“So do I,” Ethan said. “Especially roasted with chestnut stuffing.”
Garrett laughed. “In this household,” she warned, “poultry is not a subject to be treated lightly.” Her eyes crinkled as she crooked her finger at him. “I’ll show you the surgery.”
They went to the operating room at the back of the house. Astringent smells laced the air: carbolic acid, alcohol, benzene, and other chemicals he couldn’t identify. Garrett lit a series of oxyhydrogen lamps, until a brilliant glow chased shadows from the tiled floors and glass-paneled walls, and bounced from reflectors overhead. An operating table built on a cabinet base occupied the center of the room. In the corner, a metal stand sprouted arms with reflective mirrors affixed to rack movements and ball pivots, the whole of it resembling a mechanical octopus.
“I use the methods developed by Sir Joseph Lister,” Garrett said, glancing around the room with pride. “I attended a class he taught at the Sorbonne, and assisted in some of his operations. His work is based on Pasteur’s theory that wounds suppurate because of germs that enter the body and multiply. My surgical equipment and supplies are always sterilized, and I dress wounds with antiseptic fluids and gauze. All of it gives my patients a far greater chance of survival.”
Ethan wondered at her willingness to take on the responsibility of life or death, even knowing the outcome would sometimes be tragic. “How do you manage the pressure?” he asked quietly.
“One becomes used to it. And there are times when the risk and the nerves help me to perform at a level I didn’t know I could reach.”
“I understand,” he murmured.
“Yes . . . I’m sure you do.”
Their gazes met, and a flush of warmth swept over him. She was so beautiful, with those upward-slanting cheekbones balancing the strength of her jawline. And the softly erotic curves of her mouth. “Doctor,” he said with difficulty, “I should probably—”
“The laboratory is over here,” Garrett interrupted, walking to another part of the room to push back a folding partition. She lit another of those scientific lamps, illuminating a space that included a stoneware sink with a hot- and cold-water supply, a heavy copper drying oven with burner plates, metal tables, and marble surfaces, and meticulously organized shelves containing bins, dishes, flasks, and intricate appliances.
Busying herself at the sink, Garrett started a flow of water. Ethan went to her side, almost dragging his feet in his reluctance. She had stuck the violet posy he’d given her into a test tube filled with water. After fitting the glass cylinder into one of the holes of a wooden rack, she removed a microscope from a rosewood case and set it beside the lamp. “Have you used one of these before?” she asked.
“Once. It belonged to a chemist on Fleet Street.”
“For what purpose?”
“I needed help to examine evidence.” Ethan watched as she adjusted tiny mirrors and lenses. “Back when I was still with K division, I was looking into an unsolved murder case. A man was said to have committed suicide with his own folding razor, which was found on the floor next to his body. But the razor was almost fully closed. It made no sense that he would have tried to fold the blade after slitting his own throat.”
Ethan regretted the words instantly. It was not at all appropriate conversation, given the company and the circumstances.
“How deep was the cut?” she surprised him by asking.
“Both carotids and jugulars were severed.”
“Instantly fatal, then,” Garrett said. “If it had been suicide, he wouldn’t have lived long enough to close the razor.”
Ethan began to enjoy the novelty of having such a discussion with a woman. “The main suspect was a brother-in-law,” he told her, “who had both motive and opportunity. Within a few hours after the crime had been committed, he was found with a bloodstain on the sleeve of his coat. He claimed he’d visited a butcher’s shop that afternoon, and had gotten the stain when his sleeve had dragged the counter. There was no way to prove whether the blood was animal or human. The case was set aside, and the evidence was stored in the division office’s property room. After I read the file, I took the razor and a sample of the bloodstained fabric to a chemist, who examined them with a microscope. He found two kinds of fiber caught in the sawtooth edge on the back of the razor. One of them was a perfect match for the blue wool coat.”
“And the other?”
“A strand of hair from a white poodle. It turned out that the brother-in-law owned just such a dog, and the hair had transferred from his coat to the murder weapon. He broke down and confessed under questioning.”
“It was clever of you to approach the case in a scientific manner.”
Ethan shrugged, trying to conceal his pleasure at Garrett’s admiring gaze.
“You may be interested to learn that now there is a way to distinguish animal blood from human,” she said. “In birds, fish, and reptiles, the blood corpuscles are oval-shaped, whereas in mammals, including humans, the corpuscles are circular. Furthermore, human ones are larger in diameter than most other creatures.”
“How do you know so much about blood cells?”
“I’m trying to learn all I can.” A shadow spread across her expression. “My father has a disorder of the blood.”
“Is it serious?” Ethan asked gently.
She responded with the tiniest possible nod.
Understanding the grief that awaited her, knowing she must always be aware of it looming in the not-too-distant future, Ethan wanted to reach for her. He wanted to hold her and promise he would be there to help her through it. The fact that he couldn’t struck a note of anger—always the most easily accessible of his emotions—and he felt all his muscles tighten.
They both glanced toward the closed surgery door as they heard the creaks and thumps of heavy feet descending the stairs. Multiple voices filled the entranceway. From the sound of it, the men who’d been playing cards with Garrett’s father were departing.
“Eliza,” one of them asked, “why didn’t Dr. Gibson come up to visit as usual?”
“The doctor came in late tonight, sir,” came the maid’s reply.
“Where is she? I should like to bid her good evening, at least.”
The maid’s voice ratcheted to a higher pitch. “Oh, you can’t, Mr. Gleig, she’s with a patient.”
“At this hour?” another man asked, sounding disgruntled.
“Indeed, Mr. Oxley.” In a moment of inspiration, Eliza added, “Poor lad broke ’is tiblin bone.”
Upon hearing the unfamiliar word, Ethan gave Garrett a questioning glance.
“Tibia,” she said, dropping her forehead to his shoulder in a defeated gesture.
Ethan smiled and curved a loose arm around her. She smelled like freshly laundered things, with a faint salty coolness beneath. He wanted to follow the fragrance along the tender warmth of her throat and down beneath her bodice.
Outside the door, Eliza proceeded to explain the dangerous nature of “tiblin” injuries, which, if not treated properly, could lead to “knee gimps,” “ankular hitchments,” and even “limputations.” Garrett fidgeted in annoyance at the maid’s authoritative lecture.