“When time was called, the game stood Bart’s one goal, two tries, three touchdowns, to Guy’s one touchdown. Roberts-” He looked at me and offered as an aside, “Roberts is the quarterback. He was remarkable, but all the forwards were grand, particularly Faddy, Sales and Llewellyn. Oh, and J. Pemberton Campbell. He was stupendous.”
“Isn’t Campbell the one who’s seeking an appointment as resident surgeon to Dr. Joseph Bell at the Royal Infirmary in Scotland?” Womack asked.
“The same,” Jonathan said. He turned to me again and said, “After the game, we hoisted Roberts and carried him in triumph from the field amid cries that would rival a flock of sheep!”
I laughed. Jonathan reminded me of my brother - an avid football fan - and also of Cuthbert Ottaway, one of Oxford’s finest former athletes, Ottaway was also fair and handsome and he had quite the magnetic personality. I chanced to meet him on the same day I’d met Sherlock while I was attending the final rowing contest of Eights Week. Jonathan’s features and coloring were similar. However, I hoped Jonathan had a more prosperous future. Cuthbert’s brilliant future and promising career in law had been cut short far too soon. He had contracted pneumonia and died at the age of twenty-seven, just a year ago.
These memories prompted me to ask, “How did Oxford fare last week in the rowing race? The races have just begun, have they not?”
“You didn’t know?” Jonathan asked. “The fog last Saturday was too impenetrable for the race to be rowed at the fixed time. All the rowing on the ebbtide was abandoned. With the weather as it’s been, it is no surprise. But they did finally have a go at it on the following Monday, and Oxford did herself proud. I suppose I am a malcontent with nothing to soothe my soul now that Oxford reckons two wins more than the light blue colors.”
“You went to Cambridge?” Sherlock shrieked.
“Indeed.”
“But not Eton, Sherlock,” I said quickly. “So he is not altogether doomed to the Sixth Circle of Hell.”
“I think Dante would disagree,” Sherlock mumbled. “The Sixth Circle is reserved for heretics, so surely there is at least a half-circle in the Inferno for Cambridge alumni, even if they did not attend Eton.”
Jonathan laughed uproariously. Then he asked, “So what brings you here, Poppy? Are you taking a tour of the new facilities? You must see the new Abernethian Room. Very cheerful with comfortable leather-cushioned seats round the walls and a large table with writing materials and newspapers and monthlies. A lovely place to lounge.”
He and Womack prattled on about one of their physiology professors and I saw Sherlock begin to fidget. Then Jonathan turned to me again and abruptly changed the subject. “Poppy, have you heard that there is an opening for a Junior Assistant Medical Officer to the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum near Wandsworth-common Railway Station?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Oh, but never mind. I think they probably don’t want a-” He paused and stuttered. “But... but there’s... there’s also a vacancy for a House Surgeon to the Carmarthn Infirmary The advertisement in the Hospital Gazette said that candidates must be unmarried, know the Welsh language and submit testimonials.”
“I don’t know Welsh, Jonathan.”
“Too bad. I was just thinking it might be a fresh start for you, Poppy. They might not care that you are a female. Then again, the candidate must also be a member of the College of Royal Surgeons who don’t admit-” He stopped and looked down.
Who don’t admit women, I thought.
“You see, I just thought... well, Michael told me that your practice is barely surviving.”
Sherlock clenched his fist at his side. “Her practice is surviving very well, sir. Have you not noticed the fog outside? Patients are beating down the doors to Dr. Stamford’s medical office. She is a good doctor, a staunch practitioner, and does the best she can to wrest the country from the quicksand in which it is drifting at present.”
Jonathan glanced from Sherlock to me and back again. “Forgive me. I do apologize. I meant no disrespect. So, you have been treating patients for asthma and dropsy, I presume?”
I nodded yet again.
“Are you treating your patients with morphia for the dyspnea?” Jonathan asked. “There is a strong belief that employment of hypodermic injections of the drug can rapidly cure some attack. And opium is a useful drug as well; it relieves bronchial spasms... though I understand it’s rather useless in emphysema.”
This launched a protracted discussion about the treatment of patients with fog-related symptoms, and I saw Sherlock’s agitation and impatience rising. He wandered away and disappeared for a time.
When he returned, Jonathan had just turned our discussion to the Tay Bridge Disaster of 28 December in Scotland. During a violent storm, one that some termed a hurricane, the Tay Bridge had collapsed while a train travelling from Wormit to Dundee was passing over it, killing all aboard.
“The way I understand it, the piers were narrower and their cross-bracing was less robust than on prior bridges designed by Sir Bouch,” Jonathan explained. “Apparently, he made no allowance for wind-loading, and there were other flaws in the design of the bridge as well. I heard that only forty-six bodies of the fifty-seven who perished were recovered.”
I sighed. So once again, I thought, a new year had dawned on weeping families, mourning for friends and dear ones, just like those who had been left behind after the two train collisions in December of 1874 - collisions where Uncle and I had tended to the wounded. In one swift moment, a fraction of
