Chapter 9

Naturally, Sherlock asked me to accompany him to St. Bart’s to view the gruesome graveyard find, and he said he had someone he wanted me to meet. We walked because he did not trust a hansom cab in this foul weather - his mother had died in a peculiar and freakish cab accident.

According to Uncle Ormond, the number of cab accidents in the Metropolis had increased ten-fold during the never-ending fog. Uncle urged Bart’s to publish the number of injured patients brought to Bart’s door, which he estimated at three hundred each week. Sherlock had often said that cab and van drivers considered the roadway as their own property and the people who cross over it as trespassers. When I walked, it was not unusual for a cab driver to shout a ‘holloa’ at me to get out of the way, never thinking it his duty to avoid hitting a pedestrian by slackening his speed, lest the person be under the horse’s feet. Instead, every walker felt he needed to run in order to save his life. Prosecution of these cabmen for furious and reckless driving never seemed to be enforced.

Because of the fog, it took much longer than it should have, close to an hour, to get to Bart’s. Sherlock often grabbed my hand to be sure I was still next to him. It was an unexpected comfort. When we passed St. Paul’s and finally made our way to Giltspur Street, I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Poppy,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you been to the new wing of the hospital?”

“I’ve not had the chance, Sherlock. Uncle was at the opening ceremony in November, though. He said that the Prince and Princess of Wales dedicated the new building. But it isn’t finished yet, is it?”

“Not all of it, but much of the construction is completed and it should be done in time for the opening of the winter session on October 1st. I am looking forward to it - especially the new dissecting room.”

St. Bart’s had been serving the people of London since the twelfth century. It had, of course, changed a great deal over the years. But the new wing was the grandest and loftiest in its evolution.

The new wing would be comprised of a museum; classrooms; a physiological laboratory, a library, anatomical, pathological, and pharmaceutical laboratories, each two or three times larger than the old ones. The students already had been warned that the new library would not be a place for lounging, talking and letter writing. Its purpose was for study. No Punch, Graphic or Field magazines would be permitted within its walls. Strict silence was to be enforced, ‘just like Mycroft’s Diogenes Club,’ Sherlock told me, and only industrious students would be welcomed into its quiet recesses.

The basement floor would house two classrooms, a lavatory, a more commodious cloak room and locker rooms - so Uncle told me though I was sure I’d never see them. One classroom was for bone classes and the other for The Abernethian Society, whose members discussed new methods of treatment, presented papers on interesting subjects... and read Punch when no one was looking. A moveable wood partition would divide the physiological laboratory into a large room and a small one. My uncle’s good friend, Dr. Harris, had been appointed to Director of the physiological lab. The smaller of the rooms would be devoted to research by vivisection.

I was not surprised that the room that most excited Sherlock was the large dissection room. Situated on the site of the old museum and the old dissection room, it was to be fitted with the latest equipment for the study of anatomy and the osteological department of that study. Students would no longer need to repair from the dissection room to the museum for the purpose of grounding their knowledge of studying bones. The plans included a large gallery which would encircle the new dissection room and on each side of it would be mounted the most perfect osteological specimens available, affixed so that they could be turned about in any direction without being handled or removed from their place. It would have its own special heating apparatus so that students could dissect during the winter months without having to wear coats or take time to visit the fireplace. A lavatory had been installed next to the dissecting room, as well as a special room for demonstrators and prosectors and two locker rooms. The anatomical theater would seat 520 men and the new medical theater had a capacity of nearly three hundred. It was modern and convenient for the students in every way. Even a covered walkway from the library to the new block was under construction.

When we arrived at the entrance to the new wing, Sherlock ushered me inside and we made our way to the shell of the gallery of the anatomical theater. He said, “The gentleman to whom I shall introduce you, Frederick Womack, is an acquaintance of mine, a brilliant young medical student. He has some fascinating ideas. Though he is only a third-year, he has received many high honours. He is experimenting with pin-pointing time of death. He believes that soon we shall be able to accurately report the time of death to the minute.”

“Temperature calculations?”

“Womack is inventing a special mercury thermometer with a flattened bulb of thin glass. He intends to attach the thermometer to the cadaver’s belly and take temperature readings that will calculate postmortem interval with extreme accuracy.”

“My goodness. That would be quite an invention.”

“One day, I’m certain that he will be a teaching fellow and perform his temperature calculations in the mortuary and in this Anatomical Theater. There he is,” Sherlock said, pointing.

Once we were within earshot of Mr. Womack, I realized that he was talking with someone I knew, Jonathan Younger, who had attended the Harrow School with my brother Michael. He had served as Michael’s best man. Jonathan and Mr. Womack were discussing St. Bart’s most recent football season and Bart’s loss to the Harlequins at Turnham Green. I heard Jonathan say, “After Bart’s first loss to the Harlequins - you remember they scored one goal and one try to nil - I thought the season was over.”

“Yes,” Womack said, “that same day they played again at Forest Gate against Upton Park and lost there as well.”

“But what a turnaround. In the second match of the Cup Ties at Clapham Rovers, they gave Guy’s the old heave-ho.”

Finally, the two men noticed us. Womack turned and said, “Ah, Sherlock, what do you think of the hospital’s football team?”

“I don’t think about it at all, Frederick. May I present Dr. Poppy Stamford? Poppy, this is Frederick Womack.”

The two men standing before me could not have been more different. Frederick was short and dark with glasses. Jonathan was an extremely attractive young man - tall and athletic with flaxen hair, violet eyes and a sunny smile.

Frederick gave me a little bow and said, “A pleasure, Miss,” but Jonathan rushed forward to give me an unexpected hug. “Poppy, how wonderful to see you.”

It occurred to me that Sherlock had not been to Michael and Effie’s wedding and he generally stayed in the lab, did not socialize and had few friends. So he likely did not know Jonathan. “Pardon me,” I said, “I believe I have overlooked an introduction. Sherlock, this is Dr. Jonathan Younger. Jonathan, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah, so you are the unauthorized, eccentric occupant of our lab, then,” Jonathan exclaimed. “Michael mentioned you just the other day. Some sort of detective, are you?”

“A consulting detective,” Sherlock said with a grimace.

“Poppy,” Jonathan said, “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of seeing you since Michael and Effie’s wedding, or perhaps it was at her funer-” He stopped mid-sentence.

I had not seen him since Effie’s funeral.

“Yes, I believe it’s been well over a year, Dr. Younger. It’s wonderful to see you. You’re looking well.”

“As are you,” he said. “And call me Jonathan, for heaven’s sake.” He looked at Frederick. “I’ve known Dr. Stamford - both Dr. Stamfords - since childhood. I was her brother’s roommate at Harrow.”

“So you know each other well?” Sherlock asked.

Before I could answer, Jonathan said, “Very well. And you, Poppy, what do you think of St. Bart’s victory over its old enemy, Guy’s Hospital?”

I shrugged.

He turned back to Womack. “I must say, we showed our voice with such patriotism that we drowned out the feeble cries of Guy’s. It was a brilliant victory.” His whole body animated and contorting it into football moves and gestures, he continued. “Bart’s won the toss and kicked against the wind. Uphill, they forced to a touchdown once, and then, just before half-time, they worked the ball, inch-by-inch to the enemy’s line and Ray obtained a try. After half-time, it was Bart’s again. They scored fast and Roberts obtained the ball, and in a beautiful run, he carried it right behind Guy’s post and the try was converted to a goal.” Jonathan’s face was almost effervescent as he recounted the last moments of the game. “Guy’s made a valiant effort, I must concede, but Roberts got the ball once again, made the best run of the game, and obtained a third and last try.

“When time was called, the game stood Bart’s one goal, two tries, three touchdowns, to Guy’s one touchdown. Roberts-” He looked at me and offered as an aside, “Roberts is the quarterback. He was remarkable, but all the forwards were grand, particularly Faddy, Sales and Llewellyn. Oh, and J. Pemberton Campbell. He was stupendous.”

“Isn’t Campbell the one who’s seeking an appointment as resident surgeon to Dr. Joseph Bell at the Royal Infirmary in Scotland?” Womack asked.

“The same,” Jonathan said. He turned to me again and said, “After the game, we hoisted Roberts and carried him in triumph from the field amid cries that would rival a flock of sheep!”

I laughed. Jonathan reminded me of my brother - an avid football fan - and also of Cuthbert Ottaway, one of Oxford’s finest former athletes, Ottaway was also fair and handsome and he had quite the magnetic personality. I chanced to meet him on the same day I’d met Sherlock while I was attending the final rowing contest of Eights Week. Jonathan’s features and coloring were similar. However, I hoped Jonathan had a more prosperous future. Cuthbert’s brilliant future and promising career in law had been cut short far too soon. He had contracted pneumonia and died at the age of twenty-seven, just a year ago.

These memories prompted me to ask, “How did Oxford fare last week in the rowing race? The races have just begun, have they not?”

“You didn’t know?” Jonathan asked. “The fog last Saturday was too impenetrable for the race to be rowed at the fixed time. All the rowing on the ebbtide was abandoned. With the weather as it’s been, it is no surprise. But they did finally have a go at it on the following Monday, and Oxford did herself proud. I suppose I am a malcontent with nothing to soothe my soul now that Oxford reckons two wins more than the light blue colors.”

“You went to Cambridge?” Sherlock shrieked.

“Indeed.”

“But not Eton, Sherlock,” I said quickly. “So he is not altogether doomed to the Sixth Circle of Hell.”

“I think Dante would disagree,” Sherlock mumbled. “The Sixth Circle is reserved for heretics, so surely there is at least a half-circle in the Inferno for Cambridge alumni, even if they did not attend Eton.”

Jonathan laughed uproariously. Then he asked, “So what brings you here, Poppy? Are you taking a tour of the new facilities? You must see the new Abernethian Room. Very cheerful with comfortable leather-cushioned seats round the walls and a large table with writing materials and newspapers and monthlies. A lovely place to lounge.”

He and Womack prattled on about one of their physiology professors and I saw Sherlock begin to fidget. Then Jonathan turned to me again and abruptly changed the subject. “Poppy, have you heard that there is an opening for a Junior Assistant Medical Officer to the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum near Wandsworth-common Railway Station?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Oh, but never mind. I think they probably don’t want a-” He paused and stuttered. “But... but there’s... there’s also a vacancy for a House Surgeon to the Carmarthn Infirmary The advertisement in the Hospital Gazette said that candidates must be unmarried, know the Welsh language and submit testimonials.”

“I don’t know Welsh, Jonathan.”

“Too bad. I was just thinking it might be a fresh start for you, Poppy. They might not care that you are a female. Then again, the candidate must also be a member of the College of Royal Surgeons who don’t admit-” He stopped and looked down.

Who don’t admit women, I thought.

“You see, I just thought... well, Michael told me that your practice is barely surviving.”

Sherlock clenched his fist at his side. “Her practice is surviving very well, sir. Have you not noticed the fog outside? Patients are beating down the doors to Dr. Stamford’s medical office. She is a good doctor, a staunch practitioner, and does the best she can to wrest the country from the quicksand in which it is drifting at present.”

Jonathan glanced from Sherlock to me and back again. “Forgive me. I do apologize. I meant no disrespect. So, you have been treating patients for asthma and dropsy, I presume?”

I nodded yet again.

“Are you treating your patients with morphia for the dyspnea?” Jonathan asked. “There is a strong belief that employment of hypodermic injections of the drug can rapidly cure some attack. And opium is a useful drug as well; it relieves bronchial spasms... though I understand it’s rather useless in emphysema.”

This launched a protracted discussion about the treatment of patients with fog-related symptoms, and I saw Sherlock’s agitation and impatience rising. He wandered away and disappeared for a time.

When he returned, Jonathan had just turned our discussion to the Tay Bridge Disaster of 28 December in Scotland. During a violent storm, one that some termed a hurricane, the Tay Bridge had collapsed while a train travelling from Wormit to Dundee was passing over it, killing all aboard.

“The way I understand it, the piers were narrower and their cross-bracing was less robust than on prior bridges designed by Sir Bouch,” Jonathan explained. “Apparently, he made no allowance for wind-loading, and there were other flaws in the design of the bridge as well. I heard that only forty-six bodies of the fifty-seven who perished were recovered.”

I sighed. So once again, I thought, a new year had dawned on weeping families, mourning for friends and dear ones, just like those who had been left behind after the two train collisions in December of 1874 - collisions where Uncle and I had tended to the wounded. In one swift moment, a fraction of a second, passengers were torn from a pleasant excursion and thrust into the grim reality of death. I could hear them crying out, their voices drowned out by the howling storm, their pleas for help muted by the rising tide. Their families would have to live with the fact they were carried out to sea, never to be seen again, never to be given a proper burial. A feeling of horror arose in me with memories of the Norfolk tragedies I had personally witnessed.

Sherlock gave Jonathan a stern look and said, “Please, Dr. Younger, spare us the details. Dr. Stamford has herself rendered care to railway and other disaster victims. As has her brother Michael, which I would think you would know if you were truly his friend. Have we all not had enough during this most unfortunate period of gloomy death and disease and war and trouble? Must you bring forth more dread tidings?”

I touched Sherlock’s arm. “It’s all right, Sherlock.”

He offered his elbow and abruptly turned about, dragging me with him. “Excuse us, gentlemen. We have an appointment with a corpse.”