One of the Fourteen

A Herbert West Series Supplement

  ONE OF THE FOURTEEN

  by

  Audrey Driscoll

  Copyright 2016 by Audrey Driscoll

  ISBN 978-0- 9949432-9-3 (EPUB version)

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  *******

  Cover art by Audrey Driscoll, using Canva

  Butterfly image courtesy of Pixabay

  ONE OF THE FOURTEEN

  At the Blind Beggar

  "…chloroform or ether?"

  Someone was speaking. To me. I opened an eye and directed it toward the voice. The day had been more chaotic than usual, and I must have dozed off over my pint of bitter.

  "Excuse me," I said to the as yet unknown owner of the inquiring voice. "I didn't hear your question."

  "My apologies." The speaker was a man sitting at the next table. "I didn't mean to interrupt your…"

  "Nap. I nodded off. Thank you for waking me up before our publican decided I had overindulged."

  I looked the fellow over as I spoke. The mellow light in this part of the Blind Beggar pub was perfect for socializing over a pint, but did not reveal minute details of faces. The man appeared a perfectly ordinary, nondescript sort, a little younger than I. His accent, however, was no form of London English, but marked his place of origin as the American continent.

  "You asked me something a minute ago – about ether, was it?" How had he identified me as a physician? I had certainly not been using ether today, not that I ever did. The clinic had been full of immigrant children and their anxious mothers.

  "Yes," the fellow said. "I hoped you could tell me something about anaesthetics. Er – may I join you?"

  Since it appeared we were now engaged in conversation, that was a sensible idea. "All right. Please do." I drew my glass nearer to make room for his.

  In the moments it took him to cover the short distance between us, I collected a few details of his appearance – a thin, pale, anxious face whose proportions were a little odd. Sunken forehead, lumpen nose, weak chin. In this melted candle of a face, a pair of dark eyes displayed a nervous intelligence. I thought I detected a limp in his gait, but could not be sure.

  "I'm Edwin Seale," he said, extending a hand.

  "Francis Dexter." I felt a distinct reluctance to reciprocate the handshake – I, whose profession demanded a total abnegation of squeamishness. And there was no apparent reason for it. Seale's grasp felt perfectly ordinary, no stronger or weaker than one would expect, nor held longer than was appropriate.

  "Doctor Dexter, surely?"

  There was no point in denying it. "Yes, but I don't think we've met before." I had never seen Edwin Seale at the Antonescu Clinic, but perhaps he worked nearby, or at the London Hospital, where I occasionally did surgeries.

  "No, we haven't met," Seale said, his voice softening. "Until now. I've seen you at the Hospital, though. By the way, would you mind if we switched chairs? I hear better on this side." He touched his right ear.

  Shifting from a chair into which one has settled to a different if identical one is annoying, but I refrained from objecting. Since Seale had called my attention to his ears, I could not help but notice that the left was noticeably lower on his head than its more competent mate.

  "Do you work at the Hospital?" I asked, once the chair-shifting business was finished.

  "No, I don't work there." A quick smile, showing long, narrow teeth. "People say you're a surgeon."

  "At times. So that's why you asked about anaesthetics?"

  "Yes. I was wondering what you thought about ether versus chloroform." He looked at me steadily. "Which is better?"

  "It depends." His glass, like mine, was empty. "Look, can I buy you another?"

  "Thanks."

  En route to the bar, I considered whether Seale was using an apparent interest in anaesthetics to chat me up, trolling, as they say, for 'trade.' It seemed he had been observing me for some time.

  "Bona buvare," I said, returning with fresh pints.

  "Excuse me?" Brows raised in puzzlement.

  "Local jargon. Never mind." I concluded Seale wanted only a companion over a drink or two as the afternoon became evening – especially if the companion would pay for said drinks. "I don't think you're from around here, any more than I am."

  "You're right." He took a careful sip, as though he thought I might have doctored the ale.

  "American?"

  "Canadian."

  Of course. His accent was familiar; I had heard it all the time in the hospitals and camps of the Great War.

  "I see. Well, back to your question – chloroform or ether? It's not really an either-or, you know. Here in England, ether is always the second choice. Its anaesthetic qualities are fairly good, but the stuff can become explosive if not stored properly."

  "But it's safe if stored properly?"

  "Safe enough, I suppose. The problem with chloroform is it must be administered with extreme skill and attention to avoid overdose and death."

  Seale offered a minimal smile. "Of course, it's – it must be awkward when death arrives early to the party."

  "Most people find death something more than awkward."

  "Sometimes it's unwelcome. Sometimes invited." He took a gulp of ale. "It depends, surely?"

  "Weren't we speaking of surgery, though?" I was getting tired of this pointless conversation with an ignorant stranger, but reminded myself of the importance of willingness and patience.

  "Surgery is intended to repair, to heal," I said. "Death is always unwelcome at that party." Again, I remembered the War. What a party that was, with Death the happy host, and I the cook and waiter.

  "Repair or reveal?"

  What was he getting at? "Reveal? As in…?"

  "As in discover. Find the ultimate truth."

  "Most surgeries aren't occasions for research, Seale. It's always good to learn better techniques, but the main thing is to help the patient."

  Unless the patient is an experimental subject, of course.

  Seale droned on while my mind dealt with things best forgotten. "Excuse me; I missed that last bit."

  "I was just saying – I'll bet all patients aren't the same. Maybe some are more patient than others?" He smiled again, making me wish he wouldn't. His dark brown eyes regarded me without blinking. "I'm for another," he said. "You?"

  I nodded. It seemed he had not, after all, been expecting me to finance his drinks.

  Picking up our empty glasses, he made for the bar. His gait, I now saw, was distinctly uneven, not from drink but from a slight limp. Seeing his face full-on as he returned showed me something else. His ears didn't match. Not only was the left lower than the right, they looked quite different. The one on the right side of his head was small and rounded, like a squirrel's, but the left was a large, awkward projection that looked like it had been carelessly fashioned from pastry and grafted into place. The effect was unsettling, giving Seale's countenance a disturbing asymmetry.

  A thought came to me. A terrible thought.

  "Were you in the War?" I asked, after thanking him for the ale.

  "The War." He settled down with a hint of a sigh. "Oh yes, I was in it, and it was in me. Still is." He shook his head.

  "Would you like to tell me about it? I'm in no rush." If
I told you my version of the War, I doubt you'd believe it. Or maybe you would.

  A look of gratitude spread over Seale's features. What had I set myself up for? I prepared for a long and possibly tedious evening. But I had to know the truth.

  No flood followed, of reminiscences and anecdotes. Seale just sat there, looking puzzled. Against my better judgment, I produced a nudge.

  "You were in the Canadian Expeditionary Force? Infantry?"

  He drew in a breath and held it for a moment. "I suppose so. Look, I have this." Reaching into a pocket, he drew out a small object and passed it to me.

  A Military Cross, the silver shiny with much handling, the ribbon crumpled and grubby. On the reverse, the year 1918 was engraved on the lower arm.

  I passed it back. "You were an officer?"

  "Mhm, I suppose so." He ran his thumb over the medal and returned it to his pocket.

  I tried another angle. "When did you receive this medal?"

  Again a silence, longer this time. I drank some ale and waited.

  "Pa… Pass…"

  "Passchendaele?"

  "That was the one. Had to