For good or ill, knowledge has ever threatened the settled order. A keg of gunpowder may make matchwood of a sturdy house. But a book can set the world on fire.
From Revolution
Though fruitful, I now realised that my library visit in Leicester had been ill judged. It was not solely my sex that had made the librarian regard me as unsuitable. I had seemed insufficiently studious. I decided to remedy this before attempting a similar visit in Nottingham.
From a used goods store near the law courts, I purchased a pair of spectacles. They made everything blurry and on wearing them for more than a few minutes, I could feel a headache starting to throb. But I fancied they made me look the part. A well-worn document case under my arm completed the illusion. Thus arrayed, I made my way to North Circus Street and strode into the hallowed halls of the famous medical library.
“I’m writing a biography,” I whispered to the librarian at the information desk.
He inclined his head to indicate respectful understanding. “And how may I be of help?”
“My subject is an eminent surgeon. Perhaps you might have some of his writings?”
“The name?”
“Foxley.”
“Erasmus Foxley? His text book of oncology is well regarded. But the bulk of his work will be in medical journals.”
“That would be perfect. Thank you.”
“Without medical training... that is to say the language will be technical.”
“Nevertheless – I trust I’ll glean something.”
A frown wrinkled his brow. “The articles may be very numerous.”
“Then could I suggest a trolley?”
I placed the empty document case on my allotted table and settled down to wait. Removing the spectacles, I was able to read the clock on the far wall. It was three in the afternoon. Most of the other library patrons were young men. Medical students, I judged them to be. The scratching of their pens and the occasional cough were the only sounds to penetrate the sanctuary of the Reading Hall. I looked from face to face. Most were pale from hours of indoor study. A few were passably handsome. One particularly so. I allowed myself to watch him work. But after a quarter of an hour he lost his appeal. My eye moved on to the high ceiling, the flagstone floor and even the cracks in the whitewashed wall plaster.
At half past three a book fell to the floor somewhere in the library. The sound reverberated among the stone columns and Norman arches. The scratching of pens stopped. The students craned their necks to look. But nothing happened. One by one they returned to their studies.
At last, the squeaking of wheels alerted me to the approach of the librarian manoeuvring a trolley between the tables. He parked it next to me and hovered for a moment as I cast my eye down the wobbling stack of scientific journals. I could not hope to read a tenth of them. He had been trying to tell me as much. But I had so expected him to block me that I had not listened. Perhaps he caught the look of understanding on my face because I saw a flicker of a smile on his before he bowed and left.
I took the first journal, leafed through it and quickly found Foxley’s name listed alongside several other authors of an article on the use of bacterial toxins in nerve paralysis experiments. I understood perhaps half the words in the first paragraph but little of the meaning. A diagram filled one page, but most of the explanatory key was written in Latin. I worked my way through three similar articles in different journals. None of them made sense to me. I could not even find a pattern in the subjects of his research.
By the time I had scanned five more journals, the wall clock showed it to be an hour before closing time. I retraced my steps to the information desk, where the same librarian stood.
“Finished already?” he asked. Republican servility prevented him from saying I told you so but his acerbic tone was eloquent.
“We were speaking about Erasmus Foxley,” I said.
“Indeed.”
“I’ve glanced at some of the articles. But time is limited. I was wondering if there is somewhere a summary of his work.”
“A summary?”
“A biography of sorts?”
“I thought that’s what you were writing.”
“These are early days,” I said.
“Previously you wanted writings by Dr Erasmus Foxley. Now you want writings about him?”
“I realise I may have given you a lot of work – collecting all those journals. I’m sorry. I forgot to say thank you.”
His expression softened. “It’s good of you to say so.” He pointed back into the Reading Hall. “You’ll find a copy of Who’s Who on the first shelf to the left of the entrance. That might be a good place to start.” He wrote 920.073 on a slip of paper and handed it to me.
“I should have asked for your advice from the start,” I said. “Thank you.”
I was turning to leave when his polite cough stopped me.
“One more thing. A delicate matter. One of the students... he enquired about you.”
“Which student?”
“He’s since left. But I thought you should know.”
I pondered this news as I retraced my steps to the Reading Hall. I was probably the only woman in the building. It was not overly surprising that someone had made inquiries. But the way the librarian had spoken made it seem as if there might be more to it than simple curiosity. A delicate matter suggested the kind of interest a man may have in a woman he finds attractive.
These thoughts were quickly forgotten when I found the shelf containing Who’s Who. The classification code matched the number the librarian had written for me. Each volume had a date printed on the spine, running from 1913 at the top of the shelf. I took the most recent volume, 2008, from near the bottom. Leafing through it, I quickly found Foxley.
The article was three pages long. It gave his birth year as 1962. From his home in Stoke-on-Trent he had travelled to Edinburgh to study medicine. An able student, he had graduated top of his class. It seemed he was ambitious also. He accepted menial jobs in order to work with the most famous surgeons of the day, never staying in any place for long. After ten years he had accumulated enough knowledge to set up his own practice in Nottingham.
Prior to this, his reputation had been confined to a small circle. But now he began to promote himself with public lectures and demonstrations, including autopsies. He gathered around himself a team of researchers and set them up in a laboratory within the General Hospital. His detractors referred to it as the factory, implying that those junior doctors who worked for him were little better than the labourers tending industrial machines. Nevertheless, an impressive quantity and quality of new developments in medicine were ascribed to his research.
The article did not mention wealth. To be so brash would have been unthinkable. But the implication was clear. Money flowed from his work. He sponsored annual expeditions to the rainforests of Africa and South America. Thousands of animal and plant species were thus made known to science. Through good fortune or judgement, many of these species were found to contain medically active ingredients. He was said to be fastidious in the protection of intellectual property. I took this to mean that he pursued legal claims against anyone who used his medicines without licence. The article also mentioned that he was unmarried.
His main achievements had been in the fields of oncology, gigantism and cryogenics. I had to consult a medical dictionary to understand the three terms. His interests lay in the fields of cancer, deformities of abnormal growth and the freezing of bodies. I sat staring at the book for a long time.
The wall clock chimed. The students began folding away their work. Footsteps echoed from walls and pillars, breaking me from my thoughts. Somehow it was closing time already. Feeling a pang of hunger, I realised I’d missed lunch. I gathered up my things and left. As I passed the information desk, the librarian favoured me with the hint of a smile. I smiled back. It seemed we had achieved some kind of understanding.
Walking towards the exit, I remembered the delicate matter about which he’d spoken. Talking in the Reading Hall was forbidden. The interested student could not have come over to introduce himself. Perhaps his reason for leaving early had been to wait for me outside. There was no place in my life for such matters, but the thought came to me that it could have been the man I had earlier admired. I pushed the thought away as my cheeks began to flush.
Nevertheless, I paused in the shadowed porch just outside the door and took a moment to survey the plaza and the street beyond. The handsome student was nowhere to be seen. But something had made my pulse quicken. At first I couldn’t pin it down. Then I remembered my previous library visit and the black Maria that had been waiting outside.
If I’d believed that lightning would never strike twice, I might have walked out into the late afternoon sunshine. But I hesitated. And as I did, a new thought came into my mind – another explanation for the student to have inquired after me. Perhaps he had recognised my face from a poster.
The final students jostled with each other as they headed into the sunshine, their books tied in bundles. I watched them go. So did a man who was standing on the far side of the road. He held a newspaper open but was not reading it. After that it was easy to spot other watchers. I counted three, though there could have been more beyond my view. They had not enough subtlety to be intelligence gatherers. More likely they were constables in plain clothes. And they would see me the moment I stepped out of the shadow.
The doors behind me creaked. I glanced back and saw that they were being closed by a porter. I was set to dive back inside, but the rattle of an approaching vehicle made me turn again. It was a double-decked omnibus, accelerating along the street. It would pass the library in a few seconds. I took deep breaths until my head began to spin. The horse team was level, blocking the view of the watchers on the other side of the road.
I ran, my pounding footfalls covered by the clatter of horseshoes. I’d crossed the plaza and was next to the omnibus when a man’s voice shouted from behind me. I snatched a glance over my shoulder and saw another plainclothes man sprinting out from the shadow of the library wall.
The omnibus had almost passed. I grabbed for the pole on the alighting platform. My arm and shoulder jolted as I caught it. Acceleration swung me around and in, so that my shoulder crashed against the base of the stairs.
The policemen were giving chase on foot, shouting for the driver to stop. I hauled myself to my feet. There was a commotion among the passengers. One woman screamed. But if the driver did hear the shouts, he took no heed. I felt the omnibus pick up speed as he flicked his whip over the horses’ backs. One by one the constables gave up the chase, gasping for breath in the middle of the road. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. When I opened them again, I saw that everyone in the omnibus was staring at me.
“Ruffians!” I said. “The city’s full of them!”