The Devlin Diary (19 page)

“There’s a reason why you feel that way,” Hoddy said.

“Why?”

“Because they
are
whispering and staring at you. People always believe the worst—it’s more entertaining.” He sipped his tea with greater confidence. “I think it’s time we took some preemptive action.”

“Such as?”

“We could go to the Wren and take another look at that diary.”

“What good would that do?”

“You said that Derek had copied a page from it, yes?”

Claire nodded.

“And he’d written something at the bottom?”

“‘I told you so—now pay up,’” Claire quoted.

“Sounds as if something in the diary was used to settle a bet. I say we get the diary, have it copied, and transcribe the whole thing. We may be able to determine with whom Derek made the bet.”

“You think the person he made a wager with is the person who killed him?”

“I don’t know, but it would at least focus attention on someone else for a while.”

18 November 1672

“S
O YOU MET
the king,” Arabella says breathlessly after Edward sits belatedly down to their midday dinner. Her lips and cheek, deliciously warm, perfumed, and soft, are tantalizingly close to his own, but in her parents’ dining room he can take no advantage of his fiancée’s proximity.

“The king will not soon forget his first encounter with Dr. Edward Strathern!” Sir Granville exclaims just before stuffing a venison pasty into his mouth. Edward’s uncle has long been a friend of Arabella’s family. Arabella’s parents, Sir William Cavendish and his wife, Frances, are positively aglow with the news of their future son-in-law’s triumph. He feels almost brutish for being unable to share their enthusiasm, but the events of the morning have produced no feeling of victory in him. Instead he is acutely aware of failure and the lack of medical knowledge, his own and the world’s at large.

“What was he like?” Lady Cavendish asks Edward.

“Who?”

“The king, silly,” Arabella answers. She’s wearing that expression that makes him feel as if he’s just said something foolish, as if everyone else knows the thing of which he is so ignorant. Although he’s the one
with an education (granted, Cambridge was a waste of time, with its ancient fellows and its hidebound fidelity to Aristotelian philosophy, but his years in Paris and Leyden were well spent), Arabella possesses an intrinsic understanding of things he cannot always fathom: fashion, the theater, poetry, why it is necessary for one’s carriage to travel anticlockwise while circling Hyde Park. Her seemingly effortless charm in a variety of company is a trait he admires. That she is not high-born makes it more charming still, for it alludes to something ticking in that brain of hers, something more than how much braid is proper to use on one’s clothes, or which lace maker is á la mode. Sir William is not a courtier per se, but the son of a tailor whose wealth and title are of recent vintage. His fortune comes from his massive lumberyards at Wapping and Rotherhithe, which supply the Navy. This is a boom time for shipbuilders, as the Dutch are able to sink English ships as fast as the Navy can build them. The Cavendishes’ house on Piccadilly, built less than a decade ago, is constructed of twenty-two different kinds of lumber, many of them exotic. Six different woods, from places as far-flung as Brazil and Ceylon, can be seen in the dining room alone. New visitors are required to take a tour of the thirty-eight-room mansion, led by Sir William, who can explain in detail the difference between hard woods and soft woods, and the intricacies of grain.

“I cannot tell you,” Edward replies. “I didn’t take much notice of him.” He almost adds that he was too busy sawing off a man’s leg, then realizes that it isn’t an appropriate subject for the dinner table. He is surprised, though, when everyone else laughs.

“Didn’t take much notice!” Sir William repeats. “Edward, that’s rich.”

“The one thing a courtier must take notice of is the king,” Sir Granville adds.

“I do appreciate your patronage, Sir Granville, but I have no need to be a courtier. I’ve already acquired the position I most wanted, director of the new anatomy theatre.”

“But Edward,” Arabella says, “think of the society you’ll be in—that we’ll be in—if you become one of the king’s doctors. Surely it’s better than being surrounded by dead bodies all day long.”

“Don’t be so certain, my dear,” Sir William says, and Lady Cavendish silences him with a look.

“But my choice is based on my desire for knowledge, not better society,” Edward says. “Surely you understand that, Arabella.”

Judging by her expression, Edward isn’t certain that she understands at all. A meager but irrefutable morsel of doubt about his future creeps into his soul. Edward’s elder brother Hugh, who became the Earl of Barclay when their father died five years ago, made some objections to Arabella and her parvenu parents when Edward first told him of the engagement, but he relented when he learned of the size of Arabella’s marriage portion. Their own inheritance was nearly destroyed in the Civil War. Although much of it was restored along with the monarchy, their wealth does not begin to compare to Sir William’s. But these matches of aristocracy and money are so commonplace now that no one takes exception anymore. And as Edward pointed out to Hugh, their title is not so old or so grand, but one of many that Queen Elizabeth bestowed on the middling class in the late last century. In truth, Edward pays little attention to differences of rank and has always been glad that as the second surviving son he does not have to bother with issues of title or inheritance, which has given him the freedom to pursue his studies.

Edward gazes at Arabella’s lovely but anxious face. She seems about to embark on one of her curt speeches, but she is given no opportunity.

“Did I hear Sir Granville say that the other physician was a woman?” Lady Cavendish interjects brightly.

“Odious woman,” Sir Granville says. “Mrs. Devlin is immodest to a dangerous degree. She styles herself a physician, and a surgeon, and an apothecary, and heeds advice from no one. Why the king allows this upstart behavior from a woman I know not, but he should nip it in the bud, or before long she’ll be styling herself queen. Or king. Or the pope.”

The others laugh and Edward joins in, though not quite so merrily. He had had approximately the same thoughts of Mrs. Devlin, not that
she was odious so much as immodest, but he dislikes hearing it said, especially by Sir Granville. Just hearing her name spoken makes him feel uneasy. Why the mention of her name should provoke any feeling in him whatsoever is a question he prefers not to answer.

“I must say,” Edward speaks up, “she proved herself a competent surgeon.”

“But her presumption is not to be believed. The woman is a discredit to her father,” Sir Granville says. “Do you remember Charles Briscoe? I introduced you to him in Paris.”

“I remember,” Edward says. “He was a remarkable man and a fine doctor.”

“Yes, it’s a tragedy,” Sir William says.

“What’s a tragedy?” Edward asks.

“Didn’t you know?” Sir Granville says. “He was killed last year. It must have been around the time you left for Leyden.”

“Not just killed,” Sir William adds, “Dr. Briscoe was murdered. His body was found near the Fleet Ditch, cut open from stem to stern. Apparently he’d been visiting a patient late at night, and was overcome by a thief who struck him down on the spot. But the murderer was never discovered.”

“One of the king’s physicians had a patient who lived near the Fleet?”

“He’d left the court by then, hadn’t he, Sir Granville?”

“Left the court?” Edward asks. “Why?”

“No one knows,” Sir Granville says with a shrug. “My dears,” he addresses the ladies, “let me tell you about the necklaces that the king presented this morning to Mademoiselle de Keroualle. One of diamonds and one of pearls. Together worth more than twelve thousand gold guineas.”

As Arabella and Lady Cavendish swoon over the latest news from court, Edward tries not to think about Mrs. Devlin. But of course trying not to think about something makes it that much more compelling. He cannot forget the moment when Mr. Henley’s leg was cut in two. He simply stood there, holding the foot like a fool, but he couldn’t
take his eyes away from hers. It was as if—his own mind mocks him for thinking this—he saw into her soul. And what he saw was brilliant, breathtaking, and deeply disturbing.

But he must not think of her. He looks up from his plate of roast peacock and stewed oysters and tries to appear interested as Sir Granville regales the others with stories of court ladies past. “Lady Myddleton, now there was a great beauty, even surpassing the recent Mrs. Stewart,” Sir Granville says. “She was very fine, in both her face and body. And I recall that even in her old age, she did not look ugly.” He dabs at his mouth with his napkin. “When seen at a distance, of course.”

T
HE SIXTH
D
UKE
of Norfolk plans to tear Arundel House down soon, it being so old and dilapidated as it is. Even so, Theophilus Ravenscroft thinks it a superior setting for Royal Society meetings. Much better than their previous accommodations at Gresham College where Mr. Hooke resides, which provides the curator occasion to assume undue importance and give himself airs. Situated near the Maypole between the Strand and the Thames, Arundel House is unimaginatively built but boasts an impressive garden, populated by ancient Greek and Roman statues, that descends in terraces to the river. Two of the property’s previous owners were beheaded for treason, endowing the place with an intriguing ambiance of terror and tragedy. The present duke seems more interested than his forebears in staying on the good side of the Crown, not being desirous of surrendering his title, his head, or his excellent collection of ancient art.

Ravenscroft enjoys wandering Arundel’s dim, musty galleries and closets to savor these exquisite pieces of the past, for even though the Royal Society meetings are generally held in the downstairs parlor (for experiments requiring additional space, flammable substances, or live animals, they will remove to one of the galleries or to the dining hall),
the duke cares not if they roam the house. For this, and for his generous gift of the Arundel House library, Ravenscroft and the other fellows are willing to overlook the duke’s popery and the fact that Norfolk does not really care for natural philosophy unless it provides him with an extravagant display of fire, explosions, or blood. In this he is not unlike many of their noble members. This popular inclination tends to steer their weekly investigations away from inquiries of the more subtle sort, but without the annual dues and occasional largesse of the wealthier fellows, the Society would cease to exist.

“Make way, Ravenscroft,” says Dr. Lindsey, shouldering past him through the narrow doorway to claim a seat.

“I take up but little room. Surely you can find a better way ’round,” Ravenscroft retorts, keeping to himself the words
You giant ass
, which he so longs to say. Here they are all gentlemen, so-called. He looks over the group of twenty-odd chairs arranged in front of a wood pulpit. Although the Royal Society has more than two hundred members, meetings are usually attended by a dedicated core of twenty to thirty men, most of whom are philosophers. The exceptions are courtiers Sir William Brouncker, their president, and Sir Robert Moray, who aid them at court by making certain that their proceedings are well represented to the king (also a fellow and their most distinguished patron, whose promises of attendance and funding have often been made but never fulfilled).

Behind the pulpit hangs a large, disintegrating tapestry, so tattered and worn that its landscape of castle and glade can barely be made out, and so riddled with mold and dust that it constitutes a bodily hazard. During his lecture on the exotic plants of Ceylon last week Ravenscroft was overcome by a fit of sneezing so violent that he banged his face on the pulpit and everyone laughed. He bestows on the tapestry a particularly withering look. Although some of the chairs are as yet unclaimed, he is stymied about where to sit and remains at the back of the room, weighing his limited options.

He refuses to occupy the empty seat next to Mr. Creed, who made sport of his Otocousticon, saying it was only a great glass bottle broke at the bottom, with the neck held to the ear—although Creed was as
excited as any of the fellows to hear the amplified sound of splashing oars in the Thames through the Arundel gallery windows. He cannot abide being next to Dr. Pell, who took issue with his discourse on fish gills, or Sir John Finch, who will not credit him for being the first to question the existence of phlogiston, a hypothetical substance wrongly believed to be an essential element of fire. The seats are filling up fast, but it’s difficult to make a decision: Mr. Atkins is a snake, Mr. Jones is a dog, and Mr. Pepys is a horse’s ass who knows nothing about natural philosophy and can’t keep his hands off the tavern wenches. Mr. Audibrasse steps around Ravenscroft on his way to a chair and says, “Excellent entertainment you provided last week, Ravenscroft. I can still see the lump on your forehead.”

Buffoon.
At last Ravenscroft spies a man who is above reproach and sits down next to him. “Dr. Strathern, welcome back.”

The young physician turns to him with a look of genuine warm regard. “Mr. Ravenscroft. How good to see you.”

“How was Leyden?”

“Most interesting. The university was well supplied with cadavers.”

“That’s excellent, indeed. You studied with Dr. Verbrugge?”

“Not only studied but was his primary assistant.”

Ravenscroft favors him with a rare smile. “Doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Strathern has known Mr. Ravenscroft since his return to London after graduating from Cambridge. Even then, Edward knew that his interest tended to anatomy and not the practice of physick. In years past, they often went to Tower Dock to buy fish and other creatures from the incoming ships, taking them to Ravenscroft’s laboratory to study. Edward would perform the dissections, and together they would sketch the body, its various systems and parts, and inspect the tissues under a microscope. Once Ravenscroft impulsively purchased a dead dolphin-fish that was too heavy to carry to his house on Bishopsgate, so they took it to a coffeehouse instead, where they cut it up and studied it. Another time they bought a live raccoon. Owing to its charming character, they could not kill it, so Ravenscroft kept it as a pet until one day it bit him on the finger and ran away. Although
the older fellow is a man of strange, unsocial temper, who is quick to take offense where none is meant, Strathern has always enjoyed a friendship with him based on common interests and mutual respect. Ravenscroft possesses a wide range of knowledge and excellent drawing and mechanical skills, and no one is more focused than he in the pursuit of knowledge. That he has not received the accolades and acknowledgement he deserves has something to do with his unique ability to turn perfect strangers into enemies, and a sort of bad luck that has always plagued him.

Whether Mr. Ravenscroft’s bad luck is the source of his pessimism or the result of it, Edward knows not. He notices that Mr. Hooke is not in attendance tonight, and as a consequence Mr. Ravenscroft appears to be in a pleasant mood. At least he is until he looks at Mr. Jones, sitting in front of him, who every few seconds vigorously scratches his head. Ravenscroft makes a point of moving his chair back a foot and suggests that Edward do likewise.

Mr. Henry Oldenburg, their secretary, assumes his place behind the podium. His ponderous manner and German-accented English belie his quick understanding and excellent command of European languages. Because of Mr. Oldenburg’s unceasing industry, the Society receives news of discoveries, observations, and inventions from natural philosophers all over the world, and dispatches their own.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Mr. Oldenburg begins. “Welcome all to the weekly assembly of the Royal Society of London for the Improving of Natural Knowledge. Tonight I will read an account of an experiment made by our esteemed fellow, the Honorable Mr. Robert Boyle. Next I will offer a summation of a new book by Fellow Dr. Thomas Willis. My third topic is an epistle from a Monsieur Denys in Paris.

“After I have concluded these matters, Dr. Pell will kindly tell us about the progress of his trial of transfusion; then Mr. Slingsby will give us a discourse, both mathematical and philosophical, on the experiment of raising great weights by the breath.”

Mr. Smethwick clears his throat and catches the secretary’s eye.

“Oh, yes,” says Mr. Oldenburg, “Mr. Smethwick will enlighten us with a lecture on the history and generation of Colchester oysters.”

Mr. Oldenburg begins as he promised, with Mr. Boyle’s account of the varying weight of the atmosphere upon bodies in the water, and a summary of Dr. Willis’s book, concerning the pathology of the brain and the diseases that affect it. Last, he takes up the letter from Monsieur Denys in Paris.

“‘Dear Sirs,’” the secretary reads, “‘we are now busy, at the order of King Louis, making experiments, whence the world is like to receive great benefit. Here hath been found out an admirable essence, which being applied to any artery whatsoever, stops the blood instantly without any need of binding up the wound. We have first experimented it upon dogs, then made trials upon men; and it succeeded with them as well as it did upon dogs.’”

Ravenscroft nudges Edward. “Do you think there’s any truth in it?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I can only say that I could have used a blood-stopping essence earlier today.”

Mr. Jones scratches his head again.

“I fear the man has fleas,” Ravenscroft whispers.

“Monsieur Denys ends his letter by offering to send some of his essence for a trial. I’ll pass his request to our curator, Mr. Hooke, along with the others he has not had time for recently,” says Oldenburg, frowning and setting the letter aside. “Dr. Pell, please tell us how you’re getting on with your transfusion experiment.”

Pell stands to address the group. “I have found a man who, for twenty shillings, has agreed to have some of the blood of a sheep let into his body. It is to be done on Saturday next.”

“Dr. Pell, what do you propose to discover from this trial?” Mr. Atkins inquires.

“The man has a frantic nature, and I believe that the sheep’s blood will have a calming effect on him, by cooling his blood.”

“I don’t believe that sheep’s blood will have any effect at all, being a creature inferior to man, and not possessing a soul,” says Mr. Smethwick.

“But the sheep’s gentle nature and passivity may be passed on to him, nevertheless,” Mr. Creed offers.

“I have heard a story about Dr. Caius that rebuilt Caius College,” adds Sir Robert Moray, “that when he was very old he lived only upon the milk of a wet nurse; and while he fed upon the milk of an angry, fretful woman, he was so himself, and then being advised to take the milk of a good-natured, patient woman, he did become so.”

“But that is nutriment, not blood,” Mr. Jones says.

“However, we all know that blood can take on humors, and become hot or cold,” says Dr. Lindsey.

“Perhaps only the blood of men can be affected by humors,” says Mr. Slingsby.

“For God’s sake, Jones, stop scratching,” Ravenscroft says.

“What will happen to the sheep, Dr. Pell?” Mr. Atkins asks. “What if, instead of the sheep’s soothing humors being transmitted to the man, the man transmits his frantic nature to the beast?”

“I’m not putting the man’s blood into the sheep,” Dr. Pell answers, exasperated.

“What if you kill the man?” Mr. Atkins presses.

“I’m not going to kill the man! I’m only going to put in twelve ounces of the sheep’s blood, about as much as can be administered in a minute by watch. He is a healthy man. Though a little cracked in the head, he should be able to give us an account of what alteration, if any, he does find in himself.”

“He will not be able to tell us much if he finds himself bleating like a sheep,” Mr. Audibrasse points out.

“Gentlemen, please—,” Mr. Oldenburg says.

“Honestly, Jones, you should have left your damned wig outside,” Ravenscroft says.

“Bloody hell!” Mr. Jones pulls his periwig off. “I told the wigmaker it had nits, I told him to comb it out, but it’s still crawling with vermin.”

Everyone in the room falls silent. They all stare at Jones’s stubble-covered head and at the mass of curled hair in his hands. Everyone except Ravenscroft.

“A comb,” Ravenscroft says to himself, just loud enough for
Edward to overhear. “Of course, a comb!” He rises and makes ready to go. “Good night, Dr. Strathern. It was good to see you again.”

“You’re leaving?” It’s customary for the fellows to adjourn to the Turk’s Head coffeehouse on Chancery Lane after their meetings.

“Yes, I must leave right away,” Ravenscroft says as though suddenly distressed. And before anyone can utter another word, he is gone.