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

“Have I the pleasure—” honor seemed too strong a word “—of addressing Monsieur Coridon, Senior, or Junior?”

He tittered unattractively.

“I regret to say that Monsieur Coridon, Senior, as you have styled him, has been dead these several years. No, madam, I am, alas, the erstwhile junior partner on these premises. Mr. Joseph Coridon, fils, at your service.”

“Very good, sir. My name is Miss Elizabeth Merwood—”

“Who’s that, then?” a hoarse female voice demanded, bellowing from the rear of the shop. An obese and very short woman hauled herself through the door behind the counter and surveyed Elizabeth with suspicion. Mr. Coridon winced.

“A customer, my dear, that is all.”

Mrs. Coridon looked suspiciously at Elizabeth and then at her husband. She looked closely again at Elizabeth, nodded, and the suspicion faded. It was as though she had decided that Elizabeth was too pretty for her husband to hope for and therefore not a rival.

“As I was saying, I am Miss Elizabeth Merwood, daughter to Dr. Erasmus Merwood of Exeter. I have come hither to have a prescription filled, from Dr. John Tindle of Bath.”

“Tindle again, is it?” Mrs. Coridon curled her lip. “A mad old dog, he.”

“I am a nurse, ma’am,” said Elizabeth, “in charge of a variolated patient of Dr. Tindle’s. I have come seeking to fill a prescription for an emetic, which I had been led to believe might be acquired here.”

“Now see here, Miss Merde—” at this, Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, but it was obvious that Mrs. Coridon was unaware she had said something coarse “—if your patient is under the care of Mad Tindle, he’s like to be a corpse before the week is out. Why, I’d not wager a farthing he lives out the week, but gladly a guinea the other way! It’s the quicksilver what’s done it to old Tindle, I daresay. Better to trust simple apothecaries than the likes of him. No telling what’s in Tindle’s potions.”

“When I prepare them myself, I certainly have the knowledge, Mary. Now, Dr. Tindle has been very kind to us,” said Mr. Coridon to his wife. “He prefers us to every other chymist in Bath for the preparation of his special emetics and nostrums, and his skill as a physician has been demonstrated at court. Please do not denigrate him so, I beg you.”

His wife gave him a look of sheer contempt.

“You know your business, Joseph,” she said at length. “I shan’t interfere. But a word to the wise, miss! Don’t be stuck with Dr. Tindle alone in a room, is all!” Pulling her skirts up, she sailed back whence she came.

Elizabeth recognized the look in Mr. Coridon’s eyes as his wife departed. It was a look of utter hatred.

When he turned back to Elizabeth, his obsequiousness returned as though it had never been interrupted. “The variolation emetic? Of course, of course. I have the recipe here, and it will be but a few moments in preparation. Pray excuse me till it is done.”

As good as his word, Mr. Coridon quickly combined several powders and liquids into a uniform solution and presented it to her, charging two shillings sixpence.

She accepted the bottle and, curtseying, withdrew. She was never so glad to be back on the streets of Bath, and she hurried back to Treviscoe’s apartment.

Treviscoe’s condition grew steadily worse. Although the wounds from the ingrafting failed to develop any sign of inflammation, he developed a rash, and his stomach pains grew in intensity. When he became too weak to lift himself out of bed, Elizabeth sent for Dr. Tindle and her father.

Dr. Merwood took the stairs to Treviscoe’s bedroom three at a time despite his bulk. He threw open the door and panted, watching as Elizabeth wrung her hands, her face contorted with worry. Sally sat off to one side, weeping. Dr. Tindle leaned attentively over the patient. Willard Labbett stood by the window, arhythmically swaying.

The patient’s breathing was labored. Merwood gaped in shock at how weak his friend appeared. There was an unmistakable tinge of jaundice in the sclera of his glazed eyes.

“Tindle, what have ye wrought here?” he thundered, pushing the Oxford man out of the way and getting a closer look at Treviscoe. “You are a bigger fool than I e’er imagined! Here is no sign of the smallpox at work! ’Tis some other disease!”

Tindle stared at Merwood, his eyes red and bright. “Fool? Am I a fool? ’Ware evil words, ye unbeliever! Hos d’an, More, enochos estai eis ten gehennon tou pyros.

”

“What is that? — gehennon tou pyros,” muttered Treviscoe, “...gehennon... pyros—! Hellfire! Hellfire!” He struggled to sit up. Dr. Merwood strove to prevent him.

“You are delirious, my boy!”

“Hellfire...” His hoarse voice began to fade.

Merwood carefully helped Treviscoe he down. Gradually the patient grew calmer and drifted off to sleep.

“Aye, that’s the medicine needed now. Rest, young Alan, rest well.”

Dr. Merwood stood erect, shoulders back, chin aggressively forward.