smell. Like over-ripe fruit. And she had unusual marks around her mouth.’
‘Abrasions?’
‘No, not abrasions.’
‘Bruising, then?’ Raven suggested impatiently.
‘No, it looked like—’
‘Ligature marks, as though she had been gagged?’
‘For pity’s sake, let him speak, Raven.’
‘What, then? Why did you drag me here?’
‘These looked more like a burn,’ Fleming stated. Raven understood. ‘Chloroform.’
‘You see?’ said Henry, with a flourish of his hand. ‘This individual you seek has been keeping up to date with new developments.’
Beyond proving how quickly the new anaesthetic was being adopted, Raven did not see how this assisted in his quest. He took a glum gulp of his beer by way of consolation.
‘You seem less than elated,’ Henry observed.
‘Why should I be other? This does not bring me any nearer to knowing his identity.’
The young surgeon’s familiar wily grin informed him there was something he had missed.
‘Not at this moment,’ Henry said. ‘But I can tell you where you will find it written down.’