Will Starling by Ian Weir Read Free Book Online

Cheese, of course, as did Mr Comrie. Every surgeon in London knew of Edward Cheshire. He kept a pawn-shop in a lane behind Old Street, where he had been at work at the counter an hour previous when Little Hollis arrived with the dire news about his brother. He had come directly, locking the shop and cursing in Latin at a brandy-soaked man who was arriving with his children’s warm jackets to pawn, now that spring had come. Most of Cheese’s customers were of this ilk, although his most lucrative traffic was in goods as never graced a window: Things. Large, Small, and Foetus. He did a brisk sideline in teeth, as did others in the Resurrection trade, harvesting them for sale to dentists. Many of the dentures in London owed their provenance to Edward Cheshire, who was an unfailing source of fine fresh teeth at a reasonable price, often with bits of gum still sticking. He had another line of business as well, lending money to those as found themselves caught short. Medical students at the Borough Hospitals would turn to him in times of need, as did any number of others — gamblers and indigents, widows and wastrels, honest mechanics down on their luck — including one or two imprisoned here at Giltspur Street, for debt. Uncle Cheese would meet their needs, at interest compounded weekly. If they failed in their payments, he would send his brother to speak to them.
    His brother, who lay stretched out before him. You could see the thought writ clear in Edward Cheshire’s face: a Metropolis full of chisellers, and here lay Jemmy Cheese in ruins.
    â€œOh, dear,” he said. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
    Mr Comrie had decided. “I will operate to relieve pressure on the brain.”
    He was already rolling up his sleeves. I had lugged the full kit of instruments this morning, against such an eventuality. Mr Comrie kept these in a metal box from Army days.
    â€œA half-crown,” he said to Edward Cheshire. “Before I begin. Without it I can’t help your brother.”
    Words will not describe Ned Cheshire’s grievance: that a surgeon would extort so brazenly.
    â€œA man’s life — ” he began.
    â€œGive the man,” said Meg, “his coin.”
    Uncle Cheese drew himself to his full height, such as it was.
    â€œCan you guarantee the operation will succeed?”
    â€œOf course not,” Mr Comrie said.
    â€œAnd if he lives, that he will ever be the same?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œVell, then.”
    Uncle Cheese was a man of business, and grew brisk as he laid out his terms. A sixpence in advance, and a further sixpence should Jemmy survive the procedure. A third sixpence on such a day as Jemmy should sit up and point both eyes in the same direction, without drooling. And the final six pennies should Jemmy recover completely, able to perform all the functions necessary to a full and happy life. “Such as speaking in full sentences,” said Uncle Cheese, “and controlling his bowels, and collecting outstanding sums from — ”
    â€œGive the man,” said Meg, “his fucking coin.”
    Her voice was choked, but not with distress. Anger, so intense that it needed all her strength to hold it in. It was remarkable to see, that anger. Smouldering right down in the marrow, like a fire banked low. If she breathed too deeply, it would kindle. If she gave it oxygen it would surge, lighting her great dark eyes from within. She would rage into conflagration, blistering the stone walls and igniting the beams. She would burst from the Giltspur Street Compter and shriek across the rooftops of London, dancing them into flame.
    Ned Cheshire fished out a half-crown. He gave it to Mr Comrie, who handed it to me.
    â€œFind a blacksmith. Run.”
    Â 
    When I returned the one side of Jemmy’s head had been shaved, and his cot had been moved to the larger cell, where the light was better. Mr Comrie reached for his trephine, which was of