Free Sawbones by Catherine Johnson Page B

interesting. Did you know she and her poor father have lately returned from Vienna
and
Constantinople? And she has lived in Paris – before the revolution.”
    “A wonderful city, Mrs Boscaven,” Miss Finch said. “Quite beautiful. When Pa and I performed at…” Her voice trailed off and she sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. Toms looked smitten. Ezra sipped his coffee. Was this the same girl who’d happily fought a whole inn of resurrection men?
    Mrs Boscaven nodded. “But we’ve heard the French king has been arrested! Imagine that! I don’t know what to think. Wasn’t the master planning on taking you, Ez?”
    “Yes, to the Hôtel-Dieu to see M. Desault,” Ezra said. “Mr McAdam says that French surgeons are the very best.”
    “Perhaps when the revolution settles down…” Mrs Boscaven got up.
    “I’m not sure that is what revolutions do, Mrs B.” Ezra smiled.
    “Well, I think the French king had it coming,” Toms said, and reached out for a biscuit. Ezra said nothing. He didn’t want to be seen to agree with Toms.
    “I reckon as the whole world is in turmoil.” Mrs Boscaven prodded at the fire. “The Russians and the Swedes.”
    “And the Ottomans,” Toms added.
    Ezra looked at him. “I didn’t realize you were so interested in foreign news.”
    Toms gave him a filthy look. Ezra thought he saw Miss Finch smile behind her handkerchief.
    “And we had cracksmen trying to smash into the house,” Ellen said, a little bit scared.
    “They didn’t get in, Ellen. It was only a pair of rascals looking for easy pickings.” Ezra tried to reassure her with a smile, but it was a poor smile. He had an idea that whoever those men had been they knew quite well whose house it was. And that they would be back.
    “Oh, this world is a sad and terrible place,” Mrs Boscaven said.
    “Death – if you’ll pardon me, Miss Finch – is all around us,” commented Ezra.
    “Never truer than in this house,” Toms added. “Death is the old man’s trade. All that cutting up, all them
things
, all those gory whatsits up in your museum.”
    “That’s where you’re wrong, Toms,” Ezra told him. “It’s not about death. Not at all.”
    “I don’t think I’m wrong, am I, Miss Finch?” Toms smiled at her. “I mean to say, I don’t suppose you hold with any of that business, nice girl like yourself?”
    Miss Finch smiled back. “Of course not, Mr Toms. Naturally I despise resurrectionists and those who encourage them.”
    “Call me Henry,” he said. Ezra rolled his eyes.
    “But I see the value of science, of course.” She looked at Ezra. “And now I am here, I would so love to see the museum.”
    Ezra drained his coffee cup and stood up. “I was just going out, as a matter of fact.” He would not let her have it all her way.
    Toms jumped up. “I don’t mind showing you round, Miss.”
    “That’s so kind of you.” She paused; threw Ezra another look. “Henry.”
    Toms blushed. She was playing with him. Ezra almost felt sorry for the man.
    “He doesn’t know one end of the human body from another,” Ezra said.
    “I think,” Toms retorted, “I know a good deal more about living bodies than ever you do.”
    “That is not what I meant.”
    “Boys!” Mrs Boscaven shook her head. “I think you should both escort Miss Finch around the museum.” She looked hard at Toms. “You know how particular the master is about his objects. Although I warn you, Miss Finch, it is not for the fainthearted. And boys, if she so much as blanches, you bring her back down here, quick sharp. Is that clear?”
    They answered together, like chastened schoolboys, “Yes, Mrs Boscaven.”
    “Mr McAdam’s museum is spoken of all across town,” Miss Finch said, following Toms and Ezra upstairs.
    “He could make a deal of cash selling tickets,” Toms muttered. “I would. I’d spend it on a matching pair of black prancers.”
    “Toms, this is not a side show,” Ezra said, opening the door. “The museum is a