Chapter 16
St. George’s Hospital resembled Mr. Goldsten’s surgery, Kendra supposed, except on a much grander scale.
As they walked up the steps of the neoclassical mansion, Munroe explained that the hospital had once been the London residence of Viscount Lanesborough, back when Hyde Park was nothing more than open fields.
Like many wealthy families, the Lanesboroughs moved to more fashionable neighborhoods on the West End of London when the area urbanized.
At the time, Lanesborough House had been taken over by medical staff who were unhappy with their facilities in the Westminster Infirmary, and they had rechristened it St. George’s Hospital.
“I studied here for a time under John Hunter—one of the most brilliant anatomists I’ve ever known,” Munroe said, opening the door for Kendra. “In fact, he was the reason I decided to become an anatomist and open a school rather than continue as a physician.”
Munroe let out a soft sigh as they entered the waiting room, his gaze regarding the cracks in the walls, the crumbling crown molding, the peeling paint and scuff marks on the floor.
“I confess, it’s difficult for me to see St. George in such poor shape these days.
The faculty is hoping to tear it down and build another in its place. ”
The interior did have the sad aura of an aging beauty unable to stop the ravages of time, Kendra thought.
Unlike Mr. Goldsten’s clinic, all kinds of patients occupied the waiting room chairs.
Poor and working class, judging by their clothes.
The upper classes—nobility or the nouveau riche—consulted physicians who made house calls.
In a world of haves and have-nots, it was always nice to be the former. Will that ever change?
The stench was a little less oppressive here than in Goldsten’s surgery, but not by much.
Kendra didn’t have to breathe shallowly or only through her mouth, but sickness had its own smell.
As they crossed the room to the staircase, she was conscious of eyes, dulled by disease or drink or glittering with pain, tracking their progress.
The sick muttered and moaned, hacked into dirty rags, or sat in quiet stupors.
“St. George has more than two hundred-fifty patients in fifteen wards,” Munroe told her as they climbed.
He paused on the next landing, where the long, wide hallway was a beehive of activity.
Women wearing blue aprons over stiff, black bombazine dresses and carrying chamber pots and wooden buckets hurried in and out of rooms. A few men, also wearing aprons, theirs smeared with blood or bodily fluids, were making their rounds.
Kendra could hear the dull murmur of conversation punctuated by sobs and shrieks coming from behind closed doors.
Kendra and Munroe received a few curious glances, but no one stopped to inquire about their presence. Munroe held out a hand to catch the attention of two women—one tall and thin; the other short and round—scurrying past with armloads of fresh, folded linens.
“Is Mr. Dandridge or Sir Preston working today?” he asked, earning an impatient look from the tall woman.
“Sir Preston is with a patient. Mr. Dandridge is currently in surgery.” She shifted the bundle in her arms, pointing to a nearby door.
Munroe nodded. “Carry on, Sisters.”
The women darted off, skirts flapping around their heels.
Munroe opened the door, and Kendra stepped into a long, narrow room.
Daylight streamed in a bank of windows, but oil lamps had also been lit, as well as a massive fireplace on one wall.
There were fifty occupied cots, and Kendra identified at least a dozen medical staff—doctors and nurses—moving between patients.
They seemed inured to the screaming, weeping, muttering, and cursing around them.
Or the sound of urine hitting porcelain as a man with angry red, pus-filled boils covering his face stood pissing into a chamber pot.
Another patient was vomiting loudly into a bucket.
Privacy was a luxury the poor could not afford.
Kendra had spent six years as an FBI profiler, viewing the ghastliest of crime scenes. In that time, she’d become hardened to dealing with the dead. It was ironic, she mused, that her stomach now roiled as her gaze traveled over the living. If you can call this living…
Munroe looked at her. “It can be overwhelming. We can wait for Mr. Dandridge elsewhere.”
Kendra swallowed. “No, I’m fine. Which one is Mr. Dandridge?”
“Over there.” Munroe walked toward a man sitting on a three-legged wooden stool at the end of a cot.
The patient, restrained by leather straps, screamed and thrashed.
Even with the restraints, two men tried to control the man’s movements by pressing down on his shoulders and knees.
Three young men were standing to the side, observing the procedure.
Kendra caught the flash of steel as Mr. Dandridge leaned over his patient. She gave him a brief look: mid-thirties; lean face, with black, curly hair; olive complexion. Fine lines fanned out from the outer corners of his eyes, likely the result of habitually narrowing them in concentration.
She turned her attention to the scalpel he held.
His motion was quick, efficient. A slice, then he tossed something into a copper bowl held by a stern-looking nurse.
It made a faint thunk. He repeated the slice, the toss.
Plink. Kendra inched closer to see inside the bowl.
It took her a moment to identify the three bloody lumps of flesh: toes.
Finished with the amputations, Mr. Dandridge set aside the scalpel and picked up a needle and thread from a small silver tray. “This young fellow is fortunate,” he said, addressing those who were observing.
Fortunate? Kendra thought. She glanced at the patient’s face, twisted in agony.
His hair was matted with sweat. He’d quit screaming and was now emitting ragged moans each time the needle pierced his cut flesh as Mr. Dandridge skillfully sewed the skin together.
The seam was tight, but blood oozed out, smearing the surgeon’s fingers.
“The injury had become gangrenous,” Mr. Dandridge continued, without looking up from the task at hand.
The needle went in and out in a steady rhythm.
“If he had waited longer to seek medical attention, the entire leg would have become infected and I—or another surgeon—would’ve been forced to remove it. ”
Mr. Dandridge snipped off the thread with a small pair of scissors from the tray. He tied a knot, then dumped the scissors and needle. Rising, he wiped his bloody hands on his apron. His next patient would be treated with those same hands.
“William,” said Munroe, drawing the surgeon’s attention.
“Ethan.” Dandridge smiled, came over. “What brings you to St. George’s?”
“Business. May I introduce Lady Sutcliffe? My lady, this is Mr. Dandridge—our most skillful surgeon.”
“I saw your skill, Mr. Dandridge.” Still, she had to ask, “Was there nothing you could have given the patient to reduce his pain? Opium?”
“Gin is less expensive. And we gave him almost half a bottle. Unfortunately, he must have developed a tolerance for it, as it did not have the effect it ought to have had.”
Someone groaned and began retching into a bucket. Dandridge’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Shall we adjourn to a more pleasing environment? Ladies rarely tour our facilities, although when they do, they tend to confine themselves to the women’s wards.”
They fell into step with the surgeon as he walked toward the door. Dandridge gave Kendra a sidelong look. “Are you here because you are interested in becoming a patroness to the hospital, my lady?”
Apparently, Kendra mused, the only reason ladies toured hospitals and clinics was to become patronesses.
“I’m here because I’m looking into the murder of Lady Westford.”
Dandridge was reaching for the doorknob. Kendra noticed how those skillful fingers, so steady only moments ago as he sliced off three toes, spasmed. He stopped to stare at her. “Murder?”
Kendra studied him closely. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” A troubled frown creased his brow. He pushed open the door. “I’d heard about Lady Westford’s death, of course. But I was told it was an accident.”
They walked down the hall, passing a few doctors, more nurses.
Dandridge opened a door, then stepped back to allow them to enter.
He’d brought them to what appeared to be a doctors’ lounge.
Bookshelves lined two walls, crowded with heavy tomes and medical instruments.
A long buffet, located in front of a large window, gleamed with silver coffee- and teapots, a porcelain pitcher of ale, and crystal decanters.
A fireplace took up another wall. Seven tables were scattered around the room.
Three young gentlemen, still wearing their stained aprons, crowded around one table, whispering as they passed around an object.
An old man with thick spectacles perched on a bulbous nose was reading a newspaper at the next table.
“Mr. Dandridge!” said one of the young men, as he glanced up and saw the surgeon.
“We’ve been examining your Le Cylindre. Marvelous bit of engineering—simple, yet effective.
My uncle is a physician in Manchester and would be interested in this for his practice.
It ought not be too difficult to manufacture the device himself. ”
Kendra eyed the object with some interest. No one in the modern era would have looked at this simple wooden cylinder, about six inches in length and an inch and a half in diameter, and identified it as a stethoscope.
The old man at the other table snorted. “I’ve been using the ears that God gave me to listen to my patients’ heartbeats for sixty years. I don’t need anything designed by a Frenchie to practice medicine.”
“Probably wants his ear against a lady’s chest,” whispered a pimply-faced youth, and the table erupted in laughter.