Beloved Poison by E. S. Thomson Read Free Book Online

unexpected way. I could not resolve my feelings of sorrow and perplexity, and time had done little to appease me. All my life I had hidden these emotions from my father. I could easily hide them from Will as well. ‘It’s also a herb,’ I said. ‘For worms.’
    ‘And the black rose? Is that a remedy?’
    ‘The black rose?’ The withered petals were as droplets of dried blood on the work bench. ‘The black rose means death.’

     
    The lower operating theatre was as noisy as a cock pit. Wooden balconies, buffed to a dull shine by cuffs and elbows, circled the walls from sawdust to skylight. They were crowded with medical students, row upon row. These galleries were accessed by almost vertical staircases, up which still more of them climbed, and the walls were alive with chattering faces and flapping coat tails. Dr Magorian pointed Will to a chair overlooking the operating table. I sat down beside him. There was no better view in the house.
    Two o’clock was Dr Magorian’s favourite operating time – the light was not too bright and not too dull – though his audience had often been to the alehouse at lunchtime and the place was sometimes less than gentlemanly. Dr Graves and Dr Magorian stood in their shirt sleeves. Against the wall hung their operating coats. I heard Will take a sharp breath at the sight. ‘My God!’ he whispered. I saw his fingers tighten around the neck of the sack he held, and into which we had put the six small coffins. I took it from him and put it beneath my chair. I did not want him to crush them when he fainted.
    ‘Dr Graves has performed ninety-nine operations in that coat,’ I said. ‘Today is the coat’s centenary.’
    ‘An auspicious day,’ said Will, weakly.
    Stiff with old gore, Dr Graves’s coat had a thick, inflexible appearance, and a sinister ruddy-coloured patina like waxed mahogany. Dr Magorian’s was worse, being as dark and lustreless as a black pudding. No one knew how many times he had worn it to amputate. It was said that he had stopped counting when he reached two hundred, but that had been some years ago now.
    At that moment the door swung open and Dr Bain appeared carrying an enamelled bucket. He was dressed in white from head to foot.
    ‘Avast there, Dr Bain!’ cried Dr Graves. He tittered. ‘Have you come to scrub the decks again?’ The students laughed.
    ‘What in heaven’s name are you wearing, man?’ said Dr Magorian.
    ‘It’s his nightshirt,’ said Dr Graves. ‘Are you playing Wee Willie Winkie?’ The students laughed again, louder this time.
    ‘What’s going on?’ whispered Will. He had perked up, now that something dramatic was afoot, and he was watching Dr Graves and Dr Bain with interest.
    ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Where Dr Bain is to be found, Dr Graves is never far behind – usually with a criticism or a caustic remark.’
    ‘I met Dr Graves at the governors’ meeting, when the demolition of the hospital was decided upon. He appeared . . . well,’ Will hesitated. ‘I don’t wish to sound disrespectful—’
    ‘Oh, you don’t need to be diplomatic with me,’ I said. ‘At least, not where Dr Graves is concerned. He appeared resistant to change. Any kind of change. Is that what you wanted to say?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Will. ‘Though his master, Dr Magorian, was equally vocal. Look at his face!’ Dr Graves’s smile was now a grimace, his teeth bared like an angry dog. ‘Is he frightened, d’you think? Frightened of change? Or perhaps frightened of appearing foolish when confronted with circumstances he does not understand—’
    ‘It’s easy to ridicule what appears new and peculiar,’ I said. ‘Easier than learning how to think differently.’
    ‘I agree,’ whispered Will. ‘And yet it’s Dr Bain who intrigues me. He’s standing before a crowd of medical students wearing what does indeed look like a nightshirt. Does he enjoy provoking his colleagues?’
    ‘Sometimes,’ I said. Indeed, now I thought about it, it was