A Journeyman to Grief (2 page)

“Paradoxically, gentlemen, to understand the functions of the brain, you must first understand what it does and does not control. For instance, as I have said, our reflexes are controlled by our nervous systems and will continue to operate even if the brain is removed.”

He picked up a large pair of scissors while the assistant reached in, removed one of the frogs, and handed it to him. With one snip, Broske decapitated the creature and laid the body on the tray. He dropped the head into a bin.

He took a brown bottle from the tray. “Watch what happens when I drop a small amount of this vinegar onto the leg.” The frog’s rear leg jumped.

“Even though the brain is obviously no longer functioning, the nervous system is intact,” said Broske. “The frog will continue to react for two or more hours, even though death has supposedly occurred. Another, please.”

Murdoch felt a nudge in his side from Dr. Julia Ogden.

She whispered, “Surely this isn’t bothering you, William? It is only a frog, after all. You’ve seen far worse.”

She was right, but Murdoch had never seen live creatures dispatched with such callousness in front of an audience before. None of the medical students in his vicinity seemed to be troubled, and he wasn’t about to turn around and gawk at the female students at the back of the room to see how they were faring.

“I’m all right, ma’am,” he whispered, trying to focus on what the professor was saying.

In the next half-hour, Broske decapitated four more frogs, and their headless bodies lay on the white, blood-stained cloth while he used various techniques to demonstrate how the nerves could be made to activate the muscles of their legs. Murdoch glanced at the big clock on the wall. How much longer? Finally, to his relief, Broske swept the dead frogs into the bin and rinsed his hands in a basin of water held by one of the assistants.

“These are simple experiments that can be repeated with various creatures, including warm-blooded ones. Professor Goltz, of whom, no doubt, you have heard, brought a dog, part of which had the brain removed, to the International Congress of Medicine in Milan. It was quite remarkable to see the animal react to stimuli. However, for our purposes, we must illustrate our point with human subjects.” He nodded to one of his assistants. “Fetch the boys, if you please.”

“I hope he doesn’t intend to cut off their heads,” Murdoch said to Dr. Ogden, who frowned at him.

The other assistant set up two chairs facing the audience, then wheeled forward the second cart on which sat an electric battery with wires attached and four cylinders covered with blank paper. The first helper, who had the thin, mangy look of a hungry fox, returned, bringing with him two boys about ten or eleven years old. They wore identical grey serge suits and cloth caps, but one was dark-skinned, the other fair and blond. They both looked apprehensive.

Broske smiled warmly and indicated the chairs. “Please take a seat, boys. I’d like you to put your caps and your jackets on the floor beside you.” He addressed his audience. “These young gentlemen are residents of your St. Nicholas orphanage. I ’ave promised them, what you call, a bang-up feast after our little demonstration, so they were quite eager to come for a night out, weren’t you, lads?”

They both grinned obediently, but Murdoch suspected that they were no longer so eager. The two assistants were busy getting the boys ready for Broske’s demonstration. First, they tied a band around each boy’s chest. A stiff wire led from the front of each band to a metal stylus attached to one of the cylinders on the cart, which had been wheeled between the chairs. Neither child uttered a word but each watched anxiously.

“Don’t worry, my fine gentlemen,” said the professor. “This apparatus is quite harmless and will not cause you a soupçon of pain. It is called a pneumograph, and it measures the degree of inspiration and expiration at any given time. That’s a fancy way of saying, it measures how much air you breathe in and out.” He nodded to his assistants. “Switch on the battery, if you please, Mr. MacKenzie, so these poor chaps can see, there is nothing to fear.”

The assistant turned on the battery, and the cylinder began to rotate slowly.

“First of all,” said Broske, “we take a reading when the subject is breathing normally. Ah, there you are, the young negro’s inspirations are rather shallow. The other boy’s are more normal.”

Murdoch was close enough to see that the stylus attached to the cylinder was making zigzags on the paper.

“Continue, gentlemen,” said Broske to his assistants, and quickly they attached bands to the wrists of each boy and hooked the dangling wires to the stylus on the second cylinder. The professor called out to the assistant who was strapping the coloured boy’s wrists to the arms of the chair, “That looks a little too loose. It needs to be quite snug.”

The problem was corrected.

“Take a reading, if you please.”

The assistant flicked another switch on the battery, and the cylinder began to move, the stylus making a similar pattern to that of the pneumograph.

“Excellent. Let that run for a moment or two. Now fasten the clamps.”

The assistants brought forward two stands and placed them directly behind the chairs. Each was equipped with leather clamps.

“These are simple stands that photographers were in the way of using with their subjects when the taking of a photograph required the subject to be absolutely still for a rather long time,” said Broske. “They ensured that nobody moved and blurred the shot. For the purposes of our experiment, it is important that the boys do not move their heads.”

The boys were fastened into the clamps so that they were looking straight ahead. The cylinders continued to rotate.

“Now, my fine lads, I am going to ask each of you in turn some simple questions. All I want you to do is answer clearly
and, of course, with truth. As you speak, the instruments will record your heartbeat and your breathing. That is it, no more and no less. Now then, our good Sambo here. What is your name?”

“Archie King, sir.”

“Why are you living in the St. Nicholas home?”

“I am an orphan, sir.”

“No parents? No papa or mamma?”

“No, sir. They’re both dead since I was five.”

“And from what did they die, young sir?” Broske’s tone was jocular.

“I dunno ’zactly. I think it was fluenza.”

“How long have you been in the orphanage then, young Archie?”

The boy paused. “Three years.”

Broske was walking up and down in front of the two chairs while he was talking. He wasn’t looking at the boys.

“And our little blond friend. What is your name?”

“Jim Anderson, sir.”

“And why are you in the orphanage, Jimmy?”

“My father was took with the consumption, and my mam couldn’t look after us good enough so she placed us at St. Nick’s. She’s coming to get me and me sister as soon as she can.”

“How commendable.”

The professor turned around and briefly inspected the recordings on the cylinders. He addressed the coloured boy.

“Are you happy at the orphanage, young Archie?”

“Oh yes, sir. Quite happy.”

Suddenly, Broske leaned over the boy. His expression changed to one of utter ferocity and he bellowed, “Liar! How dare you think you can deceive me!”

Archie was powerless to move away.

The professor’s face was only a few inches away from the boy’s. He yelled, “Your parents died from whisky poisoning, not influenza.”

Archie tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t.

“I don’t–”

“Be quiet! You are going to tell me nothing but lies. How can a happy boy set fires?”

Archie’s eyes were wide with terror and his bottom lip started to tremble.

“Your superintendent told me you set a fire to one of the rooms. Isn’t that true?”

“No, sir. I never did.”

“Liar again. Tell me the truth.”

“It is the truth, sir.” Archie tried to shrink away. “I never set no fire.”

Broske swirled around and spoke to the other boy. However, this time his voice was at a normal pitch.

“Jimmy, tell me. Is your friend, Archie King, a liar?”

The boy looked terrified and stuttered out, “I, I…don’t know, sir.”

The professor stared at him for a few moments, then he beamed, stepped away from Archie, went over to Jimmy, and ruffled his hair.

“Enough. I shall not maintain this misery a moment longer. You and Archie have been most helpful in my little demonstration, and as I promised, you shall get the best supper of your lives. Mr. MacKenzie, Mr. Sutherland, you can disengage the apparatus now.”

They removed the clamps and bands that were holding the boys, neither of whom moved from their chair. Broske picked up a wooden pointer. His audience remained silent.

“I will now show you the results of the pneumograph and the pulsometer.” The assistants removed the roll of paper from each cylinder and stretched them out. “When I berated Archie, his inspiration was sharp and sudden, as you can see here on the graph.” He tapped the spot with his pointer. “Interestingly, the expiration did not immediately follow. The lad was actually holding his breath for a few moments. This is a typical response to fear.” Another tap. “Then there were four more quick inspirations, each quite shallow. Also typical. You can see here on the graph where the heartbeat jumped considerably. That was, of course, when I raised my voice and startled him. It continued to beat rapidly.” He pointed to the second roll. “Now, here are the results from young Jim Anderson. You can compare the two. His pulse rate increased when he witnessed his pal getting what he believed to be a severe scolding. Then when I asked him a question, no doubt anticipating he would be likewise treated, his breathing became rapid. Not as much so as the other boy, but certainly considerably more than before.”

Murdoch thought his own heart rate had increased when the professor had raised his voice so unexpectedly. He wondered if Dr. Ogden’s had. He’d have to ask her.

Broske continued. “Archie King, the coloured child, is by virtue of his race disposed to be fearful and sensitive. If I had reversed the order of scolding, his pulse would probably have accelerated at a greater rate even than that of the other boy. But they are good lads. I have known grown men fare worse, involuntarily evacuating their bladder and even bowels. Now, are there any questions?”

A veritable forest of hands shot up, but Murdoch didn’t have the opportunity to hear what the students wanted to know. A familiar figure, large and imposing in his cape and policeman’s
helmet, had appeared in the aisle beside him. It was Constable Crabtree. He leaned over and whispered in Murdoch’s ear.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Murdoch, but an urgent call has just come through to the station. A man’s body has been discovered over on Mutual Street. It looks to be a homicide. Sergeant Seymour has sent Constable Fyfer over to investigate, but he thought you should go too. He seemed to think you wouldn’t mind too much at being called away.”

Murdoch grimaced. Seymour had heard him moaning about having to accompany Dr. Ogden to some bloody silly lecture. He tapped her on the arm.

“I’m afraid I have to leave, ma’am. A police matter.”

“What a pity.”

Some of the nearby students gazed curiously as he stood up, but the others were completely absorbed by an animated discussion with the professor. The two boys remained in their chairs, and Murdoch was close enough to the stage to see the tear stains marking the coloured boy’s cheeks. His fellow orphan looked pale.

Murdoch followed Crabtree out of the hall.

“I just hope those lads stuff themselves.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Never mind, George. I’ll tell you about it later.”

CHAPTER
THREE

O
nce outside the building, Murdoch took a deep breath of the cool night air, which had the merest hint of spring. The macadam was glistening in the lamplights from a recent rain.

“Where are we going?”

“The stables are at 73 Mutual Street.”

They set off at a brisk pace along Gerrard Street, quiet at this time of the evening.

“Boring talk, was it, sir?”

“Far from it. It was quite riveting, really. Blood, drama, suspense. What more could you ask for? A damn theatre couldn’t have provided more entertainment.”

Crabtree gave him a curious glance. “Like that, was it, sir? That’s medical students for you.”

Murdoch shuddered. “All right, George, tell me what you know about the case.”

“Not much more than I’ve said, sir. The victim is a man named Daniel Cooke, who owns a livery stable on Mutual Street.
It was one of his stable hands that found him. There’s a telephone in the office, so he called us right away.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

“About three months ago we received complaints that one of his cabbies was mistreating the horses.”

“That’s right, I remember now. You investigated, didn’t you, George? What came of it?”

“Nothing really, sir. I met Cooke the once when I went to check things out, and he seemed a bit jumpy but that could have been nerves. You know how people can get when they see a police officer. He owns about a dozen horses, as I recall, and they all seemed in good health. Not that I am an equine connoisseur, you understand, but there wasn’t enough evidence to lay a charge.”

“And no identity of the complainant?”

“No. It was a man’s voice, but he refused to say who he was. He called three times, I believe. I thought somebody was just making mischief.”

“Did Cooke have a family?”

“I don’t know if he had children, but there is a Mrs. Cooke. I met her too. Quite a tigress, I must say. She was furious about the accusations, might ruin their reputation, that sort of thing. She didn’t seem that concerned whether they were true. She made all sorts of unpleasant threats to me as if I was the one responsible for stirring up trouble. It was no use trying to explain to her I was only doing my job.”

“How old a man was Mr. Cooke?”

“He was getting on. He’d be close to sixty.”

They continued in silence for a little while. The street gas lamps were lit and most of the houses, elegant in this part of town, glowed with light. In some of the houses, the blinds weren’t drawn, and the rooms were as illuminated as brilliantly as a stage. In one drawing room, a white-haired man, dressed in evening clothes,
was waltzing slowly with a woman, also elderly, who was smiling up into his face. The light from the chandelier glinted on a brilliant jewel in her hair. They must have recently returned from some fancy affair. Murdoch was tempted to stop and watch them complete the dance, they looked so good together. A maid and a butler, also older, were standing at the edge of the room.