A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [346]
I had a fresh try at drawing him back into medical subjects, by leaning over to admire the jars left out on his desk. The one nearest me contained the hand of a person who had had such an advanced case of Dupuytren’s contracture as to render the appendage little more than a knot of constricted fingers. I wished Tom Christie could see it. He had avoided me since his surgery, but so far as I knew, his hand was still functional.
“Isn’t it remarkable, the variety of conditions that the human body displays?” I said.
He shook his head. He had discovered the state of his wig and turned it round; his wizened countenance beneath it looked like that of a solemn chimpanzee—bar the flush of broken capillaries that lit his nose like a beacon.
“Remarkable,” he echoed. “And yet, what is quite as remarkable is the resilience a body may show in the face of quite terrible injury.”
That was true, but it wasn’t at all the line I wished to work upon.
“Yes, quite. But—”
“I am very sorry not to be able to show you one specimen—it would have been a notable addition to my collection, I assure you! But alas, the gentleman insisted upon taking it with him.”
“He—what?” Well, after all, I had in my time presented various children with their appendixes or tonsils in a bottle, following surgery. I supposed it wasn’t entirely unreasonable for someone to wish to retain an amputated limb.
“Yes, most astonishing.” He took a meditative sip of claret. “A testicle, it was—I trust you will pardon my mentioning it,” he added belatedly. He hesitated for an instant, but in the end, simply couldn’t resist describing the occurrence. “The gentleman had suffered a wound to the scrotum, a most unfortunate accident.”
“Most,” I said, feeling a sudden tingle at the base of my spine. Was this Jocasta’s mysterious visitor? I had been keeping off the claret, in the interests of a clear head, but now poured a tot, feeling it needed. “Did he say how this unfortunate incident transpired?”
“Oh, yes. A hunting accident, he said. But they all say that, don’t they?” He twinkled at me, the end of his nose bright red. “I expect it was a duello. The work of a jealous rival, perhaps!”
“Perhaps.” A duello? I thought. But most duels of the time were fought with pistols, not swords. It really was good claret, and I felt a little steadier. “You—er—removed the testicle?” He must have, if he had been contemplating adding it to his ghastly collection.
“Yes,” he said, and was not too far gone to give a small sympathetic shudder at the memory. “The gun-shot had been seriously neglected; he said it had occurred some days previous. I was obliged to remove the injured testicle, but fortunately preserved the other.”
“I’m sure he was pleased about that.” Gun-shot? Surely not, I was thinking. It can’t be . . . and yet . . . “Did this happen quite recently?”
“Mmm, no.” He tilted back in his chair, eyes crossing slightly with the effort of recall. “It was in the spring, two years ago—May? Perhaps May.”
“Was the gentleman named Bonnet, by chance?” I was surprised that my voice sounded quite casual. “I believe I had heard that a Stephen Bonnet was involved in some such . . . accident.”
“Well, you know, he would not give his name. Often patients will not, if the injury is one that might cause public embarrassment. I do not insist in such cases.”
“But you do remember him.” I found that I was sitting on the edge of my chair, claret cup clenched in my fist. With a little effort, I set it down.
“Mm-hmm.” Damn, he was getting sleepy; I could see his lids begin to droop. “A tall gentleman, well-dressed. He had a . . . a most beautiful horse. . . .”
“A bit more tea, Doctor Fentiman?” I urged a fresh cup upon him, willing him to stay awake. “Do tell me more about it. The surgery must have been quite delicate?”
In fact, men never like to hear that the removal of testicles is a simple matter, but it is. Though I would admit that the fact of the patient’s being conscious during the whole procedure had likely added to the difficulty.
Fentiman regained a bit of his animation, telling