Free Sawbones by Catherine Johnson Page A

neatly as he could, in two. It fell open like some outlandish but rotten fruit, dark and already beginning to smell. The four chambers were clear enough; there was nothing obvious impeding its action – only its withered size and thickened walls.
    Ezra sat back and pushed the lens out of the way. He took out his notebook to see if he had written anything down during the lecture, and that was when he came across the oblong of skin he had excised the night before last. He had forgotten all about it after everything that had happened – the attempted break-in, and Miss Loveday Finch.
    Ezra retrieved it, sponged it and pinned it out on a flat wax-covered tray. He could see the mark clearly now, a definite letter in tattoo-ink blue, curved and swirling like a wave. The master would know where he could find an Arabic dictionary.
    He needed help with the heart as well. Mr McAdam would know exactly what had happened to it, or at least point him on the correct path. The shelf above the desk groaned with books, rows and rows stretching up to the ceiling: anatomy, the mysteries of circulation, the weight of the brain. Any one of them might have the answer, but where to start?
    Perhaps he should take a walk, clear his mind in the fresh air. That was, after all, one of the recommendations the master usually made. Ezra made a thorough sketch of the heart as it was now and pinned it up above the table next to a drawing of a healthy organ to remind him of the differences. Then he put the heart back into a jar, untied his laboratory apron and went downstairs. He would take a cup of coffee and walk as far as St James’s Park. The cold frost might order his thoughts.
    Ezra heard voices before he reached the kitchen – Mrs Boscaven was laughing. He pushed open the door … and there, in his own kitchen, sitting around the big fire taking coffee with Mrs Boscaven, Ellen and Toms as cosy as if she’d sat there a thousand times before, was Miss Loveday Finch producing a scarlet handkerchief from the sleeve of her mourning gown. No one bothered to look up as he entered; they were all transfixed, Ellen and Mrs B clapping, even Toms smiling and saying, “Well done, Miss!” as though he’d never seen a conjuring trick in his life.
    “Miss Finch!” Ezra could not keep the surprise from his voice. “What are you doing here? I haven’t had a chance to—”
    “That’s no way to greet lady callers,” Toms said. “You’ll have to excuse Ezra, Miss. He’s no good around ladies – or the living in general.”
    “Pull up a chair, Ez,” Mrs Boscaven said. “Poor Miss Finch has told us how as you’re helping her with her father.”
    “Has she?” He looked at Loveday but she didn’t meet his gaze. How much had she told them? Ezra found that telling the whole world one’s business was never the best way forward.
    “And she’s been entertaining us all with tales of Mr Finch. You never mentioned Miss Finch, Ez,” chastised Mrs Boscaven. “The master’ll be proud of you, offering to help a young lady like that.”
    “Oh yes. I am indeed very grateful,” said Miss Finch, smiling demurely. Ezra gave her a look.
    He didn’t remember her being grateful when he carried her into Bart’s.
    “Who’d have known what would have happened to my leg,” she went on. She sipped her tea. “It’s already much better – and, before you ask, Mr McAdam, yes, I have been using a stick.”
    “And she were conjuring,” Ellen told him. “Doing tricks. Go on, make the hanky disappear again, Miss!”
    “Conjuring? I thought you were in mourning,” said Ezra. He went to find his special coffee cup but
she
was using it.
    “Oh, don’t be such a gowk!” Toms said. “It’s not your father passed.” He lowered his voice so only Ezra could hear and said, “As if you had one anyway.”
    Ezra ignored him, poured some coffee into another cup and drank it standing up.
    “We had no idea you moved in theatrical circles, Ez. Miss Finch’s life is so