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chapter61o human being ever comes into the world but another human being is literally stretched on the rack for hours or days.’ These words of John Stuart Mill came to Raven’s mind as he toiled in a cramped attic above the Lawnmarket. He was no great reader of philosophical tracts, not having the time, so presumably he had heard the quote cited by the professor, or by one of the visiting dignitaries at Queen Street. Raven might be sweating from his efforts, though the room was cold, but he knew the woman lying before him had already given so much more before he arrived to assist.

His perspiration was not entirely down to his physical exertions, but as much from his anxiety that there should be no mishap. Simpson had entrusted him to deal with the case on his own, not deeming it sufficiently challenging to haul himself away from a particularly busy morning clinic. Raven was despatched in his stead, having been told: ‘You felt able enough to administer ether unsupervised.’ How typical of Simpson that his words should be simultaneously a reassurance and an admonishment.

Raven pulled down hard on the forceps as the uterus contracted again. He almost laughed with relief as he felt movement of the infant’s head in response to his efforts, while before him the patient slept on despite his less than tender manipulations. In addition to relieving her pain, which had been considerable, the chloroform had worked its usual magic in relaxing the maternal passages, allowing Raven to apply the forceps blades with ease. The insensibility of the patient also allowed him to dispense with the modesty blanket that pointlessly impeded his view. Draping such a thing was akin to asking a surgeon to operate in the dark. He wondered what Syme would make of such a request.

Another contraction and the head emerged, followed by the trunk and possibly a gallon of amniotic fluid, which rapidly filled his shoes. Raven cared not at all, as he had just performed his first forceps delivery – with a pair of Simpson’s forceps, of course – and it appeared as though both mother and child were going to survive it.

‘A wee lassie,’ the mother said upon waking shortly after, tearful in her gratitude as the baby was placed in her waiting arms. ‘Dear heavens, you’re so bonny,’ she told her daughter.

A little later, having packed away his instruments, Raven bade his patient farewell and made for the door, his feet squelching quietly in his sodden shoes. His exit was impeded by the arrival of the patient’s husband, who shook Raven’s hand vigorously before reaching into his pocket.

Raven’s financial situation had improved of late, sufficient that he would not need to borrow from his mother for a while, and therefore she would not need to humble herself before his miserable uncle. In order to conceal what they had done with John Beattie, it had been necessary to give the impression that he had fled his home. This they had achieved by packing up certain of his clothes and belongings in a trunk and quietly disposing of them. Though he did not say as much to Simpson, Raven had privately decided that it would create a more convincing picture if it appeared such a fugitive had not left any cash behind.

It was just a pity this windfall had not come a day sooner, as he could have comfortably paid off Flint even after giving half to Sarah. Flint had, of course, forgiven Raven’s debt, but he feared the new terms he was on with the man might prove far more onerous in the long run.

The smiling new father pressed a clutch of coins into his palm. It was the first money he had earned as a medical practitioner, and he thought with some pride that he had earned it well.

Raven looked around the attic room in which he had spent the last couple of hours – a few bits of furniture, no coal for the fire – and came to a remarkably easy decision, one that would have been unthinkable a few weeks before.

‘Naw, naw,’ he said. ‘Away with ye.’