The Specimen

Copyright © 2024 by Jaima Fixsen

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Originally published as Traité des Poisons Tirés des Règnes Minéral, Végétal et Animal ou Toxicologie Générale © Matthieu Joseph Bonaventure Orfila, 1814. Translated and abridged from French by Joseph G. Nancrede.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

All biblical verses are used as reflected in the King James Version (KJV) of the Christian Bible unless otherwise noted.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

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To Ashley, for getting me away from my desk,

and Sarah, for keeping me at it.

To Edward and Isla and Jeff,

who journeyed to Scotland with me.

And to Kanapawamakan,

who founded a family.

…written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living…not in tables of stone, but in fleshy tables of the heart.

2 Corinthians 3:3 KJV

Contents

Prologue

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4

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46

Author’s Note

Reading Group Guide

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Prologue

I believe in ghosts. Restless, deceived, disappointed: they talk to me as I dust the shelves and darn the socks, as I push my way to market in the crowded street. There must be dozens altogether—some I only feel because they are too sullen to speak.

Even though I am, I do not feel alone. In the quiet of my room, one ghost—my ghost—curls up beside me, cold breath shifting my hair and smoothing my cheek.

Never alone.

1

Edinburgh, 24 March 1826

My son, Thomas, snuggled deeper into my side, and I looped an arm around him, glad to be watching the water wash down the windowpanes, after another day of him too listless, too flushed, and too lightheaded. Aren’t you hungry?

I’d brought up a cup of sweet tea with toast soldiers and a dollop of raspberry jam, but he’d stopped eating after a few bites.

Thomas shook his head. You eat it.

I’m not hungry. I smiled as I said it, but in truth, it was the stone’s weight of worry sitting in my middle that kept me from eating.

Let’s share. The glint in his eye made me laugh in spite of myself. He was a crafty one, my Thomas, well aware that his story wouldn’t come until his supper plate was empty.

Fine, then. You first. Two could play at that game.

He nibbled the jam off a toast soldier, then offered the bare end to me. Your turn.

You ate all the jam, I said reproachfully, so he swiped it through the sticky puddle on his plate and thrust it at me again.

I snapped the bit of bread from his fingers like a puppy, knowing it would make him laugh, and he did, his cheeks getting even pinker, his breath fast. Your turn, I told him.

I moved the toast at the last minute, dabbing a bit of jam on the corner of his mouth.

Mam!

Not on your sleeve, Tommy.

He huffed, but minded me anyway, stretching out his tongue to clean up the mess. But he got his own back with the next bite, leaving me with jam on the end of my nose.

Uggh. You know my tongue can’t reach that far. I tried anyway, setting him off in a fit of giggles that quickly turned to breathless wheezing. He curled forward, struggling to draw in more air while I reached for a camphor-scented handkerchief and rubbed circles on his back. He was frightened enough; I couldn’t let him see how these gasping spells terrified me.

Let’s have a quiet game, mmm? I suggested, when his breathing slowed and his color faded.

A story, he said, nodding.

Not a scary one. Ghosts, witches, ogres, girls who cut off their toes to outsmart cunning goblins, knights with treachery-strained hearthrugs—these were always the stories Thomas preferred, but I was too old now to believe in the inevitably triumphant endings.

I want the one about the blood that speaks, he said.

I got up to open the window, hiding my grimace. My mother had told that one, and to this day I recalled her exact inflections. The tale was eerie and sad, not one I wished to think on today.

The window sash stuck, only giving way when I gave an extra push and a grunt. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, glittering against a purple dusk that blew gently into the room, soft and cool against my cheeks.

There. I turned around, dusting my hands. The fresh air will do you good. I climbed back into the bed and settled him into the crook of my arm, watching the breeze stir the lace curtains.

My story? Thomas prompted.

I told that one yesterday, I reminded him.

Tell it again, he begged, his cheeks so flushed, his eyes so big and shadowed it was impossible to deny him.

All right, then. I pulled him a little closer. When Thomas left home to see the world—

He was the bravest boy in Scotland, wasn’t he?

He certainly was. And when—

Mam— His hand closed urgently on my arm.

What’s wrong? Even as I spoke, something black moved at the corner of my eye, streaking across the room and flapping with impotent rage against the wall. It veered back, right toward us.

Bat! I gasped, yanking the covers over my son and curling around him as the shadow passed overhead in a buffeting squall. Stay down.

I’d once helped a trapped bird back outside after it’d come down the chimney, and in spite of the goose bumps climbing my arms, this couldn’t be that different. Except the frantic wheeling of these black stretched-skin wings was sinister, not sad. I could have borne a peck from a bird; I quaked at the thought of a bat’s bite. Finches slept at night, but a bat, sailing about in the dark, silent and sharp-toothed, must be a monster. His fluttering at the ceiling seemed to stop my heart.

Don’t move, Thomas, I said, reaching for the shawl on the nearby chair. I’ll get it out.

I flapped the fabric, trying to drive it away from Thomas, toward the open window, but the animal wheeled away, batting against the ceiling, then the opposite wall. Out! I hollered, flapping again, and the bat careened into the mantelpiece, knocking a flower-filled vase to the floor, shattering the pale blue porcelain and strewing stalks of lily of the valley across the hearthrug.

The bat dove and I pitched to the floor, terrified it would tangle in my hair.

Mam! Thomas called, frightened—I must have let out a scream.

It’s all right, I promised. Just stay there.

Lips pressed together, I pushed onto my feet and sidled behind the panicked animal. Once I caught it in the folds of my shawl, I could toss it outside and never wear the thing again. Poised on my toes, I waited. It veered close, and I sprang, but before I could gather up the cloth with the bat inside, it fought free in an explosion of beating wings, darting around the room.

No—

Too late. It crashed into the wall above the mantelpiece, and knocked off my only remaining ornament, a brass hourglass sized to fit easily into my hand, a gift from my father after Thomas’s birth, when I began teaching piano lessons to keep and feed us. Time slowed as the glass turned end over end in the air. I lunged for it, hand outstretched, but I never got within a yard of it. Flying past my fingers, it smashed into the floor, pelting me with shards of glass and a spray of white sand.

For a moment, I stared at the broken remains. Then I wiped my forehead, and realized my hand was oozing blood. Damn beast.

I chased the thing around like a madwoman, thumping and cursing, until the landlady and Mr. Mitchell, one of the downstairs tenants, helped me corner it.

There, Mr. Mitchell said, hurling it outside. It fell, righted itself halfway down to the street, then flapped away into the shadows. I yanked the window shut.

What a demon! Mrs. McPherson said, surveying my wrecked room. You all right, Thomas?

His eyes were twice their usual size, but he nodded.

And you, Isobel?

I took my eyes away from the broken bits littering my hearth and swallowed. I’m fine. The brass fittings were intact, but there was no way the hourglass could be repaired, and even if I bought myself another, it wouldn’t be the same. I’ll sweep this up.

What about your hand? Mr. Mitchell asked.

I glanced at it, but the cut was small. It had stopped bleeding. It’s fine, I said, and fetched the broom. Mrs. McPherson helped, muttering prayers under her breath.

’Twas just an animal, Mrs. Mac. Probably as frightened as we were, Mitchell said, then gave me an apologetic smile. Though I’m right sorry about your things, Mrs. Tait.

I nodded in response. Now that the creature was gone, it was easier to be sensible. Few things are as dull and deadening as a dustpan. With the help of my neighbor and landlady, soon the room was just as it was, save for my empty mantelpiece. They left, and Thomas, tenacious as ever, reminded me I owed him a story.

I don’t know if I can. My heart wasn’t racing anymore, and I felt drained, hollow as an empty cask.

Were you very frightened? Thomas asked.

I nodded automatically. Those wings— I stopped, noting the frown on his face. I thought it would eat you, I finished with a laugh, tickling his ribs. Silly of me. Horrid beast, but far too small to eat a fellow like you. You did well to stay hidden. We might have tripped over you, and just think what a tangle that would be. Skirts flying everywhere, Mrs. McPherson beneath her gentleman tenant, and a crazed bat wheeling above. I shook my head.

I’m sorry about your things, Thomas said.

No use crying over them. I produced a smile and wiggled into the bed beside him. Let’s have your story. No more interruptions. I tucked the blankets extra close and cleared my throat.

When Thomas left home to see the world, his mama had nothing to give him, for they were poor. So she took her kerchief and pricked her finger, putting a drop of blood in each of the four corners. ‘Magic—’

To protect you, Thomas put in. He knew this tale well.

Aye, I said, brushing his soft skin. ‘Ever and always, no matter where you will go, my blood will sing to you and save you from harm. Always keep it with you,’ she said. And he promised he would. So she tied a knot in each of the four corners, blessed him and kissed him, and sent him on his way.

Does he meet a giant this time, Mam?

I shook my head. Not this time, love. Because down the road, he came to a farm with a thatched roof and a stable full of horses, all with golden manes. No more monsters for me tonight. We’d take this story a different way.

I told him a long and lovely adventure, until my voice cracked, and Thomas told me to drink a cup of tea. His eyes were heavy, his breath slow and even, like waves on the shore of a calm sea. Let’s finish tomorrow, he said.

***

Mr. Craig?

The surgeon straightened away from my boy, still limp and listless in his wee bed. Except for the bright flags of color high on his cheeks, Thomas was as white as his shift.

Mr. Craig gave Thomas his usual smile and patted his head fondly. Good job, little man. I had a good listen.

Without turning to me, he packed away his wooden stethoscope. Mr. Craig was a fine surgeon, well versed in the new methods championed by lecturers at Edinburgh University. I’d always been used to doctors pressing their ears right to my chest, but Mr. Craig said the quality of sound through a stethoscope was better.

His lungs sound fine, Mr. Craig said, when he finally faced me at the door of the room, far enough from Thomas’s hearing.

While that was some relief, I’d learned enough to wait for more. And his heart?

Still struggling. The murmur—it was too friendly a word for what Mr. Craig had described to me, but I was no surgeon—is still there, plain to the ear.

He’d taught me hear it myself, leaning over my formerly brawny boy, though the sound was not easy to distinguish between the allegro counterpoint of his pulse. Barely audible, the shushing was ominous as the whispering petticoats of my onetime schoolmistress. Her professed sensibility had never once tempered her excellent hearing, her rigid bearing, or her preference for applying the cane. Papa hadn’t left me as a boarder there long, but three months in the young ladies’ academy had been enough. Beneath the sleeves of my dress and my lightly freckled skin, I had lumps on the bones of both forearms. Mr. Craig, who’d tended to me then, had feared the bones were broken.

Even my worst memories were preferable to considering the state of Thomas’s heart, but I made myself focus. You said it might heal.

Mr. Craig nodded. I hope it does. His heart was fine before the scarlet fever.

Thomas had survived the fever, but he’d failed to regain his strength. Even now, a year afterward, his breath left him every time he climbed the stairs. He never ran anymore.

Rest, good food…they will help. Mr. Craig’s kind smile and his sorrowful eyes told me the rest.

Thomas was a green leaf that had withered, still clinging to the tree, but liable to be carried off by the next strong wind. Not, I admit, an unexpected diagnosis. I’d seen the short lives of invalids, even the most cosseted ones, but hadn’t wanted to believe this would be Thomas’s fate. I’d never seen a bigger, fatter baby than he, or one with a livelier laugh. Even now, every so often he’d flash a roguish smile, silently telling me this was all in fun, that he’d tricked me into thinking him ill, that all this was just pretending.

I wanted to climb into bed beside him and inhale his soft blond hair.

He’s a fine lad, with a fine mother, Mr. Craig said, buckling his bag.

I swallowed. Thank you, Mr. Craig. I’ll be by to teach the girls their lessons tomorrow as usual.

No need, Miss Isobel. He still addressed me as if I were a girl, but I liked that. Take the day. You can make up the missed lesson in a week or two.

He was a kind man, who still insisted on paying for his daughters’ piano lessons, though he treated Thomas without charge.

I will keep on with the chest liniment, I said. Thomas complained that the camphor scent of his greasy ointment stung his eyes, but it did aid his breathing, temporarily.

Yes, at least once a day, Mr. Craig agreed, but not with any conviction.

***

Miss Minnie Low finished the last bars of Beethoven’s moonlight sonata and sighed—more noticeably, but no less deeply than I did. Maintaining composure throughout our one-hour lesson took more effort than I knew I had. Today, even breathing hurt.

Minnie shifted closer, so our sides abutted on the piano bench. Mrs. Tait, what if they make me play? Her eyes brimmed with mute misery. Though she tried mightily, even the most beautiful melodies emerged loud and inflexibly from her dainty white hands, and in a month, she was visiting her fashionable cousins in Harrogate. Both her parents had high expectations of the visit, but no matter how patiently I taught her or how sternly the dancing master drilled her, poor Minnie couldn’t keep time with a beat.

I’ll make such a fool of myself.

In spite of the weight on my own heart, I felt a twinge for the suffering in hers. Laying a hand on her shoulder, I bent close so the shepherdesses on Mrs. Low’s toile wallpaper couldn’t overhear. Play the Radetsky march if you have to. The thumping cadence was easiest for Minnie to follow, and the piece was short. As for the dancing—Early on in the visit, I suggest you sprain an ankle.

Minnie’s brow cleared. Thank you, Mrs. Tait.

I returned her smile, ignoring a kick from my conscience. Minnie was a good girl, not the type to conceive a deception unprompted. My pleasure. Good luck.

I gathered my gloves, hat, and reticule, and went to pay my respects to Mrs. Low before going out.

She was writing letters in the morning room, as usual. In spite of her hopes for her daughter, she was realist enough to retreat to this room at the back of the house during our weekly lesson. With my hands clasped in front of me, I waited for Mrs. Low to set aside her pen.

Mrs. Tait.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Low. Miss Minnie is finished for the day. With Minnie off to Harrogate at the end of the week, I needed to collect payment for the last month’s worth of lessons. Mrs. Low wasn’t interested in piano lessons for her younger sons.

We’ll miss you, Mrs. Low said. And of course, if Minnie comes back, we’ll resume her lessons.

I nodded, perfectly understanding the hope that Minnie would instead be moving on to a life and a home of her own. All the genteel mothers for whom I worked wanted the very same thing.

You’ve worked hard with her, Mrs. Low said.

She’s a diligent student. Minnie lacked aptitude, but I liked her.

Mrs. Low had a stack of coins ready on her desk, but she took an extra one from the box in the drawer and began pushing the little stack of comfort and security toward me. Before I could thank her, she paused with her hand over the money and tilted her head at me. How is your son?

Always over the past year I had smiled and said he was recovering. Today the coming loss was too great. My smile broke. Mrs. Low, a mother with her own losses contained in some quiet, hidden-away cupboard, immediately understood. As the corners of her eyes fell, the dammed-up tears in mine began to leak.

My dear Isobel, she said, and stretched out her hands.

***

By the time I was drying my nose with her handkerchief and halfway through a cup of tea, Mrs. Low had paced a half mile between her writing desk and the door.

But he survived the fever. Surely something can be done. There was music in her walk, in her clipped syllables, in the swish of her skirts.

Lulled by it, I shook my head. Mr. Craig says—

Yes, Mr. Craig. Mrs. Low waved her hand dismissively. An excellent surgeon, but have you— She hesitated. Have you called in anyone else? A doctor?

Dr. Munro saw him while the fever was at its worst. But I couldn’t afford him again.

That old slow top. You need an expert opinion, Mrs. Low said. And you shall have it.

Before I could protest, she was kneeling in front of me, holding my hands. Let me, Isobel. My sister-in-law consulted Dr. Burnett last year and said his services are excellent. If there is any way to help Thomas—well, you simply must.

You know I can’t repay you.

You ought to know I wouldn’t ask. Her grip tightened on my hands. Think of it as a favor to your father. He and my husband were such good friends. She dabbed at my cheeks with the handkerchief. My dear, you cannot bear this all on your own.

I nodded, overcome. Mrs. Low had hired me as Minnie’s teacher years ago, certainly as a favor to my father. But he had died two years before; this boon was for Thomas and me. I—

Don’t speak, Mrs. Low said. I will arrange it before Minnie and I leave. If anything needs to be done, Mr. Low will attend to it.

I gulped. What is the name of the doctor again? I knew little of the physicians currently making a name for our city, besides that they had done so. Two of my students had fathers working at Edinburgh University.

I’ve heard him lecture. Dr. Conall Burnett. Wonderful man. A genius. They say there are few like him.

Later I learned that was true. Too late for me, though.

2

The door to the consulting room opened, revealing a lean man with weathered cheeks and a pair of side whiskers much redder than his sandy blond hair. He smiled. You must be Mrs. Tait.

I nodded, used to the lie after this many years. Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Burnett.

Think nothing of it, my dear. I’m happy to help any friend of Caroline Low’s.

I passed by him through the door, hand in hand with Thomas, blinded briefly by the spring sunshine pouring through the long windows—a marked contrast from the dimly lit corridor.

Morning, Isobel. The unexpected greeting caught me like a surreptitious tap on the shoulder. I turned away from the light and discovered a friend occupying one of the chairs, his warm smile dispelling my unease.

Mr. Craig! How good to see you.

Dr. Burnett was kind enough to invite me, Mr. Craig explained.

I’m very happy to hear firsthand his management of your son’s case. Dr. Burnett shut the door. I glanced between the two of them, not sure where to go, until Dr. Burnett rescued me. If Thomas will be good enough to lie on the sofa, you can take the nearest chair.

My eyes had adjusted now. I crossed a softly fading carpet to the red patterned sofa, taking in the array of tools neatly arranged on the dusty walnut desk. And behind it, shelves full of books and—

I stopped, a shiver passing over me.

Don’t mind my specimens, Dr. Burnett said.

I pulled my eyes away from the wired bird skeleton poised on the second-highest shelf—an evil-looking thing with hollow eyes, knifelike beak, and widespread bone wings ready to swoop and pounce.

Mother Mary, there was more. A rank of jars occupied the shelf below, all filled with murky liquid and—I gulped, trying not to stare. One held an unidentifiable gray cauliflower-esque lump, but I recognized the kidney right next to it. This one bore a blossom-like growth on one side. What are they? I asked, a little breathless.

Nothing to alarm you. Just part of my collection. There’s more in my drawing room. Essential to my teaching work, but I’m sorry if you find them alarming. Most people are eager to take a look.

Mr. Craig chuckled. They pay for the privilege, if you can believe it, Isobel. Not just students and medical men, but quite ordinary folk.

I tore my eyes away from a pale floating hand with the third and fourth fingers joined together. It was, I supposed, not that different from paying to look at the freaks at the fair, but I’d always disliked the ugliness of selling tickets and staring.

Just pretend there’s nothing there, Dr. Burnett suggested.

I closed my eyes and took the last three steps to the sofa. Thomas, always shy among strangers, didn’t protest when I let go of his hand and motioned him to sit down. He lay back promptly, familiar enough with medical men to know what to expect.

What a well-behaved boy. Dr. Burnett smiled down at him. I’m glad to see you are so good to your mother.

He’s an excellent chap, Mr. Craig said, with a quick smile at me. He knew how I felt about homilies. Why so many strangers took it upon themselves to instruct every child they came across, I’d never understand, but luckily, Thomas never seemed to mind. I was the one who bristled like a cat at well-meant advice. But then, we received more than most, since I was a widow.

Mr. Craig has kindly acquainted me with Thomas’s history, Dr. Burnett went on.

Dr. Burnett is wonderful with the stethoscope, Mr. Craig said. He can tell, just from the sound, precisely where the trouble is.

And why does that help? I asked. It wasn’t as if Thomas was a clock they could open and fix.

Some murmurs heal on their own, Dr. Burnett explained, so identifying the variety informs the prognosis.

I smiled, like women do when they are pretending to understand something. Dr. Burnett didn’t need to know I was better read than my circumstances warranted.

And the kind of murmurs arising from fevers? What’s their prognosis? I wanted to ask, but couldn’t, not with Thomas beside me. He was quick-witted too.

Dr. Burnett worked like a born showman, selecting his instruments and shooting his cuffs, bending, listening, his face creasing, clearing, turning pensive. He straightened and offered the stethoscope to Mr. Craig. You hear it, Stephen? The opening snap?

Mr. Craig bent, but after a minute he shook his head. I fear my hearing’s not as good as yours.

It’s in the mitral valve—chronic, not acute, probably stenosis. Wait, let me show you.

Striding to the bookshelf, he retrieved a heavy volume and laid it open on the couch, flipping through vivid color plates until he found the one he wanted. I peered down at the drawing of a heart, purple with vessels of blue and crimson, sliced open to reveal its inner chambers. The parts were lettered, and the sides of the page lined with columns of incomprehensible names.

I’d ask Mr. Craig to explain to me later, I decided, but then Dr. Burnett resorted to a language I knew. Perhaps the one I knew best. He tapped a short, syncopated beat on the nearby table. "One two, one two, one two—is what we expect, but Thomas here is going at more of a gallop—da-di-la, da-di-la. Try again," Burnett urged, offering the stethoscope with an eager grin.

May I? I asked.

Y—you would like to try?

It was an unusual request, especially from a woman, but Burnett’s surprise indicated he’d quite forgotten me. I didn’t blame him—if anything, I liked him better for it, knowing myself how it was, caught up in one’s passion. If his intense focus hadn’t betrayed his, the gruesome collection certainly did. Thomas needed a doctor who made medicine his whole life, not only our gentle, generous Mr. Craig.

I’m considered to have quite a good ear, I explained, and stretched out a hand for the stethoscope, smiling apologetically.

Mrs. Tait teaches pianoforte. She’s very accomplished, Mr. Craig put in.

Burnett hesitated and glanced at my son. You do not mind, Thomas?

Why Thomas should mind me more than him, a stranger, I couldn’t think, but I reminded myself that genius is often tactless. My father had always thought so, and he’d counted enough geniuses among his acquaintance to know.

Thomas gave a small shake of his head and allowed Burnett to reposition him and place the wooden tube. Lean in, Mrs. Tait. I’ll hold it for you.

Thank you, doctor.

I closed my eyes and trained my ear, letting go of everything else around me, filling myself with the irregular trot of my son’s heart: almost the cadence of a Vivaldi concerto, the pastoral dance of spring, or the rustic dance of summer, much quicker than the slow tread that sometimes sounded in my ears when I lay awake and overtired.

Be strong, little heart, I silently ordered, and straightened, leaving Thomas with a passing caress. I hear it. Yes, his heart was bruised, but surely if we took good care…

I retreated to my chair while they consulted, smiling at Thomas to remind him to be patient. Finally, Dr. Burnett turned to me.

Come into the garden, Mrs. Tait. We can talk there.

A tight heaviness warned of the alchemical transformation beginning in my own chest, and I followed him out, my face stiff.

I’m afraid your son’s case is very grave. His tone was measured and rational, and he had his feet braced slightly apart, as if anticipating from me a faint or an emotional storm. All I did was nod dumbly. Foolish to hope, but how does one go on not hoping? I stared at a profusion of roses climbing the garden wall, unable to watch his face.

I cannot cure or even treat his condition. It is incredibly rare. Most patients with this defect die within three years.

I took a breath. We had time still. Years, even, but every day would be the best. Stories every bedtime. Naps together in the bed beneath the window before I taught my lessons. I would tell him the truth, and we would fill each day with as much joy as we could cram into it.

Burnett was talking about tonics, how he could prescribe nothing to better Mr. Craig’s current prescription, but that rest and a judicious amount of gentle activity was advisable. I scarcely heard, but then he offered me his handkerchief.

I’m so sorry, Mrs. Tait.

I scrubbed at my cheeks. I’m all right. Thomas and I will be all right.

Perhaps it will be better if I write my advice in a letter. You’ll give me your address?

I recited the direction gratefully while tidying my face. Thank you. I’ll take him home now, Dr. Burnett.

***

Thomas set aside his spoon. We have custard every day now.

I patted his hand. Well, you know why. I promised you enough for a lifetime. Eggs and cream were good for him.

It hadn’t, after all, been so very hard to tell him. Thomas, wise thing that he was, had known for some time. Now each day was special, a quiet celebration. I was more wounded than he was by the fact he’d never grow up. Buoyed by his robust child’s confidence, he seldom seemed afraid, telling me he was going ahead, that heaven