Reynell nodded fervently. ‘People enjoy them very much. You should tell Wiseman to invite you next Saturday. You will not believe the fabulous time you will have. And, as for the dinner afterwards … well, suffice to say there are already three bullocks hanging in the kitchens.’
Chaloner thought it astonishing that people would want to eat after seeing entrails brandished about. Surgeons he could understand, but he was not sure he would be ready to devour red meat after watching some hapless villain ruthlessly sliced to pieces.
‘Did Surgeon Fitz-Simons ever hold Private Anatomies?’ he asked.
A furtive look was exchanged. ‘Why do you ask about him?’ demanded Johnson curtly.
Chaloner shrugged, and pretended not to notice the hostility. ‘I met him once, that is all.’
Johnson ushered him towards the door in a way that was only just polite. ‘I have work to do.’
Chaloner was relieved to be outside, despite the fact that he had failed to confirm whether the corpse was Fitz-Simons. He took a deep breath of relatively untainted air, thinking wistfully of the sweet scent of Thurloe’s garden. Meanwhile, Johnson and Reynell were engaged in a low-voiced debate, but when Chaloner took a few steps towards them, the clerk grabbed the surgeon’s arm and pulled him away. Chaloner was puzzled: Reynell had not been odd before the question about Fitz-Simons.
He was not left alone for long before a familiar figure approached. It was Lisle, his brown, wrinkled face creased into a smile. ‘Mr Heyden,’ he said pleasantly. ‘The Earl of Clarendon’s friend.’
Chaloner gestured to Johnson. ‘I may not be welcome here if you tell him that.’
Lisle laughed. ‘Johnson is a man who sees life in extremes – you are either in Bristol’s camp or you are an agent of the Devil. Wiseman is much the same in his defence of Clarendon. Personally, I prefer not to become involved in squabbles that are none of my business.’
‘Where is African House?’ asked Chaloner, deciding to learn whether Lisle was the surgeon Scot said had attended the Guinea Company dinner. ‘I have been ordered to represent Lord Clarendon at a function there, but I am a stranger to London, and have no idea how to find it.’
‘Behind Throgmorton Street,’ replied Lisle promptly. ‘As Master of the barber-surgeons, I am often invited to the dinners of other guilds, and those held by the Guinea Company are among the best. They are good men.’
‘I was under the impression that some condone slavery. That does not make them “good men”.’
‘The government would disagree – it has issued charters for the exploration of Africa with a view to expanding trade; this will ultimately include slaves. Wiseman is furious about it, and spends a lot of time lobbying politicians and merchants in an effort to stop it from happening. Personally, I think it is a lost cause, and prefer to donate a day of each week to treating London’s poor, because they are people I can help.’
‘I heard there was an argument at the last Guinea Company dinner, between those who object to slavery and a merchant called Webb.’
‘The dear departed Webb,’ said Lisle with distaste. ‘It is difficult to condemn anyone for arguing with him. I seldom meet a man in whom I can see no redeeming qualities, but Webb was one.’
‘Did he pick a quarrel with you, too?’
Lisle grimaced. ‘He once accused me of overcharging for a treatment. It was untrue, of course.’
‘Of course. Were you at the Guinea Company dinner?’
‘You mean did I see anyone there who was so offended by Webb’s vile presence that they stuck a rapier into his black heart?’ asked Lisle with a wry smile. ‘I imagine there were plenty, but I was not among them. I was invited to the dinner, but the moment my carriage arrived at African House, I received an urgent summons from a patient. I never got inside.’
‘What about your colleagues?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Johnson or Wiseman. Or Fitz-Simons?’
‘Invitations were issued to all, but I cannot tell you who accepted and who declined.’ Lisle’s gaze strayed to the splint on Chaloner’s arm, and his eyes narrowed in sudden anger. ‘Damn it! Wiseman has been practising with different glues again – and after I forbade him, too! You will be lucky to regain the use of your hand once this comes off. He has been experimenting with some exceptionally resilient substances recently, ones I feel endanger a patient’s life.’
‘I thought a blacksmith might–’
‘No!’ cried Lisle. ‘His splints set extremely hard, and you may find yourself seriously maimed if you let an amateur at it. It is a task only a surgeon can perform.’
His vehemence was making Chaloner uneasy. ‘Wiseman intends to leave it in place for a month, but I shall need two good hands long before that.’
Lisle patted his shoulder. ‘I can help you there, but not yet. I have learned from experience that Wiseman’s glues begin to dissolve after a few days, which makes them easier for the professional man to remove. Next Saturday would be a good time. Come to me then, but do not tell Wiseman – he will certainly object to me “poaching” a patient.’
‘Next Saturday?’ asked Chaloner, aghast. ‘I cannot wait until then!’
‘It is the best I can do, now the adhesive has been applied. Do not be too distressed. Miracles happen every day, and perhaps your hand will recover in time.’
‘But there is nothing wrong with it,’ cried Chaloner, deciding it was the last time he would ever let a surgeon loose on him, just for an opportunity to ask questions.
‘Wiseman misdiagnosed?’ Lisle was thoughtful. ‘Yes, he might have done. He believes himself infallible, which is a sure way to make mistakes. But we shall put all to rights next week, so do not fret. And in the future, you will know to be more selective about your surgeons. We are not all the same.’
Chaloner was tempted to leave Chyrurgeons’ Hall while he was still in one piece, but he was angry, and disliked the notion that Wiseman had conducted an unlicensed experiment on him. He decided to stay and confront him about the matter.
‘Lord!’ groaned Lisle suddenly, looking towards the Great Parlour. ‘Wiseman and Johnson have just started one of their spats. I do wish they would not squabble in public – and that it did not fall to me, as Master, to keep the peace between them.’
He hurried away, and Chaloner watched as he inserted himself between the two men. His intervention was not a moment too soon, because Johnson looked as though he was girding himself up to swing a punch. Lisle spoke softly, trying to calm troubled waters, but his colleagues did not seem inclined to be soothed. Their voices carried, and Chaloner heard it was something to do with the dissection that day: Wiseman disapproved, and Johnson was telling him that was too bad. Eventually, Johnson threw up his hands and stalked towards the Anatomical Theatre. The spy eased forward until he reached a doorway, where he could hear what Lisle was saying to Wiseman, but could not be seen.
‘I refuse to have anything to do with it,’ Wiseman was snarling. ‘It is wrong.’
‘But Temple will expect you – our most celebrated theorist – to do the cutting this afternoon,’ said Lisle gently. ‘If you insult him by refusing, he may not make a donation towards our new library, and our colleagues will call for your dismissal. Think very carefully before you follow this course of action.’
‘I am a surgeon, not a performing monkey,’ raged Wiseman, although he looked very simian that morning, his hulking frame towering over his Master. ‘I do not approve of so many Private Anatomies. Dissections should be for education and research, not for the entertainment of wealthy courtiers.’