Sarah wondered if he could be prevailed upon to take an interest in Mina. At least that would make the extra work his presence generated worthwhile.
FIVE
He turned onto Princes Street and passed Duncan and Flockhart’s, where he caught sight of himself in the druggist’s window. In the glass he was reminded that though the Old Town’s stink could be blown away, its mark would be upon him for life. The left side of his face was swollen and bruised, the stitches sitting up prominently along the contused curve of his cheek. Beneath his hat his hair was sticking out at odd angles, matted together in places with dried blood. When he arrived at Queen Street, Dr Simpson was as likely to send him abed as a patient as to welcome him into his practice.
The pavement was broader here, the crowds thinner. The people he passed were straight-backed and assured in their gait, strolling in a manner that was purposeful and yet unhurried as they browsed the shopfronts. By contrast, the Old Town was a hill of ants, its inhabitants bowed and scuttling as they hastened about its twisted byways. Even the road seemed to lack the mud and ordure that piled up relentlessly within the narrow alleyways of the Canongate.
As he turned onto Queen Street, a brougham carriage drawn by two lively steeds pulled to a halt just ahead, prompting Raven to wonder absently if the coachman had trained his beasts to void themselves only in the poorer parts of town.
No. 52 was one of the largest houses in that part of the street, spread out over five levels if the basement was included. Broad steps, clean and recently swept, led up from the pavement to a large front entrance framed by two pillars on each side. Even the railings appeared to have been freshly painted, giving the impression that cleanliness and order would be found inside. This caused him to think of how late he was, due to Henry’s laudanum. He considered what he might say by way of explaining himself. Perhaps his face would be excuse enough. And perhaps he would be told the offer of apprenticeship was void given that he had not shown sufficient decorum as to at least be prompt on his first day.
Raven straightened his hat and tried not to contemplate the condition of his clothes as he reached for the brass knocker. Before he could grasp it, the door began to open and a great beast of a dog bounded through the gap, almost bowling him to the floor. It continued towards the waiting brougham, where the coachman held open the door as though the hound itself had summoned the carriage.
The dog was followed by a figure clad in a voluminous black coat and top hat. Professor James Simpson seemed equally intent upon the carriage until his attention was taken by the waif reeling on his threshold.
Raven’s new employer stopped and looked him up and down. He seemed momentarily confused before one eyebrow shot up, signalling that some form of deduction had taken place.
‘Mr Raven. Not a moment too soon, yet within a moment of being too late.’
Simpson indicated with a sweeping gesture that his new apprentice should follow the dog into the carriage.
‘We have an urgent case to attend – if you feel you are able,’ he added archly.
Raven smiled, or at least attempted to. It was hard to know exactly what his damaged face was doing. He hauled himself aboard the carriage and attempted to squeeze in beside the dog, which seemed reluctant to surrender any part of his position on the seat to the newcomer.
No sooner had he gained a small piece of the upholstery for himself than Dr Simpson took his position opposite and called to the driver to proceed. The carriage took off at impressive speed and the dog immediately hung its head over the edge of the window, tongue lolling as it panted with delight.
Raven did not share its joy. He winced as they rattled over the cobbles, pain shooting through him as though the wheels were running over his ribs. The doctor did not fail to notice, and was intently scrutinising his damaged face. He wondered if he should try to concoct some more palatable explanation for his injuries, or whether he would be storing up greater trouble by lying to his employer on his first day.
‘I should perhaps have left you in the care of our housemaid, Sarah,’ Simpson said reflectively.
‘Your housemaid?’ Raven asked, his discomfort rendering him unable to moderate an ungracious tone. He wondered if this was Simpson’s subtle way of conveying displeasure at his tardiness, downplaying his afflictions by implying that they required no greater ministration than a hot cup of tea.
‘She is rather more than that,’ Simpson replied. ‘She helps out with the patients: dressings, bandages and so on. Quite a capable young woman.’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ Raven said, though his ribs were telling him otherwise. He hoped that the patient they were going to see could be dealt with quickly.
‘What happened to you?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not revisit the subject,’ he replied, which was honest at least. ‘Suffice it to say I am glad to have left the Old Town behind me.’
The brougham turned left onto Castle Street, prompting Raven to wonder where their destination might lie: Charlotte Square, perhaps, or one of the fine townhouses on Randolph Crescent. On the bench opposite, Dr Simpson was looking through his bag, an expression upon his face indicating concern that he may have forgotten some vital piece of equipment in his hurried departure.
‘To where might we be bound, professor?’
‘To assist a Mrs Fraser. Elspeth, if I recall her name correctly. I haven’t had the pleasure of a formal introduction.’
‘A fine lady?’ Raven ventured, the promise of moving in more rarefied circles like a balm to his wounds.
‘No doubt, though we are unlikely to find her at her best.’
At the foot of the hill, the carriage turned left again, proceeding east away from the castle. Raven speculated that perhaps Mrs Fraser was staying at one of the impressive hotels along Princes Street. He had heard tell that wealthy ladies would often travel from the country so that physicians of Simpson’s calibre might attend them.
The brougham did not stop at any of them, however, instead continuing the very length of Princes Street before turning right onto the North Bridge and taking him straight back to the very place he thought he had left behind.
The carriage drew to a stop outside a shabby building only yards from where he had found Evie last night, and just around the corner from his own lodgings. As he climbed down from the brougham he wondered if Mrs Cherry might be in the process of tossing all his belongings into the street, as he was moving out today and should already have been back to collect them this morning. He wondered too if Evie had been found yet. If not, she would be before long. The smell would become obvious soon enough, even in that squalid close.
Simpson stepped from the carriage followed by the dog. He searched the doorways and shopfronts momentarily, then set off up a narrow and dimly lit close, the dog scampering after him.
Confusion reigned in Raven’s aching head. What was a man of Dr Simpson’s stature and reputation doing in the Canongate? Where were the rich ladies of the New Town that he had been led to expect? What of the grand houses wherein lay the sweet-smelling wives and daughters of the quality?
Raven followed his new chief into the passageway and was confronted