Crow Boy (11 page)

A gloved hand grabbed his collar and jerked him back into the coach, then pushed him onto a seat. He found himself sitting opposite the cloaked and hooded figure of The Doctor.

There was a long silence as they sat, looking at each other. Then, lifting his arms, The Doctor reached up and removed his hood.

Tom stared. He sat there, mouth open, trying to find words and when they finally did come, they were the only ones that seemed appropriate to the situation.

‘Bloody hell,' he said.

Fourteen

He was looking at Hamish – or at least, somebody very like him. Oh, the face was somewhat leaner and there was a shock of thick, oily black hair hanging to his shoulders, but he had the same brutish features, hooded grey eyes and wide, splayed nose that looked as though it had been broken at some point back in the past, most likely by a well-placed fist. The mouth was the same too: a thin-lipped slit which fronted a collection of irregular yellow teeth. The mouth currently held a disapproving scowl. Clearly, The Doctor did not approve of the language that Tom had just used.

‘Watch your mouth, boy,' he growled. ‘Or is that the kind of language they teach you south of the border?' In the juddering, swaying confines of the carriage, his body odour was simply appalling. Tom was almost afraid to breathe. ‘What are you staring at?' snapped The Doctor.

‘Sorry,' muttered Tom. ‘It's just . . . you look like my Mum's bloke.'

‘Your Mum's
what
?'

‘Her . . . boyfriend.' Tom hated even saying the word. Why did The Doctor look like Hamish? What did it mean? He made a valiant attempt to change the subject. ‘Where are we going?' he asked.

‘To my house,' said The Doctor, matter-of-factly. ‘Where I can keep a close eye on you.' He reached into his cloak and pulled out the packet of antibiotics. He opened it and withdrew what remained of the blister pack, then did a slow count of the contents. ‘Ten pills,' he murmured.

‘You shouldn't have taken those,' Tom told him. ‘Seriously. Alison was supposed to finish the course. She could get ill again.'

‘Nonsense,' said The Doctor. ‘She was completely cured. I examined her neck. The buboe had gone, as though it never existed.' He stared at Tom. ‘Do you have any idea how important these things are?' he whispered. ‘They are worth a fortune!' He thought for a moment. ‘How many did the girl take?'

Tom considered. ‘Six,' he said.

‘So there's enough here to cure two more cases?'

Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘Like I said, you're supposed to take the whole course, really. That's what the doctor told me, anyway.'

‘Well, we can definitely cure at least one person,' said The Doctor. ‘And the first thing we'll do when we get home is write to this Doctor Wikipedia and ask him for more pills. I don't suppose you've any idea what goes into them?'

Tom shook his head. ‘I haven't a clue,' he said.

‘So how did you get hold of them?'

‘Well, I saw the doctor and he wrote me a prescription and I took it to a chemist . . .'

‘A chemist? Is that like an apothecary?'

‘I . . . I think so.'

‘And the doctor tells the apothecary what ingredients to put in the pills?'

‘Er . . . no . . . not really. The pills are already made. The chemist just has to get them off the shelf. It's . . . easy, really.'

‘So, there's a multitude of these things, sitting on a shelf somewhere?' said The Doctor, excitedly.

‘Well, yes, but . . .'

‘So it shouldn't take long to get our hands on a large quantity of them!'

Tom decided it would be easier for the moment to just play along.

‘I . . . guess,' he said. ‘Sure, why not?'

‘When you tell Doctor Wikipedia about the situation here . . . how desperate the plight of the Edinburgh people is. . . I'm sure he'll agree to send us what we need. It'll take a couple of weeks to get hold of them, of course . . . but once I have them . . . I'll be the most powerful man in the city.' He leaned back in his seat and smiled. ‘For the time being, we'll just need to pick the next case very carefully. Somebody who will be suitably grateful to have the exclusive rights to the only
Sassenach
pills in Edinburgh. Somebody of means.' He rubbed a thumb and forefinger together, a gesture that hadn't changed over the centuries.

‘You mean, you'll ask them to pay?' asked Tom. ‘That's not fair.'

‘Whoever said life is fair, boy? ‘Who pays the piper, calls the tune.' You'd do well to remember that. And it's hardly my fault that we only have ten pills left.' He looked puzzled. ‘You said the girl took six tablets – but there must have been eight in the first pack to begin with. Who had the other two?'

‘I did,' muttered Tom.

‘You . . . you had the plague?'

‘No, I had a sore ear. It got better.'

The Doctor looked at him in disbelief. ‘Doctor Wikipedia
gave you the pills because you had a sore ear?'

‘Yes, well that's how it is where I come from. Whatever's wrong with you, you go to see a doctor and he fixes you up, gives you whatever you need.'

The Doctor scowled. ‘I've never been south of the border,' he said, ‘but I know people who have. None of them seemed to have a good word for what they found there.'

‘That must be because they never came to Manchester,' said Tom. ‘It's different there.' The coach bucked over something in the road with a force that nearly threw Tom out of his seat and he had to grab the door of the coach to steady himself. He took the opportunity to slide his arm out of the carriage window and grasp the handle. ‘Look, I'm not being funny,' he said, ‘but when can I go back to the orphanage? They need me there.'

The Doctor seemed amused by this notion. ‘Why would you want to go back to that hell-hole?' he cried. ‘I'm offering you respectable employment, a decent roof over your head, a square meal in your belly. I dare say you don't get any of that at Missie Grierson's.'

‘Maybe not, but, working for you, it's only a matter of time until I go down with the plague like Joshua.'

‘That
was
unfortunate,' admitted The Doctor. ‘Joshua was one of my longest serving assistants. Must have been with me for near on three months. I'm going to miss him.' He gave Tom a flat stare. ‘Forget about the orphanage,' he said. ‘You work for me, now. You'll no' be going back.'

Tom frowned. ‘How much do I get paid?' he asked.

‘Paid?' The Doctor sniggered. ‘Well, we'll have to see about that. If you can get me more of those pills, I might be inclined to cut you in for a small percentage but, don't forget, I'll be feeding you and providing you with a place to live. That's worth more than any pay.'

He began to replace the pills into the pocket of his cape and Tom made his move. He turned the handle of the door, then slid along the seat with the intention of throwing himself out onto the road – but he had reckoned without The Doctor's quick reactions. Before he could even raise himself up, a fist connected with the side of his head, flinging him back against the seat rest, his head spinning. As he turned to look at The Doctor, a gauntleted hand slapped him across the face while another yanked the door shut again. Then The Doctor leaned forward, so close that Tom almost retched from the stink of his breath.

‘Let's get something straight, boy!' he roared. ‘I am your Master now. When I say jump, your only question is: ‘How high?' Do you understand?'

Tom nodded, his eyes blurring with tears.

‘And, as to your earlier question, you'll no' receive one farthing in payment. Your reward will be the honour of serving me and working to make Edinburgh's streets free from contagion. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Yes,' gasped Tom.

‘Yes, what?'

‘Yes,
Sir
!'

‘That's better.' The Doctor eased himself back in his seat and smiled a twisted smile. ‘You know, most lads would be grateful for such an opportunity,' he observed. ‘Clearly, ingratitude is something that is instilled in you Sassenachs from birth.'

The coach began to slow and Tom wondered if they had reached their destination – but The Doctor took the opportunity to put his leather hood back over his head, as though expecting something to happen. After a few moments, the coach slowed to a halt alongside another coach facing in the other direction.

Through the open window, Tom caught sight of a shadowy figure sitting in the gloom of the coach's interior and, as he watched, a gloved hand emerged from within and handed The Doctor a single roll of paper. The Doctor took it, nodded briefly to his opposite number and then shouted to the coachman to giddy up. The coach clattered forward again, gathering speed. After a few moments, The Doctor removed the hood. He untied the ribbon from around the paper and peered at its contents with considerable interest. As far as Tom could make out, it was some kind of handwritten list.

‘Who was that?' he asked.

The Doctor glared at him. ‘Keep your nose out of what doesn't concern you,' he snapped. ‘Or is it another slap you're wanting?' He thrust the list at Tom. ‘Here, you told me before that you could read,' he said. ‘Tell me what's written there.'

Tom looked at him. ‘Can't
you
read it?' he asked.

‘My eyesight's poor,' said The Doctor. ‘Joshua used to perform such duties for me.'

Tom frowned but obediently started to read aloud, as best he could. The list was written in an ornate hand and had some very odd spellings, which made it hard to decipher. It was just a list of names and addresses, none of which meant anything to Tom, but The Doctor listened intently, as though considering each one in turn. Then Tom got to a name that
did
seem to ring a bell, Lord Kelvin.

The Doctor let out a grunt of satisfaction and Tom found himself wondering where he had heard the name before. He continued reading and, when he had finished, The Doctor took the list from him and pushed it into the pocket of his cape. ‘Lord Kelvin,' he muttered. ‘Well, well, well . . .'

Tom's mind was racing. What had the brief meeting been about? There had been something very secretive about it: the other man keeping himself out of sight; The Doctor taking great pains to ensure that he was masked. And who were the people on that list? It was clear that something was going on and, whatever it was, it was dodgy; of that Tom was sure.

The Doctor didn't speak again for the duration of the journey and, some twenty minutes or so later, the coach came once again to a grinding, juddering halt. The Doctor pushed open the door and climbed out. Then he turned back, threw up a hand and grabbed Tom's lapel, pulling him out of the carriage and down onto the cobbled street. Tom turned to see that they were standing in front of a soot-blackened house, with dirty windows and rotting frames.

‘Home, sweet home,' said The Doctor. He flicked a coin up to the coachman and, grabbing Tom by the scruff of the neck, frogmarched him up the steps and in through the paint-blistered door.

They found themselves in a grimy, windowless hallway, lit by the dull glow of oil lamps. To one side, a staircase led upwards and, beside it, there was a large wooden enclosure, filled with straw: the kind of place where you might keep an animal. Tom immediately knew something was wrong. Cameron had described Doctor Rae's house as a fine, two storey building of grey stone set in its own grounds – and though this place was bigger and more imposing than the tenements of Mary King's Close, still it looked grim and forlorn, badly in need of cleaning.

The Doctor let go of Tom long enough to pull off his heavy leather cloak and hang it on a hook on the wall. He hung the hood beside it. Then he turned back as a door opened and an old woman came out into the hallway to meet them. She was ancient and infirm, her back stooped, her face an assortment of lines and wrinkles, out of which one tar-black eye stared at Tom intently.

‘Who's this?' she croaked, in a voice as worn out as her body.

‘Mother, meet my new assistant, Tom,' said The Doctor. ‘He'll be taking Joshua's place.'

‘Him?' The old woman looked doubtful. ‘He's nothing more than a boy.'

‘I appreciate that, Mother. But he has hidden talents. Now, hurry and fetch us food and a tankard of ale. My belly feels as though my throat's been cut.'

Fifteen

Tom sat at a grubby wooden table in a filthy, windowless kitchen and picked half-heartedly at a tin plate of cold meat that the old woman had found for him. Opposite him, The Doctor was devouring a much bigger portion with evident relish, tearing wolfishly at the meat with his yellow teeth and washing it down with great swigs of ale from a pewter tankard. Occasionally he paused to let out an appreciative belch.

Meanwhile, ‘Mother' sat at the end of the table, observing the two of them in silence. She didn't seem to want any food herself but instead chose to drink cup after cup of a colourless liquid, which she kept topping up from a bottle at her side. She was in a bad mood, judging by the sour look on her wizened face. Eventually, she spoke.

‘I don't know why you've brought us another mouth to feed,' she said, her voice slurred, as though half asleep. ‘It's all we can do to put meat on our own table. And where's he going to sleep?'

‘We'll find somewhere for him,' said The Doctor, as though it was of little importance. ‘And you know I need a good stickman. Joshua isn't going to pull through; I'm sure of that.'

She scowled. ‘I never liked him anyway,' she said flatly. ‘He always thought he was too good for us. And he ate too much.' She studied her son for a moment. ‘How much did we earn today?' she asked.

The Doctor wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and shook his head.

‘Nothing,' he said. ‘In fact, I had to forgo my fee in order to procure the services of young Tom here.'

‘What?' She looked horrified. ‘But I thought they said you'd get five shillings a day! We have
expenses
.'

‘Yes, I know . . . and chief among them are the bottles of gin you put away every night.'

She gave him a crestfallen look. ‘It's medicinal,' she told him. ‘It's the only thing that settles my rheumatism.'

He scowled. ‘The amount you drink, it's a wonder you can stay upright,' he said. ‘Anyway, don't worry about the money; if everything works out as I hope it will, this boy is going to pay his way many times over. We'll be out of this stink-hole and installed somewhere more appropriate to a man of my calibre.' He chuckled and withdrew the pack of antibiotics from his pocket. He placed them on the table in front of her. ‘What do you make of those little beauties?'

‘What are they?' she asked, turning the pack around in her liver-spotted hands. She opened the packet and pulled out the contents, then sniffed at them, as though that might give her a clue. ‘Some kind of food?' she muttered.

‘They're Sassenach pills,' said The Doctor.

‘Never heard of ‘em,' said Mother, scathingly.

‘Neither had I until yesterday. But they can cure the plague.'

Mother stared at him. ‘Could such a thing be possible?' she asked him.

‘Aye. And I've seen the proof.' He took another swig from his tankard. ‘The good news is that Tom here can get more of them. Hundreds.'

‘I never said anything about
hundreds
,' said Tom warily, but The Doctor waved him to silence.

‘He's friends with the man who invented them. All it needs is a word from him and they'll be ours.'

Mother's eyes widened in realisation. ‘But . . . if you have a cure, then that means . . .'

‘Aye, Mother. When I get my hands on those pills, I'll be the most sought-after man in Edinburgh! We'll make our fortunes from this. You just see if we don't.'

‘I thought you were doing pretty well already,' said Tom, remembering what he had been told by Agnes Chambers. ‘Aren't you being paid a small fortune to look after the plague victims?'

They both turned to look at Tom in surprise; then the old woman's mouth curled into a grin, displaying a few rotten stumps of teeth. ‘Hah! He thinks you're–'

‘Wheesht, woman!' interrupted The Doctor, giving her a warning glare. Then he turned to Tom. ‘I've already told you to keep yer snout out of things that dinnae concern you. What I get paid for an honest day's work is my business and nobody else's. Do you understand?'

Tom bowed his head obediently but he was already putting two and two together. It hadn't felt right since he'd stepped into this place. This wasn't the big, fancy town house that both Missie Grierson and Cameron had described; what respectable doctor would be content to live in a grubby, rat-trap like this? The more Tom thought about it, the more it made sense. The Doctor never went anywhere without the leather mask and cloak – it could be anybody under there and who'd know? He thought too, about the other coach they'd met on the way here . . . the furtive man handing over a list of names. Maybe at the height of the outbreak there were just too many patients for one doctor to attend to. Maybe the real Doctor Rae was farming cases out to other people . . . or maybe . . . maybe he didn't even know that this was going on.

Now Tom remembered something else that Cameron had said. When he'd got to The Doctor's house that night, a man had been waiting for him by the gate. He'd said that The Doctor was out on a call and he'd taken the address of the orphanage and promised that The Doctor would pay a visit the following day. What's more, when he'd turned up, he'd demanded a tip of ten shillings, something that had come as a complete surprise to Missie Grierson. Now it all seemed so obvious. It was a scam. The real Doctor Rae didn't have a clue that an imposter was siphoning off some of his cases and charging for his visits.

‘Hurry up and finish your food,' snapped The Doctor. ‘We have more cases to attend this afternoon and I want to write a letter before we go.'

Tom obediently shoved the last few pieces of gristle into his mouth and chewed automatically. As soon as the last scrap was gone from the plate, Mother whipped it away from him and took it across the kitchen to stack with a pile of other unwashed dishes.

‘Right,' said The Doctor, rubbing his greasy hands together. ‘Mother, fetch writing materials. Tom and I have a letter to compose.'

The old woman hobbled away and returned after a while with a tray that contained, amongst other things, a quill pen, ink and sheets of thick, yellow paper. Tom noticed that there was also a lit candle in what looked like a gold holder, a touch that seemed oddly out of place in this setting. There was also a short stick of something red that looked like a child's crayon. The Doctor selected a sheet of paper and set it out in front of Tom on the grubby table.

‘You write, I'll dictate,' he said.

Tom glanced at him, slyly. ‘Wouldn't it be better if the letter came from you?' he asked.

‘Er . . . no, that's all right, I'll just sign it,' said The Doctor.

‘Why not write it as well?' persisted Tom. ‘I'm sure a clever man like you would do a better job than I could.'

The Doctor looked irritated. ‘I've already told you I have problems with my eyes,' he snapped. ‘You write it and I'll sign my name to it.'

He can't write
, thought Tom.
He's no more a doctor than I am!
But he dipped the quill pen into the pot of ink and prepared to do as he was told. First, The Doctor instructed him to write an address at the top of the page. Tom did the best he could with the unfamiliar quill, wishing he'd had a biro in his pocket when he'd arrived here. He managed to achieve a halting, splodgy scrawl as The Doctor dictated.

‘Dear Doctor Wikepedia . . .'

‘
Dear Doctor Wildebeest
,' wrote Tom. He paused for a moment, to see if The Doctor had noticed anything amiss but, though the man was watching intently as he wrote, he seemed perfectly happy with the results. Tom smiled and continued to write as The Doctor dictated, making more and more significant changes as he went on.

Dear Doctor Wildebeest,

Forgive me for writing to you in this unseemly spanner, but it has come to my detention that you may be unstable to resist me. I am Doctor George Rae, Plague Dentist and prominent sturgeon of Edinburgh. We have in our silly at this time, a most vile and headful contagion, which grows longer by the day.

Your good spend, Tom Afflick, has brought to my detention your wonderful Sausage-Pills, which have already elected a most incredible curse on a young victim of the plate. Young Tom has insured me that you would be spilling to supply me with a large quantity of these poles, which I would of course, use for the good of my patience and would ensure that they are distributed swiftly and unfairly to those moist in need of them.

I would therefore entreat you to spend at your murkiest lollipop-tunity as many sausage-pills as you can seasonably spare, in the sure and certain porridge that I, Doctor George Rae, will use them to line my own pockets.

I remain your demented serpent,

Doctor George Rae.

‘Everything all right?' asked Tom innocently, handing over the sheet of paper – and The Doctor pretended to scan the page for mistakes.

‘That's fine,' he said. He took the quill from Tom's hand and signed the letter with a flourish. Then he dried it with a blotter, folded it and turned it over. ‘Write the doctor's address there,' he instructed, pointing.

Tom obediently wrote an address, incorporating one of the first jokes he had ever heard.

‘Doctor Bob Wildebeest,

999 Letsby Avenue,

Manchester.'

‘Excellent.' The Doctor picked up the red stick and held it in the flame of the candle, melting the end until a large gobbet fell onto the edges of the folded paper. As a final measure, he pressed the face of a signet ring on his third finger into the wax, leaving the impression of an eagle's head. ‘There now,' he said.

He handed the envelope to his mother, who had been watching the proceedings in silence. ‘Take this to the post-boy and bid him deliver it with all haste,' he told her. ‘Tell him he's not to spare his horse. And whoever takes the letter to its final destination must wait for a reply before returning.' He pressed a coin into her hand. ‘Give him this for his troubles,' he added.

Mother grimaced. ‘A shilling? We can't afford to be handing out that kind of money,' she grumbled.

‘It'll be worth it,' he assured her. ‘There's civil war in England, they won't take the letter without something to put in their purse. Trust me. Up till now we've only been earning scraps. The contents of that letter will buy us the means to make a thousand shillings.'

I wouldn't hold your breath
, thought Tom, with grim satisfaction.

Mother muttered something but turned and hobbled away across the room. The Doctor smiled and turned back to look at Tom. ‘She's never understood,' he said. ‘A man has to speculate to accumulate.' He got to his feet. ‘And now we're ready to go back to work,' he said. He picked up the packet of pills and tapped them against the knuckles of one hand. ‘And I think I have just the person for these little beauties,' he added. ‘Come on, boy, don't sit there gawping at me. Time's a wasting and there's money to be earned!'

Tom was in the cramped interior of the carriage again, The Doctor dressed in his leather cape, as the vehicle rocked and swayed through the crowded city streets. Tom had heard The Doctor tell the coach driver that they were going to the home of Lord Kelvin, a name Tom remembered from the list given to them by the man in the other carriage and, for some reason he couldn't quite remember, a name he had seen or heard somewhere else. But first, they had stopped outside the tavern called The Four Talons, where they had collected the brazier-man, who Tom now learned was called Douglas. He was still carrying the hot brazier and had perched himself, and it, on a little shelf that stuck out from the back of the coach, where he seemed more than happy to travel.

The coach took a right turn and, after a short while, it left the crowded streets behind and moved along roads flanked by trees and fields. Peering out of the window, Tom could see a huge building ahead of them; a mansion built of grey stone and set within its own grounds.

The Doctor shook his head. ‘Who would have thought that the contagion could have found its way out to this charming place?' he murmured. He lifted the leather helmet and lowered it carefully over his face. ‘You will announce me,' he told Tom, his muffled voice back to its familiar croak.

The carriage rattled along a gravelled drive and passed through some high, stone gates. As it pulled to a halt in front of the house, the front door opened and a woman hurried out to meet them. She was wearing a frilly hat and apron, rather like the ones worn by Agnes Chambers back at Mary King's Close.

As Tom climbed down from the carriage, he noticed that each of the huge windows overlooking the drive had a white sheet draped in it. The Doctor alighted too and Douglas climbed down from the back of the coach and grabbed the slumbering brazier. The woman curtsied respectfully as they approached, and waited for somebody to speak. Tom stepped forward, trying to remember the words that Joshua had used before.

‘Er . . . I am Tom . . . assistant to Doctor Rae,' he said.

The woman bowed her head. ‘If you will follow me, gentlemen, the master of the house is waiting to talk to you,' she said.

‘Delighted,' said The Doctor.

They followed the woman up a flight of white marble steps and in through huge wooden doors. They found themselves in an opulent hallway, tiled in white marble. The velvet papered walls were hung with massive oil paintings and gilt mirrors. The woman turned back to look at them and Tom tried to remember what Joshua had said next.

‘Umm . . . where's the . . . victim?' he asked, but then noticed that the woman was bowing her head as somebody else came into the hallway. Tom turned his head and stared. Coming towards him was a man wearing a white powdered wig and a fancy gold jacket. As he came nearer, he nodded to Tom and forced a smile, revealing a mouthful of rotten green teeth.