Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [10]
He rested a hand on the glass case with the stuffed oriental pheasants – a not-at-all-welcome remnant from the reign of my predecessor. The soulless glass eyes of the birds reflected Mr Sands’s haunted visage.
‘Ah. Dr Christie, I presume?’
‘Indeed, sir. Welcome to Mausolus House.’ I tried to make the man feel at home. ‘Can I offer you. . . a little something?’ I walked over to the case and reached down to the concealed compartment beneath. ‘I know it is early in the day, but, given the time of year, I have some excellent port and. . . ’
‘My father used to say that only skippers and gegors drink before midday, sir. I have tried my best to follow his advice all the years of my life.’ There was precious little humour in Sands’s voice. I have often thought that anyone –
even the Devil himself – would make fine company were they able to express humour, to indulge in wit. . . to revel in human warmth.
Still, Sands seemed cold rather than wicked, and I was desperate to keep our conversation sensible and civil. ‘Very wise, yes, I’m sure. Your father then lived into long life, plagued little by gout or complaints of the liver?’
Mr Sands nodded but said nothing.
‘Perhaps I could interest you in some tea or. . . ?’
‘Thank you, I am quite refreshed.’ Mr Sands looked at the shelves of my office. ‘You are clearly a most learned man, sir. It is good to see.’
‘Oh, hardly, Mr Sands,’ I replied, indicating that he should sit. ‘A simpleton might collect books and the like, and store them assiduously, and not learn a thing. I am told that many rich gentlemen have entire rooms given over to the collection of books, and yet have no more idea as to how they might read them and further their knowledge than you or I know how to fly with the birds.’
This at last elucidated a smile from Mr Sands. ‘Very true, Dr Christie. And yet I choose to take heart from the fact that you are more conversant with medical theory than the previous governor.’
‘Perhaps you are right, sir,’ I said. ‘Old Porter was no doubt many things, but a physician he was not. I have been studying lunacy and its causes for many years – a professional diversion, you might say – and am glad that I am now able to dedicate myself to the task yet more fully.’
‘I met Porter once or twice,’ said Mr Sands. ‘He very much thought of Mausolus as a community separate from society at large. He positively disavowed all thought of treatment and help for these. . . poor souls.’
I could not help but agree with the man. ‘Few patients shed a single tear when his death was announced – and let me tell you that many of the people 18
here, I believe, feel emotions more strongly than you or I, though often as a form of hysteria.’
I could see that Mr Sands was interested in what I had to say – alas, I expect and have had great experience of the opposite! – and so continued.
‘Some fascinating work is coming out of Europe. Yes, fascinating. They seem to have stolen a march on us, truth be told.’
This diary is well acquainted with my thoughts on Porter, and his regime.
Professional courtesy would normally prevent me from impugning the reputation of a fellow medic, but in this case, I felt able to speak my mind. (I nearly wrote ‘reputation and character’, but decided that that at least was unfair. I do not think Porter a bad man, if indeed I am in any position to judge such things, but I do believe he was weak and wilfully ignorant, turning a blind eye to much abuse and corruption.)
‘One cannot be surprised at Porter’s manner,’ I continued. ‘This whole area of medicine is ostracised. It is not respectable. “Respectable” people try to eradicate this problem from their families by crude expulsion. . . ’
I saw Mr Sands flinch slightly and realised that, however reasonable a fellow he might be, the ice was thin in some areas, and perhaps even ready to crack, if you follow me. I should tread carefully.
‘Although many are here of their own volition,’ I added, ‘we doctors who have made it our duty to try to help such people find ourselves as if expelled from the profession, ignorant of advances