Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

“It’s the lancet that’s needed here, Dr. Tindle,” whispered Mr. Willard Labbett, surgeon. He spoke in hushed terms of respect, his speech only mildly slurred by gin. For whatever reason, the Oxford-educated physician had enlisted Labbett as his medical factotum, and Labbett was flattered that the natural enmity between a university-trained physician and a mere surgeon had been suspended. Dr. Tindle even condescended to ask Labbett’s opinion! “Your emetics are very well, but I’ve never seen a better case for bleeding. There’s the fever and all.”

Dr. Tindle looked down at the flushed girl child and hid his distaste. The child was a beauty by any standards. The impending doom of mankind would prevent her accession to tempting womanhood, but he already felt her stirring his baser nature.

“The lancet by all means, Mr. Labbett.”

His face grimacing with a suppressed grin, Labbett unfolded his tools. “We shall be needing a bowl for the bloodletting.”

Dr. Tindle placed his hand gently on Labbett’s arm.

“I should be honored if you would use my instrument for the purpose, Mr. Labbett. It is of the finest Greenwich steel, and superior, I think, to your own.”

“I am the one who should be honored, sir!”

Dr. Tindle smiled wisely. “Our combined skills are surely required in this case, Mr. Labbett. Together, we shall see the child through.”

He turned to the fretting mother. “With the help of God, Mrs. Phelps, a resolution to this crisis shall be forthcoming.”

Mrs. Phelps wiped away her tears with a stained handkerchief. “Please, doctor, save young Lucy! If only my brother were here! He, like you, is a man of medicine.”

Tindle frowned. Her brother a medical man? Perhaps it would be dangerous to proceed. But what of the clarion call of Gabriel? Tindle frowned more deeply. It would not do to be found wanting at the Judgment. God’s will be done.

“I promise you, Mrs. Phelps, that I shall do everything in my power.”

Their arrival in Bath was marred by the news that Charlotte’s little cousin, Lucy Phelps, had died of the smallpox. The child had been inoculated, but the prophylaxis had developed unchecked into the disease in spite of the attendance of a physician. Treviscoe got no comfort from funerals but could think of no graceful way to avoid accompanying Charlotte.

The Merwoods had arrived from Exeter in time for the solemn procession. Treviscoe found himself next to Dr. Erasmus Merwood in the train following the catafalque. The coffin in the long black carriage looked pathetically small.

“ ’Tis a most unfortunate occurrence, the death of such a well-dispositioned child,” remarked Dr. Merwood. “I told my sister the girl was too young for inoculation, but she would not listen and now Lucy is gone. I must confess to not having a very high opinion of Dr. Tindle’s judgment in this matter. He should have known it was too soon.”

“But there is always an attendant risk in the procedure, is there not?” asked Treviscoe. “Even full-fledged adults may succumb, or so I have been led to believe.”

“Aye, that is true, but ’tis a far lesser risk than braving the disease unprepared,” replied Merwood. “Why, have you not suffered the smallpox nor been inoculated yourself, Alan?”

“Why no, sir.”

“You surprise me! You, living amongst the scum of London, not protecting yourself against the scourge! Seven of ten who contract the disease are for the grave, Alan. How should you advise your assurance men on the wisdom of their enterprises were they to disregard such odds in the drawing up of their contracts? ’Twill not do, my boy. You must be ingrafted at once.”

“But—”

“I’ll hear no more on the subject, Alan. One death in the family is quite enough!”

Treviscoe’s eyebrows arched. He had not been aware that Dr. Merwood considered him a relation. His glance moved to fall on Elizabeth Merwood, who was comforting her shattered aunt. He suppressed the pang of longing he suddenly felt, and what remained was a sense of dread but of what, he was unsure.

“Very well. As you suggest, ’twould not augur well for my reputation were it to be said that I was a man who invited disaster. Shall you then perform the operation, sir?”

“I? I should be glad to do so, Alan, were I prepared with the necessaries, but I’m afraid you must apply to Dr. Tindle. In former days, before he came to Bath, he was physician to some of the most illustrious names in England — Despencer, I think, and Sandwich. He’s an Oxford man, and albeit he’s ignorant of the science of the thing, nonetheless he is a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, and I do not doubt his competence in ingrafting a patient already full grown.”

Treviscoe nodded thoughtfully. “Then I shall do so.”

Merwood lifted his walking stick and stared fixedly at its tip.

“But if... if—”

“If? You have reservations, sir?”

“Only, I was about to say, that if you show any symptoms not associated with the progress of the disease—”

“And why should that be?”