The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [43]
Gentlemen were as likely to engage in brawls as anyone, given sufficient provocation, but this one seemed of rather advanced years for such entertainments, looking to be in his middle fifties, with a prosperous paunch pressing against the silver-buttoned waistcoat. Perhaps he had been set upon somewhere and robbed, I thought. Not on his way to the Gathering, though; these injuries were weeks old.
I felt my way carefully over his arm and shoulder, making him lift and move the arm slightly, asking brief questions as I palpated the limb. The trouble was obvious enough; he had dislocated the elbow, and while the dislocation had fortunately reduced itself, I thought he had torn a tendon, which was now caught between the olecranon process and the head of the ulna, the injury being thus aggravated by movement of the arm.
Not that that was all; palpating my way carefully down his arm, I discovered no fewer than three half-healed simple fractures to the bones of his forearm. The damage was not all internal; I could see the fading remnants of two large bruises on the forearm above the sites of fracture, each an irregular blotch of yellow-green with the darker red-black of deep hemorrhage at the center. Self-defense injuries, I thought, or I was a Chinaman.
“Bree, find me a decent splint, will you?” I asked. Bree nodded silently and vanished, leaving me to anoint Mr. Goodwin’s lesser contusions with cajeput ointment.
“How did you come by these injuries, Mr. Goodwin?” I asked casually, sorting out a length of linen bandage. “You look as though you’ve been in quite a fight. I hope at least the other fellow looks worse!”
Mr. Goodwin smiled faintly at my attempted witticism.
“’Twas a battle, indeed, Mrs. Fraser,” he replied, “and yet no fight of my own. A matter of misfortune, rather—being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as you might say. Still . . .” He closed the squinting eye in reflex as I touched the scar. An artless job by whoever had stitched it, but cleanly healed.
“Really?” I said. “Whatever happened?”
He grunted, but seemed not displeased at the necessity of telling me.
“You heard the officer this morning, surely, ma’am—reading out the Governor’s words regarding the atrocious behavior of the rioters?”
“I shouldn’t think the Governor’s words escaped anyone’s attention,” I murmured, pulling gently on the skin with my fingertips. “So you were at Hillsborough, is that what you’re telling me?”
“Indeed it is.” He sighed, but relaxed a little, finding that I wasn’t hurting him with my probings. “I live within the town of Hillsborough, in point of fact. And if I had remained quietly at home—as my good wife begged me to do”—he gave a rueful half-smile—“doubtless I should have escaped.”
“They do say that curiosity killed the cat.” I had spotted something when he smiled, and pressed gently with my thumb over the discolored area on his cheek. “Someone struck you across the face here, with some force. Did they break any teeth?”
He looked mildly startled.
“Aye, ma’am. But it’s nothing you can mend.” He pulled up his upper lip, revealing a gap where two teeth were missing. One premolar had been knocked out clean, but the other had broken off at the root; I could see a jagged line of yellowed enamel, gleaming against the dark red of his gum.
Brianna, arriving at this juncture with the splint, made a slight gagging noise. Mr. Goodwin’s other teeth, while essentially whole, were heavily crusted with yellow calculus, and quite brown with the stains of tobacco chewing.
“Oh, I think I can help a bit there,” I assured him, ignoring Bree. “It’s painful to bite there, isn’t it? I can’t mend it, but I can draw the remnants of the broken tooth, and treat the gum to prevent infection. Who hit you, though?”
He shrugged slightly, watching with a slightly apprehensive interest as I laid out the shiny pliers and straight-bladed scalpel for dentistry.
“To tell the truth, ma’am, I scarcely know. I had but ventured into the town to visit the courthouse. I am bringing suit against a party in Edenton,” he explained,