He closed his eyes, her words a balm to his bruised soul. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
His eyes flicked open. “Acknowledging that the choice is mine.”
“As it should be. I am not Father to order you about. I daresay neither of us grieve the loss of his overbearing will.” A sad smile wavered on her lips. “Which is not to say that we don’t each grieve his passing in our own way. But the question remains…what will you do?”
“I do not know. I have never been allowed to decide things for myself.” He pressed Peckwood’s document to his side, not quite ready to read the thing. “It hardly seems just that my first decision must be between a risky surgery or continuing the rest of my life as a hermit.”
If ever there were a portal to hell, the slum of Redcliffe was surely it. Lethargic children sat on the filthy streets like little lepers, bony hands outstretched, half-savage cries begging for coins or crumbs. Women with bent shoulders and sallow skin trolled about, lugging rag baskets or sacks of rubbish they’d collected after a good scavenging on the riverbanks. But the men…sweet, blessed Saviour, the men! Graham’s chest tightened and he focused straight ahead, avoiding the empty eyes staring out of doorways and alleys. He’d seen that look one too many times on sailors given to hopelessness as they lay dying on a cot, ticking off the hours until death released them from a life sentence of pain.
No wonder Mr. Peckwood didn’t wander into this neighbourhood. But why had he taken on a patient here at all? Peckwood liked his Spanish cigars and aged port too much to operate on agratisbasis. How would a Redcliffe resident be able to pay a fee?
Sidestepping an oily puddle, Graham turned onto Pinnell Street, found door number twelve, and gave it a careful rap—too hard and the whole thing might cave in.
The wood opened a crack and a single eyeball appeared. “You be the doctor?”
He dipped his head.“I am Mr. Lambert, associate of Mr. Peckwood.”
Instantly, the door slammed shut.
Graham blinked.What the deuce?
He lifted his hand to knock again when the door flew open and a young woman sailed out, cheeks cinder-smudged and garbed in a gown sewn of burlap. She quickly pulled the door shut and held out what appeared to be a large chunk of a broken fireplace screen. “Here. Ye’ll be needin’ this.”
He hefted the thing in his free hand, keeping a tight grip on his medical bag in case this were some sort of distractive swindle. “What is this for?”
“Ye’ll see.” She gave a backwards nod, towards whoever or whatever resided inside the crumbly brick hovel.
He squared his shoulders. Danger may be real, but fear was a choice. “Who is the patient and what is their ailment?”
“Granny tangled with a feral cat, sir. Scratched her face fierce, it did. Here and here.”The young woman pointed to her cheek and chin. “We tried a mud poultice and a snail and spiderweb plaster, but it’s bigger ’n ever, swelled up like a bladder full o’ water. I used all our savin’s to fetch the best doctor I could find—that bein’ Mr. Peckwood. Leastwise, Mr. Waldman over at St. Peter’s said he were the best.”
The warden at the asylum? Graham looked past the girl to the scarred oak. What the devil was he going to face on the other side of that door?
“Oh, don’t fret none, sir. Granny t’aint mad. Her mind’s more corky than you and I put together. I works at the asylum, so that’s how I know the warden.” She stepped aside, allowing him passage. “I’ll wait out here.”
He glanced at the flimsy hunk of broken shield in his hand. Was this to be used for quashing vermin while he worked? Or perhaps some sort of barrier to make the old woman feel more comfortable in the presence of a man? Whatever, he put his shoulder to the door, then paused before pushing it open. “What is your grandmother’s name?”
“Bap, sir.”
His brows lifted. “She’s named after a sweet roll?”
The girl smiled, her front tooth chipped to a sharp edge, but at least none were missing. “People used to travel far and wide for a bite of one o’ my grannie’s Colston buns…till she fell on hard times, that is. Good luck, sir.”
He shoved open the door and stepped inside, blinking in the spare light. “Mrs….em, Bap?”
Whack!
Pain cracked into his skull, and he jumped backwards. “Ow!”
Ahead, a slip of a white-haired woman wielded a broom handle, wheezing for air. “I knew it! That girl were awful cagey. Out you go!” She struck again.
This time he raised the hunk of fireplace screen and fended off the blow. “Listen, Mrs. Bap, that granddaughter of yours cares about you. She’s hired me to take a look at your scratch, and I mean to do so, broomstick or no. Though this will be a much more pleasant experience if you’d be so kind as to lower your weapon.”
“Don’t need a look. Don’t need a doctor. God’s got His eye on me.” With her free hand, she aimed a gnarly finger at the ceiling.
“Very true, madam.” He edged closer. “But it is also true that sometimes God uses human hands and feet to accomplish His purposes.”
