Free The Stress of Her Regard by Tim Powers Page B

horrifying pandemonium in which burly interns struggled to hold some screaming patient down on the table as the surgeon sweated and cursed and dug with the knife, his shoes scuffing streaks in the bloody sand on the floor as he braced himself for each resisted thrust . . . and just as nightmarish, if quieter, were the "salivating" wards, where syphilitics drooled helplessly as a result of the mercurial ointment rubbed into their open lesions . . . but the cutting wards were where a student could see healing actually occurring, quietly, day by day.
    Dr. Lucas's cutting wards were different. After changing the first heavily slick, malodorous bandages, Crawford could see that Stephens had not understated the old surgeon's skill—Crawford had never seen clumsier incisions, and it was clear that at least as many would die of the bladder-stone operation as benefit from it.
    A gray-haired clergyman was on his knees beside one of the last beds they came to, and he looked up when Keats bent over the patient. The old cleric seemed to have been deep in prayer, for it took several seconds for his eyes to focus on the newcomers, and even then all he managed to do was nod and turn away.
    "Excuse me, Reverend," said Keats, "got to change the bandages."
    The clergyman bobbed his head and backed away from the bed, and he thrust his hands inside his cassock—but not before Crawford noticed blood on his fingers. Puzzled, Crawford looked up at his face, and saw the man quickly lick his upper lip—had there been blood there too?
    The minister met his gaze for a moment, and the old face tightened with some emotion like hate or envy; one of the bloody hands emerged from the robe for a moment with the ring finger folded inside the fist, and then a spotted finger pointed at Crawford's own left hand. The old man mimed spitting at Crawford, then turned and scuttled out of the room.
    Keats was leaning closer to the figure in the bed, and now he reached over and opened one of the eyes. "This one's dead," he said, softly so as not to alarm the patients in beds nearby. "Could you find a nurse? Tell her to fetch a doctor and the porter so we can get this into the charnel house."
    Crawford's heart was beating fast. "My God, John, that minister had blood on his hands! And he gave me the most horrible look before he ran out of here." He waved at the corpse in the bed. "Do you think . . . ?"
    Keats stared at him, and stared off the way the old man had gone, and then grabbed the blankets and pulled them down to peer at the diaper-like bandage; in that instant Crawford thought Keats looked older than the clergyman had. After a few moments Keats spoke. "He didn't kill him, no," he said quietly. "But he was . . . looting the body. The blood of . . . certain patients has a . . . certain value. I'm fairly sure he wasn't a real minister, and I'll see to it that he's kept out in the future—let him go haunt the wards at St. George's." He waved at Crawford. "So get the nurse."
    Though both disgusted and intrigued by Keats's words, Crawford's mood as he walked down the hall was one of dour amusement at being ordered around a hospital by a twenty-year-old . . . but his amusement turned to incredulous horror when he started down the stairs.
    A nurse was walking stiffly up the stairs, and he had raised his hand to get her attention, but when she looked up he recognized her. It was Josephine Carmody, apparently deep in her mechanical persona.
    His hand paused only a moment, then went on up to scratch his scalp as if he had never intended the gesture to be a wave, and he lowered his eyes and moved to pass her. His heart was thudding hollowly, and he felt drunk with panic.
    She was too close to him when she drew the pistol from under her blouse, and instead of shoving the muzzle into his ear, she only managed to slam the flesh-warmed barrel against the back of his neck. She took a step back to get a clear shot.
    Crawford yelled in alarm and swung his right fist hard up