The Red Plague Affair

Chapter Nineteen A Fineness of Morals

“I do not like it.” Valentinelli kept his tone low. The door to Clare’s workroom, a sturdy strapping chunk of dark oak, was the only witness to their whispers. That and the short hall before the stairs leading to the hall from the sunroom, which Clare was certain had not sported this outgrowth before.

Do not think upon that.

“For the moment, there is much to be gained from his collaboration.” Clare suppressed a sigh. “Simply watch him. When Miss Bannon returns, you shall give her an account of—”

“You shall not stir one step beyond this house without me, mentale.” Ludovico was most troubled – the fact that he had dropped his Punchinjude accent and the Exfall crispness clearly said as much. “I am responsible for—”

“I am visiting an old friend. Tarshingale is a well-respected man, and he is exceedingly unlikely to put me in any danger, except perhaps the danger of being bored to death when he begins to go on endlessly about the wonders of carbolic.” He lowered his voice still further. “I need you here, with both eyes on that mentath. Who knows what he will—”

The knob turned, the door’s hinges ghost-silent as it swung open. And there, framed in the doorway, stood Francis Vance, arranging his sleeves as if about to sally forth through his own house door.

He had, apparently, shed the ropes binding him.

“Sir. And sir.” He nodded to both of them. “Where are we bound, then?”

Valentinelli frankly stared. Clare sighed, a sound perhaps too much aggrieved. The damn man was a nuisance now, instead of an adversary. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to remain where I place you, Dr Vance.”

“Oh, indeed.” His smile was far too merry. “You are quite interesting, Mr Clare. I do not know how I have escaped you so far.”

Oh, you are a bastarde, as Ludo would say. And I shall call you to account for that remark at some other time. “No doubt it is because of my fineness of morals allowing you an advantage.” Bad-tempered of him, and ill-mannered, too. Not worthy of a mentath.

Or a gentleman.

“No doubt.” Vance did not take offence at all. “Were it not for such a fineness, sir, you may well be my rival instead of my foil. I repeat, where are we bound? And I answer: to consult the controversial Edmund Tarshingale. You no doubt have an Acquaintance with the gentleman?”

“I do.” Clare, nettled, glanced at Valentinelli. “Let us be on our way, then. You may be more useful where I may watch you, sir. And Tarshingale takes his dinner early.”

Portugal Street was crowded even at this hour. Holbourne was famous for its taverns and divers entertainments, and additionally for closed-front houses where several fleshly pleasures of the not-quite-legal variety could be found – in a word, ancient mollyhouses, winked at even in Victrix’s reign, reared slump-shouldered in the yellow Londinium fog. Their frowning faces were a reminder of their unhappy status, and the laws regarding such sport had not eased much, if at all.

However, since Tarshingale was not at his penitent Golden Square address among the musicians, it was to Holbourne that Harthell was directed to point his clock-horses’ heads. And in the carriage Valentinelli glowered at Vance, who was silent, perhaps sunk in reflection.

Or turning some plan on the lathe of his nimble faculties. Who knew?

The tall narrow pile of King’s College, its bricks pitted by corrosive rain, rose solemn and frowning as evening gathered in the yellow fog. If Tarshingale was not at home, he was here, treating all patients with polite, Scientific indifference in service to his theories. He was no mentath, charmer or Mender; no, Tarshingale was not even a genius. He was dedicated, had graduated at the top of his class, and humourlessly insisted on muttering about carbolic at every possible juncture as well as lecturing his fellows about the requirement to serve all, even the meanest of Britannia’s subjects, with equal care.

If the gentleman – for so he was, despite his lodgings – had been a mentath, his difficulty with Polite Society might have been acceptable. As it was, he was generally held to be a most awful dinner companion. Even his patients did not like him, though he was successful in treating some very odd and dire cases. His papers were marvels of bloodless circuitousness, the most amazing theories and conclusions hidden in a hedge of verbiage dense enough to wall a sleeping princess behind for years.

Considering how those theories and conclusions were hooted at by his colleagues, perhaps it was not so amazing.

The small room serving as his office was deep in the bowels of King’s, stuffed with paper and specimens on groaning, ancient wooden shelves. Hunched over his desk, writing in flowing copperplate script on one of his interminable Reports, a full head of black hair gleaming under the glow of a single hissing gaslamp, Tarshingale muttered as the nib scratched the paper. He dipped the pen again, and the wheeze of his asthmatic breathing fell dead in the choking quiet of stacked paper.

“One moment,” he murmured, and the first surprise of Edmund Tarshingale was his voice, deep and rich as his breathing was thin. The second, Clare knew, would be when he rose, and rose, and rose. For the good doctor towered over his fellows in his own lanky way, and some of Tarshingale’s troubles, Clare privately thought, was that he towered over them in other ways as well.

It would have been much more just if whatever divine clockwork moved the earth had made him a mentath. But Justice, like Fate, was blind to quality, and never more so than when it came to those whose dedication removed them from a pleasant temperament.

Edmund glanced up, taking in the three men with a single passionless glance, and his dark eyebrows rose. However, he returned his attention to his Report, and Clare used the time spent waiting to compare the room to his remembrance of it the last time he had ventured into the clamour of King’s. And, not so incidentally, to examine Tarshingale’s coat – reasonably clean at this point in the evening, without the coating of blood and matter that would give it the hallowed surgical stink. He would be in a dashed hurry to get on with the evening’s rounds once he finished his notes, and Clare would only have a moment or two to interest him.

As if on cue, Tarshingale spoke again. “Clare, isn’t it? Mr Clare. A pleasure to see you again. May I enquire what brings you here?”

I have very little time to catch your interest. Still, Tarshie was a stickler for some manners. “May I introduce Dr Francis Vance? And this is my man, Valentinelli.”

“Sir.”

“Sir.” Vance contented himself with a slight, correct bow, and Valentinelli was still as a stone.

Clare forged ahead. “I do apologise for my impoliteness, but there is a mystery I believe you may be able to solve. Not only do I believe so, but I have convinced Her Majesty’s government of it.”

The resultant short silence was broken only by the gaslamp’s hissing.

“There are many patients to see tonight,” Tarshingale said, mildly. “Surely some of my esteemed colleagues could answer your questions.”

“Your colleagues have little experience with the Pathogenic Theory, sir. At least, not enough to be of any use in this particular matter.”

“The Pathogenic Theory is not mine. It is Pasteur’s. And someday it will be shown to—”

Interrupt him before he gains his head. “My dear sir, I am convinced. It is the only possible theory to explain what I have observed, and I believe you will be of inestimable help in not only this matter, but also proving beyond a shadow of a doubt some of your refinements. There are lives to be saved, Tarshie.”

“Very well.” Tarshingale conceded, stiffly. The tip of his nose had reddened, as had his scrape-shaven cheeks. The gap between his front teeth had no doubt been wonderful for whistling, had the young Edmund ever unbent enough to do so. “I can spare ten minutes, Clare. Please, do sit, sirs. And please do not call me Tarshie.”

It does you good, sir. Clare could imagine Miss Bannon’s arched eyebrows and amused smile, but it was not a proper thing for a gentleman to say. “My apologies.” He stepped further into the room as Edmund rose, indicating the two spindly chairs set on the other side of his desk. “Let me list for you the symptoms…”