A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [348]
He stared at me in abject horror, jaw agape.
“I—er—I really do not think . . .” he protested feebly. Just then, in a perfect miracle of bad timing, his housemaid appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Brennan’s come; it’s his wife’s time,” she said briefly.
“Oh!” Doctor Fentiman leapt to his feet, slammed shut his case, and snatched it up.
“My apologies, dear Mrs. Fraser . . . must go . . . matter of great urgency—so pleasant to have seen you!” He rushed out, case clutched to his bosom, stepping on his hat in his haste.
The maid picked up the crushed chapeau with an air of resignation, and punched it indifferently back into shape.
“Will you be wanting to leave now, ma’am?” she inquired, with an intonation making it clear that I ought to be leaving, whether I wanted to or not.
“I will,” I said, rising. “But tell me”—I held out the brass syringe on the palm of my hand—“do you know what this is, and where Doctor Fentiman got it?”
It was difficult to tell in which direction she was looking, but she bent her head as though to examine it, with no more interest than had it been a two-day old smelt offered her for sale in the market.
“Oh, that. Aye, ma’am, it’s a penis syringe. I b’lieve he had it sent him from Philadelphia.”
“A, um, penis syringe. I see,” I said, blinking a little.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s for treating of the drip, or the clap. The doctor does a deal of business for the men what goes to Mrs. Silvie’s.”
I took a deep breath.
“Mrs. Silvie’s. Ah. And would you know where Mrs. Silvie’s . . . establishment is?”
“Behind Silas Jameson’s ordinary,” she replied, giving me for the first time a faintly curious look, as though wondering what sort of blockhead didn’t know that. “Will you be needing anything else, ma’am?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “That will do nicely, thank you!” I made to hand her back the penis syringe, but then was struck by impulse. The doctor had two, after all.
“Give you a shilling for it,” I said, meeting the eye that seemed most likely to be pointed in my direction.
“Done,” she said promptly. She paused for a moment, then added, “If you’re going to use it on your man, best be sure he’s dead drunk first.”
MY PRIMARY MISSION was thus accomplished, but now I had a new possibility to explore, before mounting an assault on Mrs. Silvie’s house of ill-repute.
I had planned to visit a glassmaker and attempt to explain by means of drawings how to make the barrel and plunger for a hypodermic syringe, leaving up to Bree the problem of making a hollow needle and attaching it. Unfortunately, while the single glassblower operating in Cross Creek was capable of producing any manner of everyday bottles, jugs, and cups, a glance at his stock had made it obvious that my requirements were well beyond his capabilities.
But now I needn’t worry about that! While metal syringes lacked some desirable qualities of glass, they also had an undeniable advantage, insofar as they wouldn’t break—and while a disposable needle was nice, I could simply sterilize the entire item after each use.
Doctor Fentiman’s syringes had very thick, blunt-tipped needle ends. It would be necessary to heat them, and draw the tips out much further in order to narrow them. But any idiot with a forge could do that, I thought. Then to cut the brass tip at an angle and file the point smooth enough to puncture skin cleanly . . . child’s play, I thought blithely, and narrowly refrained from skipping down the sandy walk. Now, all I required was a good stock of cinchona bark.
My hopes of obtaining the bark were dashed, though, as soon as I turned into the main street and glimpsed Mr. Bogues’s apothecary’s shop. The door stood open, letting in flies, and the usually immaculate stoop was marred with such a multitude of muddy footprints as to suggest that some hostile army had descended upon the shop.
The impression of sacking and looting was furthered by the scene inside; most of the shelves were empty, scattered with remnants of dried leaf and broken pottery. The Bogueses’ ten-year-old daughter, Miranda, stood mournful watch over a