“I will count now,” said the tall doctor. “Fifty pulse beats, and you see result.”
He put his left hand to his right wrist and began to count in a clear, deep voice. At thirty the rat hesitated in its movements around the floor of the cage, and reared up against the bars. Ten more beats and it slipped to its belly, paws scrabbling against the wood.
Hohenheim did not wait to complete the count. He lifted the phial to his lips and tossed the contents down his throat. As the villagers muttered to themselves he inverted the bottle, allowing a few last drops of viscous liquid to fall to the grass.
“Now—and quickly—the antidote.”
He pulled a flask of green liquid from his cloak, drained it, and carefully replaced the stopper. Amid the excited hubbub of the watching group, talking to each other in Gaelic about what they had witnessed, Hohenheim turned to Malcolm Maclaren. He was quite calm and relaxed, with no trace of nervousness about the poison.
“There is a limited amount of this antidote. If any have desperate need—or want for future use—I can make arrangement. Normally I do not sell, but here where doctors are few I will make special case. You tell them, eh? While you do it”—he was looking at the southern road in the gathering dusk, nodding knowingly—“I think I have business to attend. See? I bought yesterday in Inverness, now it comes. If you will help unload, I can use tomorrow.”
He pointed to the laden cart coming toward them, drawn easily down the hill by two dusty horses. “Those are my supplies for work here.” He turned to Jacob Pole. “As I told you, we are well advanced in plans. We have located the wreck, we have equipment to look at it. Maybe you and Dr. Darwin stop wasting your time here, would like to make arrangements to go home to south? Galleon will be done before you begin to look, eh? So good night, Colonel, and sleep well.”
He nodded to Pole, bowed again to the circle of villagers, and strolled away toward the arriving cart. It was heavily laden with boxes and packages, and most of the villagers followed him, openly inquisitive. Jacob Pole stood, biting at a fingernail and staring angrily after Hohenheim.
“Arrogant pox-hound!” he said to Zumal, who alone still stood by him. The black man ignored him. He was busy. He turned the dead rat out of the cage, replaced everything back in the tall cabinet, and carefully closed it. Placing it on a low trolley, he pushed it to the house and went inside. While Pole still stood there undecided, Malcolm Maclaren came back along the path toward him. The stocky Scotsman was looking worried, biting his lip and frowning.
“Colonel, I’m not wantin’ to trouble ye now, but is Dr. Darwin inside an’ available for a word?”
“He is inside.” Pole still sounded angry. “But if you can keep him to one word you are a better man than I am.”
He led the way to the house. Darwin was sitting in the same chair, still at work on his notes. A bottle of Athole brose stood untouched by his side and he had been forced to light the oil lamp, but otherwise everything was exactly as Pole had left it. Darwin looked up and nodded calmly to Maclaren.
“Another display of medical thaumaturgy, I have no doubt. What was the latest wonder? Ex Hohenheim semper aliquid novi, if you will permit me to paraphrase Pliny.” His tone was cheerful as he laid down his pen and closed the book. “Well, Malcolm Maclaren, what can I do for you?”
The Scot fidgeted uneasily for a few seconds, his dark face working under the full growth of beard.
“I did not come to talk to ye of Hohenheim,” he said at last. “No, nor of yon galleon that ye seek to raise. I’m askin’ help. Ye may recall I spoke to ye about my brother, away inland these past two month. We had word come in today, rare bad news. He took an accident, out on the mountains. A fall.”
Darwin puffed out his cheeks but did not speak. Malcolm Maclaren rubbed his big hands together, struggling for the right words.
“A bad fall,” he said finally. “An’ we hear of injury to his head. They’re bringin’ him on back here, an’ I’m expectin’ him tomorrow, before nightfall. I was thinkin’…” He paused, then the words came in one rush. “I was wonderin’ if ye might be willin’ to do some kind of examination on him an’ see if there’s any treatment that would help him to regain his health and strength—we have plenty of money, that’s no problem, we’ll pay your usual fee an’ more.”
“Aha,” said Darwin, so softly that Jacob Pole had trouble catching his words. “At last I think we see it.” He stood up. “Fee is not an issue, Malcolm Maclaren. I will examine him gladly, and give you my best opinion as to his condition. But I wonder a little that you are not consulting Dr. Hohenheim. He is the one who has been displaying prodigies of medical skill to the people of your village. Whereas I have done nothing here to show power as a physician.”
Maclaren gloomily shook his grizzled head. “Don’t say that. I’ve had argument enough this very day on that subject, from man and woman both. I saw what he can do. Yet there’s somethin’ I canna put a name to, that makes me…”
His voice trailed off and he and Darwin stood eye to eye for a long moment, until Darwin nodded.
“You’re an observing man, Malcolm Maclaren, and a shrewd one. Those are rare qualities. If your evaluation of Dr. Hohenheim is not one that you can readily place on logical foundations, that is not necessarily sufficient reason to distrust it. Like the animals, humans communicate on many levels more basic than words.”
He turned to Jacob Pole. “You heard the request, and I am sure you see the problem it creates for me. I promised to help you with your equipment. But if I am also to be here, awaiting the arrival of Maclaren’s brother, I will be unable to do it. I know you will not wish to wait another day—”
“An’ there’s no reason for that,” said Maclaren gruffly. “If it’s another pair of hands ye need, I’ve twenty men ready to serve—even if I have to break heads to persuade them of it. When do ye need that help?”
“Tomorrow afternoon will do well enough.” Jacob Pole sensed that Maclaren was in his most cooperative mood. “I’ll want help to carry something to the loch. On that score, you know all about the Devil there. But have you ever seen it yourself, and is it dangerous?”
“Aye, I’ve seen it, but never close, and never more than a shape in the water. Others here have seen it better. But I’ve never heard word of harm that came to any man that left the beast to live in its own way.” Maclaren sat down, raising his head to look at the others. “We’ve had trouble in these parts, plenty of it, but it was not from the beast in the loch. Men have lost their lives, these past years in the Highlands—an’ their heritances. But it was not the Devil’s doin’ that left the women lonely an’ took all of us down close to beggary. For that ye have to look closer to your own kind. Aye, but I’m runnin’ loose an’ sayin’ more than I ought.”
He shook his head, stood up, and abruptly left the room. Pole, following him to the door, could at first see no sign of him in the dusk. Then he made out a squat, dark figure, striding rapidly across to the house with the black shutters. For the first time since they arrived, a light was showing in the window there.
It was a problem, and one that he could have anticipated. Jacob Pole crouched by the box that held Little Bess, grumbled to himself, and frowned at the late afternoon sunlight that was turning the peaks to the east into soft purple.
Darwin had been adamant, and Maclaren had agreed with him. The villagers could help carry the box, but they must not see the cannon inside. With weapons forbidden since the Disarming Act, a Highlander risked fines and transportation if he knowingly so much as assisted in carrying arms. The responsibility for handling Little Bess at the loch had to remain with Jacob Pole alone.