The conversation then moved on to the subject of homeopathy – not a word that Aleksei recalled seeing in Cain’s book. Much of the detail was lost on Aleksei, but it appeared that Wylie was a proponent of the concept, while Lee was not. However, it was Count Vorontsov, rather than his physician, who seemed to pursue the issue with the greater passion.
‘Like cures like,’ insisted Wylie. This apparently had been the claim of homeopathy’s inventor, a German called Hahnemann.
‘So if I were to stab you through the heart,’ asked the count, ‘bringing about your death, would a second stab wound restore you to life?’
Before Wylie could respond, Colonel Salomka had interjected. ‘There is a peasant myth in these parts concerning a creature called an oopir.’ He had chortled as he spoke, but Aleksei had instantly paid attention. He glanced again at Wylie, but still saw no response. There was no reason the Scot should be familiar with the local term. ‘As with many of these creatures,’ continued Salomka, ‘the oopir must be killed by stabbing through the heart with a stake of hawthorn. But here’s the thing’ – he sniggered again – ‘you mustn’t stab it a second time, or it will come back to life. Maybe that’s where Herr Hahnemann got his ideas from.’
Most around the table laughed. The tsar did not, perhaps out of respect for the views of Wylie. Nor did Wylie himself. That might have been out of pique at being mocked, but Aleksei noticed that this time it was Wylie’s eyes that were on him, looking for a reaction.
A moment later, Wylie resumed the defence of his pet subject. ‘That’s why Dr Hahnemann promulgates the use of only the most dilute quantities of his medicines,’ he said.
‘So more of a scratch than a stab?’ suggested Salomka.
‘As an analogy, yes,’ said Wylie, choosing simply to ignore the attempts at humour from around the table.
‘But what about the diseases we get around here?’ asked Vorontsov. ‘Inflammation of the brain? Or the bowel? Or fever? Would one thousandth of a grain of that sulphate of quinine Dr Lee showed us working today have done the trick, eh? What do you think, Lee?’
‘In my experience, a large dose will always arrest the fevers almost instantaneously,’ replied the doctor calmly. ‘I have tried with smaller doses, as have others, and the results are ineffectual.’
Aleksei said little. His instinctive view on homeopathy was to note that doctors charged their patients by the hour, but paid for their medicines by the grain. But he was prepared to listen to the two experts. As an individual, he trusted Wylie more, but Lee appeared to be the more rigorous scientist. Again, that had echoes of Cain. Could they be one and the same man?
At one point, Dr Tarasov posed a somewhat less controversial question. ‘Doesn’t the term “homeopathic” originally relate to a form of black magic?’
‘It still does,’ muttered Lee, but before Wylie could rise to his bait, Vorontsov answered the question more fully.
‘It does indeed. Traditionally there are three types of magic: homeopathic, sympathetic and contagious.’ He glanced at the surprised expressions around the table and chose to explain himself. ‘All nonsense, of course, but some of the Tatars still believe it, so it’s worth understanding.’
‘And what’s the distinction?’ asked Tarasov.
‘Homeopathic is imitation. The tribe want to catch a deer, so they put on a sort of play in which they catch a deer – the creature itself is played by one of their own. The next day, if the magic works, life imitates art and all eat heartily. Sympathetic is similar, but the object of the magic is represented by some kind of doll or effigy. You stab the doll, and the person it represents falls ill.’
‘And contagious?’ It was the tsar who asked.
‘Contagious magic is where you take something from the victim’s body – hair or nail clippings often – and through them, the witch can control the person from which they came.’
‘So watch out next time you go to the barber,’ said Lee.
‘Often a severed body-part may be used,’ continued Vorontsov, ‘a finger or a toe.’
Aleksei’s thumb ran over the stumps on his left hand. There had been no magic, but Kyesha had used the remains of his severed fingers to control him, to bring him down here as an agent of revenge. Lost in his own thoughts, he scarcely listened to the rest of the count’s explanation, his ears only pricking when he heard the final word.
‘Or it can be a bodily fluid, such as semen – or, very often, blood.’
After the cigars had been handed out, Aleksei managed to isolate Lee and sound him out.
‘You argue your points well,’ he said as an opener. ‘I can imagine you speaking in front of the Royal Society.’ It was taking a chance to speak so glibly about an organization of which he knew little.
‘Well, thank you, Colonel,’ replied the doctor. ‘Sadly, I have not yet had the honour of speaking there, but when I return to London, I hope to make my mark.’
‘You’ll be acquainted with a compatriot of yours who’s also been working in these parts. A gentleman by the name of Cain – a fellow of the Society, I believe.’
‘Richard Cain is here – in the Crimea?’ exclaimed Lee. Both Dr Wylie and the tsar looked over towards them, presumably not just at the raised voice.
‘So I believe. You know him?’
‘I’ve read his work – a brilliant man. Perhaps a little too enthusiastic as a vivisectionist, but sometimes there are prices that must be paid.’
Count Vorontsov joined them, and the conversation moved on. Aleksei’s best guess was that Lee was what he seemed to be. For a start, he could see no motivation in one man leading a double life as both Cain and Lee. Russia was not short of British émigrés, particularly doctors, as Wylie exemplified. But if Lee was to be trusted, then it meant that Cain was a real person; an Englishman, a scientist and Fellow of the Royal Society. On the other hand, it might just be a case of stolen identity; some imposter writing the name in the notebook and using it to sign the letters in the safe assumption that the real Richard L. Cain was never likely to set foot across the English Channel.
‘An interesting correlation with the notebook, don’t you think, Colonel?’ It was Wylie who spoke to him. Vorontsov and Lee were now talking to Diebich.
‘The quinine you mean?’ asked Aleksei.
‘That too, but I was referring to the story of the oopir.’ Aleksei looked at him quizzically. ‘Utter nonsense that a second stabbing would resurrect it, I’m sure you’ll agree,’ continued Wylie.
‘I would assume so,’ said Aleksei. He could not recall ever having stabbed a voordalak twice, though on one occasion he had attacked with so jagged a piece of wood that it was impossible to say how many times the creature’s heart had been pierced.
‘I know so,’ said Wylie, interrupting his thoughts.
‘How?’ asked Aleksei, making no attempt to disguise his astonishment.
‘It’s in Cain’s book,’ said the doctor grimly. ‘Cain heard that story and decided to investigate it. He repeated the experiment on three separate occasions. Without exception, the creatures remained dead.’
It struck Aleksei for the first time what a profoundly useful thing Cain’s notebook might prove to be. So many times he had relied on folklore, on his grandmother’s dark tales of fabulous beasts, to inform him of how he might deal with these creatures. Cain turned superstition into science, and with it brought certainty. Aleksei realized he had been wooed by Kyesha, who by his very nature must take the side of his kin. But in the ultimate analysis, was Cain doing good or ill? As with all learning, it was not the knowledge itself that could be classified as good or evil, but how it was utilized.