CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Ministry of Public Health, housed in a second-rate building from the 1820s, overlooked an unpicturesque curve of the Thames. The opposite side of the river held a soldierly rank of smokestacks from the Lambeth pottery works. From his window, Sir Philip Constable could see ships passing. If he let go of dignity enough to squash his face to the glass he could get a glimpse of fellow members of Parliament hurrying along Whitehall Place.
Since Parliament had closed for the season Constable had spent more and more time in this office. Something about its high, discolored ceiling and the late summer quiet of the nearly deserted building was soothing. He sat for hours at his bare desk, doing nothing, just pressing his hands to the wood surface, his face blank.
He didn't quite do nothing; he counted his heartbeats. They had held a sickly fascination for him as they gradually increased in speed over the course of the drawn-out hot season. Looking at his watch he would count them again. Another minute passed. One hundred fifteen. Another minute. One twenty. Sometimes they skipped, with a tiny jolt in his throat as though a mouse had jumped.
He kept track of the beats on scraps of paper, scrawling the figures in tiny writing, always planning to average them at the end of an hour or the end of the day. But they ended up in his jacket and trouser pockets, turning up when he fished for coins or a pencil. Then he would throw them out and plan to start fresh the next day, more carefully.
He had started the counting at the beginning of the summer when he would only do it once or twice a day, as a curiosity. He began to do it more often. It became a fixed habit, something he would fit in between his sessions in the House, letters, and meetings. And then it took over, so that the reports he had to write and the briefs were done in between the counting. He did less and less work, and would sit at his desk an entire afternoon, silent, unmoving. Counting.
Lawes, his secretary, would stick a head around the door in hourly inquiry, amazed that Sir Philip wasn't shouting out orders and letters to be sent. After a while, Lawes gave up and took long naps instead.
Today it was a morning like the rest; hot, of course, overcast, and sticky. Constable found himself unable to remember what day it was. He took his engagement book from a drawer and turned the page. Thursday. That was right. Yesterday he had met with Bucks. The bench in St. James's. It had been a stupid choice; Bucks stood out in that park like bare feet in a dining room. After talking to the man Constable always felt as if he needed to go home and have a bath.
Constable had been late. His guilt at planning to go out like this had pushed him to actually write two letters and he lost track of time.
Bucks was fuming. "It won't do to keep me waiting like this, sir. I was stared at."
"I'll bet you were."
"Someone might remember the two of us. There's another shipment ready for hauling down to the works."
"Why in the devil's name do you need to bother me about that?" Constable tried to ignore his heartbeats for once.
"I can't ask just anybody, sir. You know that. You know what happened to the last one as didn't hold his tongue." Bucks spit out of the side of his mouth, then looked to see how far it had gone.
Constable felt sick. "Yes, you don't have to remind me." He had never seen the body, but Bucks told him how a fight had been engineered, so it would look like one ditch worker against another. "I wish you could solve these things with less —" He groped for the word.
"I can't," Bucks answered in a flat tone. "Them as I hire have their own ways. Including silence."
"I still don't see why we had to meet."
"No. I don't expect you do. I don't expect you realize the expense of hiring men like the ones we need, who'll do their work, not ask questions, not even wonder about it. I don't expect you do see how much it costs to avoid mistakes like last time."
"I believe that was your mistake, my man, not mine."
"How was anyone to know the fellow came from bloody Yarmouth? And he'd know about salt sand? He never looked like any fisherman to me.
"Never mind that now." Constable took out paper and pencil. "How much this time?"
"Five hundred."
Constable's hand had started to shake so badly that it was hard to write the draft to his banker's, but he hadn't protested.
Now, safe in his office, he knew it wouldn't be long before Bucks would turn up for more. But not today. Today, at least, could be his own. He could spend hours yet, motionless, no decision expected of him, no action. The page in the date book would be blank.
But it wasn't blank. Eleven o'clock, Dr. Phineas Greeley. Damn, he thought. Why isn't he off in Scotland shooting grouse, like the rest of the world? He looked at his watch. Five minutes from now.
Greeley was the last person Constable wanted to see. For Greeley he couldn't put on the frozen mask and stick to the official protocol. He would have to smile. Constable had known him for years, but when they had met last week at Lady Tewksbury's party it was the first time they had spoken in months. And Lillian had been with Greeley.
Lillian. Every time Constable thought of Lillian he had to start again from the beginning of the story, in the simple words you would use to explain an adult dilemma to a child. He thought, Oh yes, Lillian. That one. Remember? From the time before. Here in London. You could see her, now, if you like. And, then, invariably, his thoughts would turn to other things; reports, Bucks, the sewer problem. Like an insomniac, who tries so hard to dream of trees and fields but within three thoughts returns to an image of himself in a coffin.
He knew that when one received a great shock it always took a little time to absorb the idea; a declaration of a war, for example, or the loss of a leg. But it had been well over a week since he'd seen her and his thoughts still circled like a simpleton's. He wondered if his heart condition was affecting his mind. Perhaps it was Lillian's surprising connection with Greeley that put him off.
Eight years ago, when Constable first arrived in London from India, Greeley had been something of a celebrity for his theory about spontaneous regeneration of life. He was at all the parties. He had been presented to the queen on the same day Constable had been knighted five years ago.
Constable's own rise in rank took him by surprise. Until recently, before he became so entangled in this horrid water-works business, and then felt so ill, there were days when he woke and for long moments couldn't remember who he really was or how he got his title.
Upon his return from India, two years after the massacre near Jampur, he had tried to keep a low profile without actually changing his name. But there had been some unbelievable mixup in the lists of survivors, and he was named as the missing hero who had been responsible for retrieving the flag. Constable decided later that the government must have needed a figurehead for a few weeks to boost national morale about colonial concerns.
At any rate, within days he found himself eased into a vacant spot in the Foreign Office, and then a year later voted into the Ministry of Public Health. His knighthood, at the minimal level which allowed him to be called 'Sir Philip,' but with no hereditary rank passing on to his children, was supposedly for both his heroism at Jampur and his authorship of a half dozen health reform bills he had written and seen passed in the House of Parliament. In fact, they were the very bills which allowed him to finance the reconstruction of the sewers. On the day of his knighting ceremony, Constable had shared the floor with a host of second-rate bureaucrats receiving smaller medals and honors, including Greeley, and Greeley clearly resented being bunched with such a crowd.
It wasn't long before Constable understood that Greeley was a man on his way down. There was a paper in The Lancet he had been forced to retract. A highly publicized paid lecture series he was scheduled to give was canceled and then Greeley left England for a year. By the time he returned he was a figure from the past, no longer of interest to the newspapers or the medical journals. He kept up a small private practice and published occasional insignificant case studies, or letters to editors that were more gripes than scholarly notes.
Constable, however, quickly started to rise. He saw less of Greeley. But he had always been drawn to the man for some reason. Unless one feels absolute contempt, he thought, it's hard to dislike a man who likes you.
Lawes, stifling a yawn, ushered Greeley into the office. The doctor looked older and pinker in daylight than he had by the gaslight in Lady Tewksbury's ballroom. His suit needed brushing. He was thinner. Constable felt a faint rush of guilt that he didn't look up Greeley now and then. Take him for supper.
"Greeley! Good of you to come by. Wish I could spare more time." Sir Philip's practiced diplomatic chat was intended to leave no doubt with Greeley that he had no more than six minutes.
"Sir Philip." Greeley leaned across the desk to shake hands. The doctor's hand was sweaty and surprisingly cold for such a hot day.
Greeley said, "It was good to see you last week. That cholera outbreak at the
party was terrible."
Constable felt a sinking in his gut. Greeley must know about the sewer scheme. Why else would he be here? Why else would the man be so nervous? "Yes, yes. Tragic." He paused to write down `one thirty.' "I hear that ten guests died."
"Not really? So many? You'll find the report's exaggerated, I'm sure. None of the people I met. You'll be glad to hear that Mrs. Aynsworth and her daughter are fine."
Constable fought an urge to tell Greeley the whole story, about Lillian, that instant. Her supposed death. Fort Munro. Jampur. Instead, he roused himself to an appropriate response. "Perhaps they should leave the city for a time."
Greeley smiled. "No need for it. If cholera were a contagious disease I would agree with you. But as long as they take proper precautions they are quite safe."
Constable felt an odd surge of hope at hearing this again. If the thing weren't contagious, perhaps he could sleep more easily. "Not contagious? But surely —"
"Not from person to person. If it were contagious quarantines would prevent its spread. But look at East Worthington."
"Where's that?"
"A village in Surrey. Last month half of the village fell ill and they cordoned off the place. Not a soul left the area, they all swore. Yet within a week two of the neighboring villages down the river were just as bad."
"So you would say, for example, that a leak of some sort into the water supply here in London —"
"Not healthful, definitely not. But not a cause of cholera." Greeley smiled with closed lips. "You have nothing to worry about, Sir Philip."
"Why, no, it never occurred to me to worry for myself. I feel safe in my neighborhood. And if the thing hasn't got me by now
He laughed a friendly, meaningless chuckle. "Now, what can I do for you this morning?"
"Ah, yes. A little matter I thought you might be concerned in. I hardly know how to begin." Greeley picked at the cloth of his cuffs and fell silent.
Constable felt it would be a better tactic to keep asking the questions, to retain a small amount of control. "Is something troubling you, Greeley?"
"To tell the truth, Constable, things are not going as well as one could hope. As you know, I used to enjoy somewhat of a reputation for my scientific work."
"Yes, of course. I don't know why you put it in the past tense like that." The lie was like the delicate touch of a fencing foil at the beginning of a match.
"Please. Let's both be honest. You know my story as well as I do. No wing of Guy's Hospital will ever be named after me. You won't ever see my name in a medical dictionary followed by ‘disease,' ‘sign,' or ‘suture.' "
Constable was unable to reply. To say "you're wrong" would be ridiculous. Greeley glanced at the piece of paper where he had just written his last heartbeat count. Greeley seemed to take it for granted that Constable was making notes for some governmental purpose.
"Have you published any research papers recently?" Constable finally asked this just to say something.
"Papers? One must have ideas to write papers. I used to have ideas. Where did they all go?"
Greeley pushed his chair back and became lost in what he was saying, in a way that made Constable think perhaps he knew nothing after all and was simply here for some favor.
"Your mind is still functioning as far as I can tell," said Constable with a slight laugh.
"No. You don't understand. Back in the twenties my brain felt so full it was hard to write it down fast enough. Theories considered brilliant at the time. But all I hear now when I propose anything is, ‘Where's the proof?' That's all they want to know. ‘Can we reproduce it?' All they seem to want is a description of an experiment and its results; any interpretations or possibilities are apparently beyond their understanding."
Greeley took out a handkerchief and touched at his forehead, a gesture so melodramatic and calculated to show distress that Constable's doubts returned.
Greeley clenched the handkerchief in his fist. "Confound their infernal nitpicking! What happened to the days when the impeccable logic and elegant prose of a theory was enough to guarantee publication?"
Constable decided to play it safe. Greeley was clever and could hide his intentions. It was better to take no risks. "It's a shame to see your work go unrecognized, Greeley. I have some influence in these matters. Perhaps, as soon as we are in session again, you could have a little ceremony with the queen that would at least leave you as Sir Phineas."
Greeley acted as if he hadn't heard, but Constable spotted a faint flush on each cheek.
Greeley went on speaking. "And with all this cholera madness everywhere, it's such an opportunity to find out interesting material. There's this fellow Snow. What do you think of him?"
Snow. That clinched it. Greeley must know it all. Constable felt his heart rate
soar. He stalled while he counted. "Snow? John Snow? Surely no one is really taking him seriously?" He finished. One thirty. He pulled another scrap from under his blotter."Some people are taking him seriously. He seems to think there's something wrong with the water supply. All nonsense, of course. You'd be the best person for him to talk to about that."
"Yes. Of course. We did have a little talk."
At times Constable wished Snow would move faster, finish finding out whatever he could, tomorrow, today even. It would take so much of the aching load off Constable's back. He would welcome a chance to confess. His heart did the little mouse jump again and he breathed heavily for a moment. There was a pain, too, a new one, shooting across his chest. It was gone almost before he noticed it.
"Are you feeling quite well? You look a bit gray. All this sickness about..." Greeley pulled out his handkerchief again.
"No, it's nothing. Just some mild palpitations. I've had them before. Perhaps you have noticed. I know I don't look as healthy as I used to."
"Oh, no, Sir Philip. Not at all. Quite fit. Trim. Working too hard, if anything."
Constable didn't listen. He had only to look in the mirror. There was a dark flush on either side of his nose, a hollow at his jawline. The swelling under his eyes grew deeper every week. And a puffiness had started about a month ago in his hands and feet. He could no longer remove the gold ring from his first finger. At this moment it was cutting into the flesh, throbbing with the heartbeats. One hundred and fifty.
"Overwork? Possibly. I am quite busy; perhaps you already know. I stand a chance to take over the Ministry of Health at the next election. At any rate, Greeley, I will try to put your name forward in two weeks' time for at least an O.B.E., if not more. But I can't promise anything, you understand."
"No, no. Of course. It's most kind of you, Sir Philip. Most kind. As a matter of fact, it is exactly what I was going to ask you about. So difficult to begin that sort of thing. You're the only member I know well enough. If there's anything I can do to —"
"No, please, don't mention it. We are all here to help one another, right?" He again gave that generic chuckle, and this time Greeley chuckled back.