Dead of Winter - James Goss [17]
‘Well, exactly,’ agreed Dr Smith. ‘It’s a logic gate. You sexy thing, Helena. Why, with work like this…’
Olivia, the fat one, cleared her throat and then addressed this impertinence severely. ‘If, gentlemen, you are addressing my sister, then I must point out that she does not speak. My sister has always been brilliant with mathematics. But she had to give up her studies when this disease claimed me. Then she fell ill herself, no doubt catching this dreadful disease while nursing me. Now she can only manage to work a few hours a day. I feel I have ruined her life.’ She glowered at them dourly – she’s quite spirited for a filly. ‘So instead we play music. Which has a magic all of its own, I am sure you’ll agree.’
She bowed to Dr Smith, collected her sister, and they retired to their room. We stood to bid them farewell. Once they were out of earshot, I gave those two stupid men a piece of my mind. Such rudeness to ladies! What can foreigners think of we English? Sadly, I think I shouted so much that I have done myself a mischief. My breath has been short and ragged ever since, and most certainly I now appear to be very ill.
Some cure this is proving to be! Some cure, indeed!
Your faithful servant,
Henry Nevil
Dr Bloom’s Journal
6th December 1783
Amateurs!
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you in your study,’ bellowed Mr Pond, sweeping a hand nervously through his hair, ‘but I think poor Mr Nevil is having a funny turn.’
I glared at him. This was all I needed.
I made my way to the restaurant, Mr Pond trailing behind me like a nervous insect. Apparently, he’d been sitting with Dr Smith trying to have a quiet tisane when Mr Nevil had thundered up to them, no doubt having one of his outbursts about… well, anything and everything. According to Mr Pond, he’d been pounding the table about some imagined insult or other when he’d turned purple.
I could see Dr Smith tugging at the floundering man’s shirt. Nevil’s ridiculous wig had come off, and his giant shining bald pate was as purple as his face. There was froth around his mouth, but that didn’t stop him from swearing as soon as he saw me.
I tried to ignore the abuse, and checked his pulse and temperature.
Dr Smith muttered something about blood pressure. It seemed Mr Nevil had nearly bitten off one of Dr Smith’s fingers while he’d been stopping him from swallowing his livid tongue. It hadn’t been a pretty sight.
‘Damn you, sir, damn you!’ screamed Nevil hoarsely, frothing at the mouth. ‘I came here for a cure and you have nearly finished me off! What’s happening to me?’
‘Calm down, dear sir.’ I tried out my professionally soothing voice. ‘Deep breaths; as deep as you can manage. You’ve not been following the treatment plan.’
‘Plan, pah! Sitting on the beach catching my death of cold. We have quite enough bad weather in England not to expose myself to it abroad.’
‘I can assure you, the results are remarkable. You need to trust me.’
‘Trust a foreign quack with my health? I’d rather trust Tom Long the Butcher’s Boy.’ Nevil spat with disgust. I cast a professional glance at the spittle to see if there was much blood flecked in it. Little enough, so that was all right, at least.
We laid Nevil out on a bench, and he gradually got his breath back. He used it to call for brandy, but I waved this away. Then I looked at him sternly.
‘Mr Nevil, my patience is exhausted. I beseech you one final time to take my treatment and go and sit with my other guests.’
‘Of course I shan’t!’ he protested, settling his wig again on his head and sucking in breath like a broken bellows. ‘It’s mere choleric, that’s all.’
I shook my head. ‘It is not bad temper, sir, and you know it. I’m sorry, but the truth must be faced. You are a very ill man.’
‘I demand a second opinion!’ he roared.
Dr Smith coughed delicately. I tried not to glower at him, but managed quite a nice professional smile, all things considered. ‘Dr Smith?’ I asked.
‘I’m happy to offer a second opinion,’ he ventured. I should, perhaps have clouted him over the head for that,