Sunday, September 3
“Yes? May I help you, lad?” A pair of keen brown eyes gazed at me curiously.
Dr. Snow himself!
“Uh … uh, yes, sir.…” I snatched the cap from my head, which sent a lock of hair spilling into my eyes. I tried to brush it away, which made me drop the cap.
I hadn’t expected Dr. Snow to answer the door himself. I’d almost forgotten his strange voice, hoarse and husky. Maybe this was a bad idea, I thought as I picked up my cap. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. What makes me think he’ll come to help Bernie just because I ask?
Finally I planted myself before him, cap held respectful-like in my hands as Mum had taught me. “Please, sir … I need …”
The words stuck in my throat. I glanced down at my dirty left toe and felt my face flush red. I was sure I still smelled like the Thames.
“Go on, then,” he urged. “Is there a problem with the animals, lad?”
“Oh, no, sir. Nothing like that. It’s Broad Street.”
“Broad Street?” He held a napkin in one hand. I groaned inwardly. I was interrupting his breakfast. Then I thought of Bernie, who was too sick to eat.
I pulled myself together. “Sir, it’s the blue death. The cholera has come to Broad Street.”
The doctor threw down his napkin and grabbed me by the shoulders. His voice came out huskier than ever. “Are you sure?”
“Y-yes, sir. There can be no doubt of it,” I stammered. He shook me a little.
“Your name is Eel, as I recall. So, Eel, how can you be certain?” Dr. Snow queried. “Do you have any idea what the symptoms of cholera look like?”
“Yes, Dr. Snow. I do now,” I told him. “I saw one man die of it, and now his wife and little boy are struck. And many more besides.”
“You’d better come in,” he ordered, letting me loose.
My mouth fell open. But he was already beckoning me inside. “Yes, yes. Come in while I get ready. I have more questions for you.”
I stopped to pick up his napkin and trailed behind him, walking on tiptoe. Where was Mrs. Weatherburn? I could imagine her appearing, taking one sniff of the air, and declaring, “A mudlark is here!”
We passed through a small dining room, and Dr. Snow nodded toward the sideboard. “Have you eaten? Help yourself to toast. If, that is, you can eat while you talk.”
I placed the napkin carefully on the sideboard. I didn’t want to be accused of stealing it. The sideboard had dishes with enough food for a half-dozen people, not just one man. There were eggs and tomatoes and late-summer strawberries. The toast was warm and buttery. I snatched two pieces, folded them, and stuffed them into my pocket for later.
I looked longingly at the little pot of raspberry jam. No sense in taking the risk of dropping a big blob of jam on Dr. Snow’s rich green carpet. Mrs. Weatherburn would want to lock me in the Tower of London for that.
Dr. Snow had gone through to the next room, a small study that faced the street. I stood in the doorway. I could see shelves lined with great, fat books. There was a desk and two large tables piled high with papers. On one sat an instrument I recognized as a microscope.
“So, where did you say it was again?” Dr. Snow was wrapping some cloth around glass vials and packing them into a large black bag.
“In the neighborhood of Broad Street, sir. Not far north of here, across Regent Street, just past the Golden Square.”
“Ah yes, I know it,” he said. “Go on. When did it begin?”
“Well, I suppose, sir, it was Thursday,” I said. “At least that’s when Mr. Griggs got very ill.”
“And who is Mr. Griggs?” Dr. Snow glanced at me. “Come closer, lad. I can barely hear you if you stay there on the threshold and mumble.”
“But, sir, I don’t like to. My shoes …” I looked down. “Mrs. Weatherburn …”
“Ah, quite right. I’m a trial to the good lady myself.” He smiled. “Fine. Stay where you are, then, but speak up. You were telling me about Mr. Griggs.”
“Mr. Griggs is a tailor at Forty Broad Street, sir. He lives upstairs from his shop with his family,” I said. It was hard to talk loudly. These weren’t the kind of rooms where a body could feel comfortable shouting.
“That is, I mean to say, he did live there,” I went on. “He died on Friday, a bit after noon.”
“How do you know this?” Dr. Snow’s eyes bored into me.
“I visited him Thursday when he was sick. And also the next day when … it happened.” I swallowed. “You can ask Reverend Whitehead. He was there too and told us it was the cholera.”
I couldn’t tell if Dr. Snow believed me, so I plunged on. “That’s not all, sir. After that they hung up a yellow flag to warn folks not to come near. They spread out lime too. Nasty-smelling stuff, that is. But they say it keeps the cholera from spreading and helps to clean the air. You know, from the miasma.”
“Hmph! Miasma. Cleans the air!” To my surprise, Dr. Snow shook his head in disgust. Then he went on, talking more to himself now. “Cholera. A few blocks away. And I’m just hearing about it now. Well, no wonder. I’ve had so many cases that I’ve barely been home these last two days.
“Keep talking, lad,” he commanded over his shoulder, still busy with his bag. “Is this Mr. Griggs the only death so far?”
“Oh, no, sir.” I thought of all I had seen while helping Charlie the coffin man. “No. It’s more like a spark that has caught and now it’s a roaring fire.”
I hesitated. “I think …”
“Go on. You think what?”
“Sir, I believe there must be tens struck down by now, maybe a hundred or more. Folks have gotten sick in the neighborhood all around Broad Street,” I said in a rush. “At least, that’s what the coffin man and I saw yesterday.”
Dr. Snow straightened up to face me, leather bag forgotten. He caught me in a gaze so firm I couldn’t get away. But his voice came out soft, as though I were a dog he was afraid to spook. “What made you talk to a coffin man?”
“I did some work for ’im, sir. To earn a few coins.”
“What kind of work?”
“Helping load the coffin cart when ’is mate got faint and couldn’t stomach it.”
“Did you touch the dead yourself?” Dr. Snow rasped, coming closer.
“Not exactly, sir.”
“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” Dr. Snow was close now. He reached out and took me by my shoulders.
“At first we had wooden coffins for the bodies,” I explained. “But those ran out. So then the coffin man had to use burlap sacks. But Charlie … he didn’t make me touch any bodies. He said that wouldn’t be fair, me being just thirteen. He did it himself. Usually the family helped.”
“Promise me,” said Dr. Snow, gripping my shoulders more tightly. “I want you to promise me that you will never do that again. And if you go into the houses where the sick people are, try not to touch anything. Most of all, do not drink the water.”
Why was he telling me this? I wondered. Wasn’t cholera spread by poisons in the air?
“Sir, about the sick people,” I said quickly. I’d have to ask more about the water later. “That’s why I’m here. Mr. Griggs had a wife and two children. Mrs. Griggs and little Bernie are both sick. Bernie has lasted more than a day. That’s a good sign, isn’t it, sir? I mean, does everyone die of it?”
“Many do,” said Dr. Snow, who had let me go and was walking back to his desk. “But not all.”
At least that meant Bernie might have a chance. “Dr. Snow, please, you have to come.”
Dr. Snow no longer seemed to be listening. He finished packing his bag and beckoned me to follow him—this time heading for the front door. “Come along, then.”
“That way? Through the front door of your house, sir? I … I couldn’t. I don’t think Mrs.—”
“Now!”
I rushed on tiptoe after him. I glanced behind me. The house was still quiet. It was Sunday. Perhaps Mrs. Weatherburn had gone to church.
I hoped she had, and that she wasn’t strolling down Sackville Street on her way home right now—in time to see a mudlark coming out the front door.