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

Treviscoe pulled off his clothing and gripped the arms of his chair as Tindle meticulously and swiftly cut a half-inch incision in his right thigh a few inches above the knee. Blood trickled forth, but the razor sharpness of the scalpel made the wound hurt less than Treviscoe had expected. He watched nervously as Dr. Tindle gingerly unstopped the vial and used the flat of a second lancet to remove a quantity of yellow pus. Labbett stood ready with a linen bandage.

Tindle began to whisper almost inaudibly: “Dicit Dominus Deus...” Treviscoe was repelled as the putrid salve was slathered into the incision, but his attention was transfixed.

“...ab idolis vestris et ab universis contaminationibus...”

There was a sharp twinge of pain as the doctor applied the ingraft. Labbett awkwardly affixed the bandage around his leg as Tindle methodically repeated the procedure on the other thigh.

“...convertimini et recedite...”

In like manner the arms followed.

“...vestris avertite facies vestras.”

Then it was over.

“To bed with you,” said Tindle. “You are to admit no one into your presence but that he has had the disease or been ingrafted.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out another bottle, much larger than the first and labeled in illegible Latin.

“This is an emetic according to my own recipe, specific to the variolation,” he said. “You are to swallow two spoonfuls after supper and before bed and when you awaken each morn. Eat nothing but wholesome gruel, and drink nought but good strong porter. I will instruct your nurse as to other particulars.”

He closed his bag and stood. He seemed unnaturally joyous and invigorated. “Let us go, then, Labbett, and call again upon the morrow to see what progress shall transpire. Farewell until then, Mr. Treviscoe.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Tindle, Mr. Labbett,” said Treviscoe, feeling distinctly sick.

“Yes, by all means, goodbye!” Grinning widely, exposing his stained dentures, Dr. Tindle spun upon his heel and left the room.

No man alive, or at least no Englishman of the eighteenth century, cared to appear before the object of his affections in a state of abject weakness. Dr. Tindle’s emetic was most effective, and Treviscoe found himself breaking into sweats and involuntarily emptying his stomach at regular intervals, usually in the company of Elizabeth Merwood, his nurse, and her maid Sally, upon whom fell all menial tasks. One woman was never present without the other, and so there were always two of them to witness his indispositions. He was humiliated, and it made him cross.

He lifted his face from the bucket and beheld the charming face of his beloved, her brow furrowed with concern, and he fervently wished for a sudden and painless death. Such despair seemed to invite further convulsions, and he quickly lowered his head again.

Elizabeth was in her element. As daughter to one of Exeter’s most eminent physicians, she was a skilled and unsentimental nurse. Her father referred to her as “my Hygeia” in reference to the famous daughter of Aesculapius. She exhibited a fervent maternalism that made the merely intolerable a source of morbid anguish.

It was with a deep sense of gratitude to unseen powers, therefore, that Treviscoe greeted the news that the bottle had finally been exhausted. “I must needs have the prescription filled again forthwith,” she announced.

“No,” he groaned.

“I am much concerned that there has been no reaction to the ingraftment,” she continued. “Perhaps the matter had lost its virulence when the operation was performed. At the least, we must continue the medication.”

“No,” he groaned again, rapidly facing the bucket again and retching. Nothing was forthcoming. “As to the failure of symptoms, when I was a boy—”

“Not to worry. Dr. Tindle has provided me with the name of a reliable apothecary from whom I can replenish the medicine. I shall repair there this very afternoon.”

Stunned to silence, Treviscoe closed his eyes. His lips felt uncommonly numb, and the pain in his stomach was severe. There was none of the relief one should expect. His mind was far from clear, but he remembered something Dr. Merwood had said about Tindle. He had been physician to Despencer and Sandwich. That was it. It was somehow important. But how?

His stomach heaved again, and the thought was lost.

Elizabeth Merwood found herself before the entrance to the apothecary shop. A sign above the door showed an illustration of a mortar and pestle, around which was written the legend:

Jos: Coridon & Son

Chymists

She opened the door and entered.

There was a mousy little man behind the counter, wearing a modest grey wig and shoes with pewter buckles. His eyes lit up in obvious appreciation for Elizabeth’s elfin good looks, and he bowed, twice, in an unpleasantly unctuous manner.

“How may I be of service to my lady?”