Predators In Old Londontown

[ChrisWard]

Predators in Londontown


September 24…….
9pm

I find myself enflamed by Darwin’s words: the fearless perceptions, the breeding concepts, the incisive vision. Often, as I read, I am compelled to lay the book down. I pace the floor filling the room with dense clouds of tobacco smoke. At times I am moved to wander the streets of London. Stopping only to jot down an idea under some flickering yellow gas lamp.

It fits. It all fits. Physiognomy, Biology, Medicine, Geology, Ethnicity…..every topic I had studied. Open. Open at last. No recourse to FAITH........ to the priests and prelates answer to every intellectual puzzle.

I want to run. I want to sit down. I want to…My mind is awhirl one implication after another. One life changing implication after another. I must walk…..


10pm….

Back again. I have resolved to use these galloping insights in my research. I will leave the myriad avenues of possibility closed and narrow my focus. Focus on the problem at hand: the encephalitis epidemic which is ravaging the inhabitants of London. Dr. Mallon has told me to drop all other projects and apply myself completely to the problem. To discern how it is spread or how it can be cured.

This work - this “Origin of the Species”. It must apply to my study of the brain and the effects of this brain fever. I left work this evening dejected. Facing another dead end….Tomorrow I will return renewed. Damn, “The Royal Medical Society” is sending in an expert from Manchester tomorrow……. I can’t let him distract me. I will pursue my own instincts. He can work out of my laboratory but I will not allow him to interfere with my research.

The limbic brain..... It has to contain this evolutionary matter of which Darwin speaks. It is the instinctual brain. The primal brain. The limbic brain and the pituitary gland. That’s where I’ll begin.

1am….

I will go to Bedlam. Plumb the various levels of insanity. The mind reverting to the animal. I will need to perform a number of autopsies. I’ll also examine various chronic patients. Also look at the effects of the raging encephalitis in some of the victims’ brains. God knows there are bodies enough.

3am....

Acquire some animal brains………



This thread is closed to Maid of Marvels and myself.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Blake Grantham stepped down from the hansom and onto the cobbled street, the envelope with the letter of introduction from Dr. Mallon firmly in hand. 20 Sackville Street, she read, looking up at the edifice as she slowly climbed the steps and rang the bell.

"I'm here to see Dr. Jonas Weston," Blake informed the elderly housekeeper who answered the door. "I believe I'm expected."

The woman raised an eyebrow, accepting the proffered letter with an almost condescending air, her hawklike eyes scrutinizing the young woman's appearance as she admitted her. "We shall see. Wait here."

Blake sighed, though there was an amused twinkle in her eye as she set down her portmanteau and blew a wisp of her unruly hair from her forehead. She realized that the housekeeper had been expecting a male, and more than likely so would have been Dr. Weston. Blake was a family name normally relegated to the first son in each generation of Grantham lineage. Not so for this generation, however. Blake was the seventh child to be born and the only one to live, her only other legacy being the cause of her mother's demise. She often considered that it was her father's revenge on her, but he would never know that it had served her to good advantage, especially in her chosen field of medicine where womenfolk were quite often shunned.

"This way, miss... Erm... Doctor Grantham," the housekeeper sniffed haughtily as she reemerged from the doorway she'd disappeared behind some minutes before. "Doctor Weston will be with you shortly."

Picking up her bag, Blake followed quietly as she was led into a large though simply furnished parlor. It was well-kept though showed little signs of use, Blake thought. If Dr. Weston was everything she'd been led to believe, he would have little time for frivolities. In her mind, the man was a genius.

"Dr. Grantham?"

Blake looked up, holding out her hand toward the man who greeted her with no small amount of rancor. It was more than obvious he felt her presence to be an intrusion on his precious time, though she aimed to prove differently. "Indeed, Dr. Weston. I believe Dr. Mallon forewarned you of my arrival?"

He nodded brusquely. Ignoring her extended hand and, instead, pulling a bell rope hanging near the fireplace, he turned toward the housekeeper as she bustled into the room. "Mrs. Fletcher, show Dr. Grantham to her room and then bring her down to the laboratory."

"This way, mi... Doctor."

Blake rolled her eyes and forced a smile to her face, once again picking up her bag. Turning toward Dr. Weston, she spoke crisply, "Thank you for allowing me to assist you in your research," but he was already gone, disappearing behind a door that apparently led to his workrooms. "Well, then, Mrs. Fletcher," Blake said with a shrug. "Lead on."

The bedrooms, it seemed, were on the third floor and "hers" was furnished spartanly with a bed, an armoire and a mirror-backed bureau that was direly in need of resilvering. To its credit though, there were two windows that seemed to catch the light well, one of them with a small escritoire placed before it. It would do. It would do quite well, in fact. Like the good Dr. Weston, Blake Grantham had little use for elaborate trappings. They only served to get in the way of cogitation.

Deposting her portmanteau for the third, and hopefully final time, Blake removed her hat and her coat, handing them to the negligent Mrs. Fletcher while informing her that she there would be a delivery that afternoon containing the rest of her belongings. Slipping on a white smock, she smiled to herself knowing that if she didn't assert herself now, the old biddy would never get the idea and Blake Grantham had worked too hard to get her degree in medicine to have someone disregard it.

 

[ChrisWard]

September 25…..11 am
The limbic brain is showing enormous promise. The pedula of the human, the chimp, the mouse, the lizard all exhibit similarities, which cannot, must not, be ignored. I have made inquiries and orders to procure fresh samples in order to perform chemical analyses using Lambert’s method of decomposition. I feel sure that matching these samples with my work on humans at Bedlam will produce promising results. Promising results indeed. I am afire with my research and have warned Mrs. Fletcher that I am not ……..Oh damn the woman. She is at my door at this instant……

11:15 am

The famous Dr. Blake Grantham is a woman for the love of God. A woman. A woman. Could there be a more disastrous turn of events. I who would gladly expound a thesis before a board of learned professors, who would discuss philosophy with Aristotle himself, who would argue physics point and stroke with Newton - all of these before I could utter a cogent sentence to a beautiful woman. And who could but notice that Dr. Blake Grantham is a beautiful woman. Not now, Lord. Not when I am on the cusp of a discovery whose import staggers the imagination.

I must feign rudeness. I will dismiss her from my studies and let her pursue her own research. What recourse do I have? It’s either that or turn into a stuttering, stumbling fool before her stunning gaze. Better to be thought and ogre than a simpleton. Remember Weston you are a confirmed bachelor. Every embarrassing moment of your life has involved the presence of a beautiful woman…Get your mind back on the project at hand. Block her out.

The strength and resistance of our animal brain could make us impervious to the current plague as well as a legion of ills that have decimated mankind. I have my suspicions that the power lies in an enzyme repressed for some evolutionary step forward. I must set up the lab for the Lambert’s process. The samples should arrive this afternoon. This evening I will make an exploratory trip to Bedlam. I am beside myself with excitement. I find interruptions excruciatingly taxing. Even filling out my scientific journal is a chore. My but she was beautiful. Graceful. Self composed……

 

[Maid of Marvels]

http://www.Bibracte.dreamwater.org/ATWAS/WestonsLab.jpg​

Refusing Mrs. Fletcher's last ditch effort at controlling her and her movements during her sojourn at 20 Sackville, Blake made her own way to Dr. Weston's laboratory. Conceding that it was his domain, she rapped once before entering though didn't wait for him to bid her enter. She was here in a professional capacity, not as a guest who needed permission for every action taken. In her mind, it would hinder any efforts at closing the ever-broadening and perilous gap between medical science and arresting the ominous and deadly march of the brain fever that was claiming more and more lives daily.

Weston slammed the book he had been writing in closed, glaring at her as she entered. Rejecting his overt challenge to be drawn into the animosity he obviously felt toward her, Blake merely nodded, her eyes scanning the equipment in the room that seemed to be nearly as large as each floor of the house above it. Definitely space enough to swing a cat, she thought, with allowance enough for both of them to work on separate projects as well as (she could only hope) on conjoint ones.

"I would like to familiarize myself with your equipment, Dr. Weston." She spoke bluntly, her words replete with a tone of sangfroid that was possibly the furthest thing from the sense of discomfiture he seemed so determined to immerse her in.

Truth, his behavior, or lack thereof, disappointed her. In her opinion, and that of both the Medical and Scientific Societies at large, Dr. Jonas Weston was unrivalled in his position at the vanguard of those who delved intrepidly into the existence of previous unknown and unrecognized purviews. It was a shame that he was unable to overcome Society's jaundiced view that women clearly belonged in the parlor serving tea -- when they weren't busy birthing babes, that is.

"I will use this area over here," she added, pointing toward a large table that was empty of apparatus and accouterments. "My books and some equipment will be delivered this afternoon. Other than that, Dr. Weston, I will try to keep out of your way despite the fact that I had hoped we would be working more cooperatively on this project."

That said, Blake blew at an incorrigible tendril of hair that had escaped her otherwise austere coiffure and turned away. Taking a fountain pen and a bottle of India ink from one of her voluminous pockets, she placed a ledger on the table and pulled up a stool, writing:

25 September​

And so it begins... I have arrived. Although it seems my experience here may not be as I had expected, I am determined to prove my worth in this research. Despite Dr. Weston's stodgy and unmodern misgivings due to my gender, he will not be disappointed.

 

[ChrisWard]

September 25…..3pm
She entered the laboratory with such unflappable ease, such confidence, savvy. It has ever been my contention that one can tell expertise by the way one moves about their apparatus of choice. Watch a concert violinist pick up a violin and you know without the production of a single note that the chap is adroit, even talented. Dr. Grantham moved about the lab with that aplomb. Her practiced eye assessed analyzed approved by osmosis. I would have respected that manner of familiarity in anyone. But, the way her smock grabbed the curve of her hip, the shapely breasts contouring what was usually asexual attire, had me enthralled, hypnotized, agog. If I spoke, I know I would have swallowed both consonant and vowel in an attempt to greet her cordially.

Rather, I slammed my journal shut and brusquely nodded. I proceeded to the long table washed in northern light and began to prepare the burners, coils, vessels, vats, tubes, and distillery equipment necessary for my Lambert’s process of chemical analysis.

"I would like to familiarize myself with your equipment, Dr. Weston." Her voice a bell of enrapturing tones peeled out her pronouncement. I stared and grunted at her for safety’s sake. Then the angel spoke again, "I will use this area over here," another perfunctory nod from me. She chose a table across from mine, which pleased me immensely. It afforded me the possibility of furtive glances in her direction. I could see her bend, float, concentrate. But Lord that wisp of willful hair that springs constantly into her sightline. That wisp which she blows at or flicks away and renders her the most sensual creature I have ever known. How am I to work?

"My books and some equipment will be delivered this afternoon. Other than that, Dr. Weston, I will try to keep out of your way despite the fact that I had hoped we would be working more cooperatively on this project." For the sake of propriety I was forced to answer. “Hmm, we shall see. We shall see.” I dared not look in her direction as I spoke and remained steadfast in my setting up of the equipment.

6 pm.....

I received the samples and proceeded to slice razor thin slices for microscopic examination. I had categorized the slides all of limbic samples and arranged them in Pruit holders. The similarities I found extremely exciting and was washed with the rush of scientific discovery. At times one intuits a scientific result and when all the preliminaries line up the sense of impending discovery overwhelms one’s senses. I paced, excitedly behind the bench. Immersed in thought and expectation.

“May I?” She was beside me. Her scent was captivating. I nodded and motioned toward the microscope. She bent over to examine the first slide and the nearness of her and the arousing posture had my head swimming. “ You are preparing for a Lambert analysis I see.” She spoke casually as she worked meticulously through the slides. “My God,” she said, the structures are identical. I forgot for a moment that I was talking to a woman and broke into an enthusiastic discourse on the evolutionary traces of each preceding link. Each carries its history on a molecular level.

She tore herself from the microscope and stared hard at me. In her face set unmistakably in the scientists “Eureka” expression. “DARWIN!” She gasped.
“Yes, Yes.” I enthused and touched her arm. That was too much for me. I realized to whom I was speaking and muttered something inaudible then walked away.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Confused and more than a little disappointed, Blake watched Dr. Weston walk away, terminating the discussion before it had even begun. Darwin... she thought to herself, wondering if Weston's research was based on any of his theories. Brilliant man. Brilliant ideas. And such a pity that he couldn't look past her femininity to have a serious colloquy on the subject.

Taken by the implications of what she had seen on the slides, Blake continued to unpack the books and equipment that had arrived with only an occasional curious glance toward Weston's project. Tomorrow she would be out a good portion of the day. Perhaps her absence would allow him to acclimatize himself to the fact that she was a mere woman and they could then move on to comparing notes and ideas, if not to working jointly.

A sharp rap on the door was met by an unceremonious oath from Weston which broke the silence of the laboratory for the first time in hours. "Confound it, Fletcher! How many times must I... "

"Your dinner, Dr. Weston. It's half eight."

Though he managed a grunt, Blake thanked Mrs. Fletcher and commented that they would be right up. "I hadn't realized how hungry... " she began, catching her words back before they provoked Weston into a continuation of the tirade he'd begun a few moments before. Giving herself a mental shrug, the first of many Blake was certain, she hung her smock on a peg near her work area and washed her hands. Another thing they had in common, Blake thought... the need for disinfecting and almost laughed aloud as the throught continued... and yet another thing she could not speak of.

The meal was both tasty and filling, a roasted joint accompanied by potatoes and root vegetables with a fresh baked loaf on the side. They ate in silence, the only sounds were the clinking of cutlery on chinaware and the gentle blubblub of wine when Weston refilled their glasses.

Weston departed almost as soon as his plate was cleared, barely making his excuses. Determined not to be bothered by his lack of manners, Blake remained at table, enjoying a large slice of fruit pie and a hot cup of tea. Aside from some journal entries that she would make after her bath, the rest of the evening was hers alone. Tomorrow she would begin in earnest.

 

[ChrisWard]

September 26…1am
I arrived at the sanitarium at 10:00. During the cab ride I confess to a mind numbing preoccupation. That Grantham woman haunted me: her dedication in the lab, Her fluid movements with the scientific equipment, the way she bit her lower lip when lost in contemplation, That errant wisp of hair……. Damn the woman. Hadn’t I just spent half my day stealing glances at her rather than concentrating? We washed up for dinner and my mind raced at the nearness of her. During dinner, I assiduously avoided speaking. Grunts and shrugs were to be our communication. I refused to be revealed as a self-conscious admirer. I would not come across as the dotting adolescent. I have foresworn women’s company. I must remember that vow.

I was glad of the lateness of my hour as it afforded me free roam of the morgue and the case studies, which accompanied each corpse. I had merely to open the back of the skull and extract enough of the instinctual brain in order to complete my comparative samples.

Bedlam was a treasure trove. The levels and types of abnormal behaviors were staggering. There were myriad cases of London’s particular encephalitis disease. Most of these poor devils were locked away here out of family need, greed, and abuse. Get a doctor to sign a warrant and the relative you wish removed was carted away and thrown in with murderers, monsters, and all manner of perverts. This place is one of London’s black eyes. At the moment I could not afford such moralizing, however, and proceeded with my work.

When I found the cases, which interested me, I had the night clerk copy the patient’s symptoms and numbered them to match my samples. I was fortunate in finding two cases of particularly violent cases, which the attending physician had called animalistic. I wondered if I might find traces of particular enzymes which might lead me into some avenues of research. Rapists, murderers, sodomizers, the criminal underbelly of London was well represented. I worked quickly and left the institution at 12:30. I could return at any time but felt I had a fine cross section and range of human evolution or devolution as the case may be.

2:00 am....
I swear the woman has a powdery, delicate fragrance which seeps even into my very room. How am I to concentrate? She is so maddeningly pleasant. So, so feminine. I must get some sleep. I have so much to do tomorrow. I am afire with my research…. I am afire with Dr. Blake Grantham…. Damn the woman.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

25 September​

I found myself both relieved and disappointed when Dr. Weston left the house without a word. For all his brilliance, the man is maddening!! Even so, I will not be swayed from this project.

But now I must sleep. Tomorrow it will be myself who goes a-travelling in Londontown. Perhaps I will leave him a note. Perhaps... not. Truth, he probably will not even notice my absence. A mere woman. Pah!!

~*~​

Up at first light, Blake didn't disturb Fletcher, making her way to the kitchen on her own. The cook, Mrs. Mabel Johnson by name, was only too pleased to prepare her regular breakfast after she enthused about the delightful dinner the night before -- one soft-boiled egg and a slice of toasted bread, a glass of juice and a cup of coffee.

Until she knew more, the young woman had no intention of eating anything sold on the streets. Mabel ("Just call me Mabel, Dr. Grantham"), was also more than pleased to pack Blake ("Let's forgo the formalities when it's just the two of us, Mabel. Just call me Blake") two generous sandwiches made from last evening's leftover joint which she wrapped in brown paper. In truth, it was a pleasant surprise to find that everyone in Dr. Weston's house was not disagreeable. This said, and knowing that it took a person with good manners to be truly rude, Blake decided not to leave a note after all.

The cab arrived just as she'd arranged at half seven and she was off, notebook in hand and various implements and vials in her medical bag for sample-taking if the opportunity or need arose. First stop: London Fever Hospital on Pancras Road with several others on her list as time permitted.

Blake wanted to observe conditions of the poor stricken with this invidious brain fever before that of the upper classes for two reasons. One, there were more poor afflicted than rich and the morbidity rate was higher among them as well. Or was that just because there were more poor than there were rich? That, indeed, was yet another consideration for her to ponder.

She spoke with physicians as well as nurses and those patients who were lucid enough to answer questions; family members in attendance for those who were not. Conditions were deplorable at best and she couldn't stress often enough, though it fell on deaf ears, the fact that sterile procedures such as handwashing might help to prevent its spread to caretakers.

It seemed, as she wended her way from hospital to hospital, that the ages of the patients varied along with the severity of their symptoms; the most acutely afflicted being at the extremes of ages, from infants and children to the elderly. The rate of morbidity among these two disparate groups was also much higher.

Fever, headache, nausea and vomiting, lethargy and decreased levels of consciousness. Acute confusion, amnesia in some cases, behavior and personality changes, seizures. Stiff necks, photosensitivity and even photophobia. Lesions, bulging fontanels on infants and young children. It was nearly impossible to tell what was a direct consequence of the disease itself and what was resultant from the living conditions of the patients.

Blake managed four hospitals and had almost entirely filled a notebook with notations, scribbled in her own peculiar style of shorthand which she would transcribe later. Bone-weary, though quite excited on an intellectual level, she stepped down from the cab and climbed the steps at 20 Sackville Street, startled to hear the parlor clock chiming as she let herself in the door. It was ten o'clock.