Kendra swallowed. “No, I’m fine. Which one is Mr. Dandridge?”
“Over there.” Munroe walked toward a man sitting on a three-legged wooden stool at the end of a cot. The patient, restrained by leather straps, screamed and thrashed. Even with the restraints, two men tried to control the man’s movements by pressing down on his shoulders and knees. Three young men were standing to the side, observing the procedure.
Kendra caught the flash of steel as Mr. Dandridge leaned over his patient. She gave him a brief look: mid-thirties; lean face, with black, curly hair; olive complexion. Fine lines fanned out from the outer corners of his eyes, likely the result of habitually narrowing them in concentration.
She turned her attention to the scalpel he held. His motion was quick, efficient. A slice, then he tossed something into a copper bowl held by a stern-looking nurse. It made a faintthunk. He repeated the slice, the toss.Plink. Kendra inched closer to see inside the bowl. It took her a moment to identify the three bloody lumps of flesh:toes.
Finished with the amputations, Mr. Dandridge set aside the scalpel and picked up a needle and thread from a small silver tray. “This young fellow is fortunate,” he said, addressing those who were observing.
Fortunate?Kendra thought. She glanced at the patient’s face, twisted in agony. His hair was matted with sweat. He’d quit screaming and was now emitting ragged moans each time the needle pierced his cut flesh as Mr. Dandridge skillfully sewed the skin together. The seam was tight, but blood oozed out, smearing the surgeon’s fingers.
“The injury had become gangrenous,” Mr. Dandridge continued, without looking up from the task at hand. The needle went in and out in a steady rhythm. “If he had waited longer to seek medical attention, the entire leg would have become infected and I—or another surgeon—would’ve been forced to remove it.”
Mr. Dandridge snipped off the thread with a small pair of scissors from the tray. He tied a knot, then dumped the scissors and needle. Rising, he wiped his bloody hands on his apron. His next patient would be treated with those same hands.
“William,” said Munroe, drawing the surgeon’s attention.
“Ethan.” Dandridge smiled, came over. “What brings you to St. George’s?”
“Business. May I introduce Lady Sutcliffe? My lady, this is Mr. Dandridge—our most skillful surgeon.”
“I saw your skill, Mr. Dandridge.” Still, she had to ask, “Was there nothing you could have given the patient to reduce his pain? Opium?”
“Gin is less expensive. And we gave him almost half a bottle. Unfortunately, he must have developed a tolerance for it, as it did not have the effect it ought to have had.”
Someone groaned and began retching into a bucket. Dandridge’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Shall we adjourn to a more pleasing environment? Ladies rarely tour our facilities, although when they do, they tend to confine themselves to the women’s wards.”
They fell into step with the surgeon as he walked toward the door. Dandridge gave Kendra a sidelong look. “Are you here because you are interested in becoming a patroness to the hospital, my lady?”
Apparently, Kendra mused, the only reason ladies toured hospitals and clinics was to become patronesses.
“I’m here because I’m looking into the murder of Lady Westford.”
Dandridge was reaching for the doorknob. Kendra noticed how those skillful fingers, so steady only moments ago as he sliced off three toes, spasmed. He stopped to stare at her. “Murder?”
Kendra studied him closely. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” A troubled frown creased his brow. He pushed open the door. “I’d heard about Lady Westford’s death, of course. But I was told it was an accident.”
They walked down the hall, passing a few doctors, more nurses. Dandridge opened a door, then stepped back to allow them to enter. He’d brought them to what appeared to be a doctors’ lounge. Bookshelves lined two walls, crowded with heavy tomes and medical instruments. A long buffet, located in front of a large window, gleamed with silver coffee- and teapots, a porcelain pitcher of ale, and crystal decanters. A fireplace took up another wall. Seven tables were scattered around the room. Three young gentlemen, still wearing their stained aprons, crowded around one table, whispering as they passed around an object. An old man with thick spectacles perched on a bulbous nose was reading a newspaper at the next table.
“Mr. Dandridge!” said one of the young men, as he glanced up and saw the surgeon. “We’ve been examining yourLe Cylindre.Marvelous bit of engineering—simple, yet effective. My uncle is a physician in Manchester and would be interested in this for his practice. It ought not be too difficult to manufacture the device himself.”
Kendra eyed the object with some interest. No one in the modern era would have looked at this simple wooden cylinder, about six inches in length and an inch and a half in diameter, and identified it as a stethoscope.
The old man at the other table snorted. “I’ve been using the ears that God gave me to listen to my patients’ heartbeats for sixty years. I don’t need anything designed by a Frenchie to practice medicine.”
“Probablywantshis ear against a lady’s chest,” whispered a pimply-faced youth, and the table erupted in laughter.
“Eh? What did you say, young Paulson?” The old man squinted at him.
“Maybe Mr. Dandridge would allow you to borrowLe Cylindreas a hearing aid, if you wish to eavesdrop on our conversation, Dr. Carter.” Laughing, Paulson set the stethoscope on the table and jumped to his feet. His friends followed, and the trio rushed out of the room.
“Bloody young pups,” muttered the old doctor, his wiry eyebrows twitching irritably as he rattled his newspaper and returned to his reading.
“Would you care for a drink?” Dandridge asked, crossing the room to the buffet.
“Thank you. Coffee,” Kendra said.
