Beloved Poison by E. S. Thomson

burial at a crossroads, with a stake through the heart, what?’ Dr Graves laughed as he packed away his knives.
    Dr Bain had said nothing. He stared at the dead girl’s unpacked body, and at the cast of her face, for a long time. Then he bent to remove a stain from his boot with his handkerchief.
    I never told Gabriel that I had witnessed his mother’s leap from St Saviour’s bell tower. I did not tell him that every day his feet passed over the flags where her body had lain, or that if he stood on his tip toes and peered behind the bottles laid out in the anatomy museum he might see her brain floating, like a sponge in a jar of dirty bathwater. No one had ever told him anything. Until now.
    ‘Mrs Speedicut, please—’ Dr Bain stepped forward, his face white.
    But Mrs Speedicut had not finished. ‘D’you know what happened next?’ she cried. ‘Once she were dead, he cut her up for all those young medical men to look at. She were your mother, an’ he did
that
to her!’
    ‘No, he didn’t,’ said Gabriel. His face was ashen. ‘Dr Bain wouldn’t do that—’
    ‘It was Dr Graves who performed that post mortem,’ said Dr Bain in a low voice. ‘As you are well aware.’
    ‘Yah!’ cried Gabriel. He pulled off his shoe and flung it at Mrs Speedicut. She ducked, and it clipped Dr Catchpole on the ear.
    ‘Confound it,’ cried Dr Catchpole. ‘
Mr
Flockhart, this apothecary is no better than a bear pit. And in front of strangers too.’ He glanced at Will who was standing beside the condenser, a beaker of cough syrup in his hands. He was wearing one of Gabriel’s aprons, his ridiculous hat was crooked on his head and his expression was so startled that I could not help but laugh. The sound only enraged Dr Catchpole further. ‘The governors shall hear of it.’
    ‘Get off!’ shouted Gabriel as Mrs Speedicut plunged forward to jab at his backside once more.
    ‘Can’t you control that boy, Mr Flockhart?’
    ‘Can’t you control your wife, Dr Catchpole?’ said Gabriel.
    Dr Bain gave a bark of laughter.
    ‘Master Locke, come down this instant,’ I cried, as the place erupted once more. ‘Mrs Speedicut, step back, if you please. And put that broom down, woman!’
    ‘This is intolerable!’ shouted Dr Catchpole above the din. ‘Mrs Speedicut, I am surprised at you – such vulgarity has no place here! And
you,
master apprentice!’ His voice trembled with fury. ‘I cannot even begin to think what Mr Flockhart means by allowing you to speak so to a physician.
And
to assault me!’
    ‘Come, Dr Catchpole,’ said Dr Bain. ‘Can’t you see Mr Flockhart is not at his best today?’ We all looked at my father, who was sitting back in his chair, his eyes closed, while the hurly-burly went on around him. The noise abated. ‘It was a moment’s hot-headedness, that’s all. I dare say Mrs Speedicut was provoked, though her exposition was certainly unwarranted. But the lad is young, he didn’t mean to harm anyone—’
    But Dr Catchpole had not finished. ‘As for
you
, sir,’ his fingers flexed about the silver knob at the head of his walking stick. ‘
You
are an insult to this hospital.’
    ‘I?’ Dr Bain blinked. ‘But I have only just come in!’ He attempted a smile, his teeth white between his dark curly side-whiskers. He looked at Dr Catchpole – old Dr Catchpole, absurd in his theatrical cape and frothing white regency neckerchief – and his contempt was plain. ‘My dear fellow—’
    ‘Don’t you patronise me!’ cried Dr Catchpole. ‘I am not your “dear fellow”. I am
forced
by professional etiquette to tolerate you. You and your . . . your . . .
behaviour
.’ Suddenly Dr Catchpole raised his arm and struck out at Dr Bain with the knob of his stick.
    Dr Bain staggered backwards, reeling against the shelves. He stared at Dr Catchpole in surprise, blood pouring down his face and seeping into his emerald waistcoat in an ugly dark stain. He sank to his knees.
    At that moment the door