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

Merwood pursed his lips and frowned. He relaxed the elevation of his walking stick and planted it in front of him as he stepped forward. “There can always be complications, my boy. Caroline, my sister, told me of Lucy’s extreme discomfort in the stomach before the end, and that is not typical of the smallpox. Perhaps it was Dr. Tindle’s emetics were the cause, but I didn’t much care for the sound of it. So I should say that if any such signs manifest themselves in your own self, it might be well to remove from Dr. Tindle’s ministrations and seek my further advice, although I will not be long in Bath.”

Treviscoe kept his face free of expression. In spite of his respect for Dr. Merwood, whose Scottish medical training made him more advanced than most, Treviscoe had seen enough misery in treatments to have a generally low opinion of doctors.

“As in all things pertaining to constitutional matters, I shall abide by your advice,” he said at length, stealing a glance behind them at the austere Dr. Tindle. The man’s eyes were lit up like fire beacons, bloodshot as though he hadn’t slept in weeks but as wide open as a fresh grave. It made an uncomfortable contrast to the general tearfulness of the assembly. Treviscoe’s sense of dread deepened.

“Emetics, then! Should I refuse ’em?”

“By no means should you do so, Alan, if you are in any condition to swallow ’em — for the disease can cause such swelling in the throat as to render the administration of medicine near impossible — but emetics are at the heart of medicine,” replied Merwood.

“Aye, then it is fortunate I had my boyhood in shadow of Comet Castle,” said Treviscoe. The look of concentration on his face disappeared beneath the customary affectation of bored listlessness.

“What’s that?”

“ ’Tis nothing but an errant thought, sir,” said Treviscoe quietly.

The march to the churchyard proceeded.

Treviscoe’s ingrafting required that he should be in quarantine for more than a week after the operation. Only those persons who would not be in danger of contracting the disease, that is, only those who had survived the smallpox or been successfully inoculated, were to be admitted to his chamber. Unluckily for him, the list did not include his manservant Hero, and so some other arrangements for his domestic necessities needed to be made. To Charlotte’s unspoken but nonetheless clearly expressed disapproval, it was decided that her sister Elizabeth should nurse him and attend to whatever needs she could in all propriety provide.

Dr. Tindle and his shadow Mr. Labbett attended him the day after the funeral.

“The common procedure requires four to five incisions,” explained Dr. Tindle, “although in the course of a lifetime of medical practice, I oft have found six to eight more efficacious, which in the course of events shall produce scarring to the affected areas. Therefore I advise that you should choose such portions of your figure as will not be exposed to public view, such as your thighs and upper arms.”

“Are so many necessary, doctor?” Treviscoe asked. “Reason might dictate but one.”

“That should never suffice, sir,” said Tindle, his eyes narrowing with suppressed anger. “Never, indeed! There must be an adequate admixture of the humors for the poison to be successfully overcome. Otherwise, ’twere to court death.”

“Methought danger always present in this procedure — exempli gratia, young Lucy Phelps—”

Dr. Tindle stood erect, noticeably offended. “I am but a mortal man, sir, mortal even as the girl, and cannot imagine how in my imperfect state I might be held to account for the summons of Divine Providence!”

“I should never call a child’s death providential, doctor—”

“You’re vexing the doctor, sir!” Labbett interrupted. “Him who shall deliver you from the scourge!”

“Deliver, aye, deliver,” muttered Tindle, his eyes rolling upward.

“Peace, then! Let’s get on with it,” said Treviscoe. “Am I to be blamed for pausing before the lancet?”

“There’s nowt to fear,” said Labbett. “An artist, is the doctor! Ye’ll witness that!”

“The art of medicine,” Treviscoe said, frowning. “Nevertheless, I will not have eight lacerations. One in each thigh and in each upper arm will answer.”

Tindle smiled, his composure quite restored. He reached into his medical bag and retrieved a small stoppered glass vial and a leather-bound oblong case the size of a man’s hand, which when opened revealed a set of sharply honed flat-bladed lancets. “Very good, then. Four have been known to be effectual, if not as well as eight. Now be so kind as to remove your breeches.”