Edward Kane, Advocate in The Supernal Sisters. Chapter 11: ‘Does That Make Me a Chef?'

The solicitor Hawkes was quick in attempting to placate a furious Professor Peterson: ‘I apologise for my inept form of question, professor. No-one is saying…’

Peterson was un-placated: ‘Are you hard of hearing, sir? “Saying” is one thing. We can deal with that – through my own lawyers. It is the “implication” – that scurrilous form of rumour – blackening the name of those who are its victims. No less actionable, sir. No less actionable!’

Edward Kane – a Son of the Manse – reached into his supply of palliatives. What was it that his Minister father used to say? What was it again? Proverbs? “A soft answer turneth away wrath…”. He gave a kindly smile:

Edward Kane. Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

‘Professor Peterson, you are the pre-eminent practitioner of the art of anatomy in Edinburgh…’. (At last – a statement with which the agitated academic could agree) ‘…possibly in the whole of Scotland…’ (Was that a softening, now that the beast was being petted?). ‘I think that all that my instructing solicitor was trying to ascertain was that when they looked at the necessary paperwork in this case, about the release of the body, the papers seemed not to have been signed by a surgeon, nor by a physician, but by a…a confectioner…’

The professor sighed, lit his pipe, took a few puffs and shook out the match: ‘Let me ask you a question, Mr Kane. Let us say that you have the toothache. When you happen to purchase your bottle of “Lead with Opium” tincture, from whom do you buy that remedy, sir?’

Kane frowned and did not answer. This would be something better asked of his manservant. The professor turned to the solicitor, Hawkes: ‘I hope that our Advocate friend is better at asking questions than answering them. What about you, sir?’

Hawkes considered this for a moment, then replied: ‘Well, I required to do this recently. I sent our message boy to the ironmongers.’

‘And who prepared the tincture itself?’

‘I assume the ironmonger. Or his apprentice, perhaps…’

Peterson nodded and puffed on his pipe: ‘Then you have your answer.’

Hawkes was entirely bamboozled by this conversation and turned to the young Advocate for help. Kane had already processed the answer and was nodding. He turned to his instructing solicitor: ‘I think what Professor Peterson is trying to say is this: in these circumstances, before a body can be moved and brought to the anatomy rooms, it requires to be certificated. The Certificate requires to be signed by a “physician” or a “surgeon”…’

The Professor smiled and puffed on his pipe: ‘Failing which?’

Kane continued: ‘Failing which it can be signed by an “apothecary”.

The solicitor frowned. Still confused. Kane went on: ‘If you think it through, Mr Hawkes, that ironmonger who prepares your opium tincture is not acting as an ironmonger. He acts as an apothecary – a chemist, as it were – at that point – mixing up the medicine.’

The Professor puffed away: ‘Personally, I prefer my opium to be mixed by my tobacconist.’

Hawkes looked over at Kane, who nodded: ‘Ironmonger, tobacconist, confectioner – especially in small towns th- ey would all play their part in the apothecary needs of the community.’ He pointed down to the solicitor’s notes: ‘Thus, the curious entry on the certificate.’

Satisfied that he was no longer being slighted, the professor became positively genial: ‘Not like the old days, gentlemen. When a couple of ne’er do wells might turn up at the door with a body in a cart and haggle for a good eight pounds sterling. These days, the funeratory system appears to be able to supply a decent number of bodies at a reasonable price – all legal, as long as the certificates are in order.’

Hawkes shook his head and held up his papers: ‘But – in the matter of the late Alexander Humbie – something seems to have gone seriously awry here, professor.’

Peterson puffed away and nodded towards papers: ‘But that is not a crime, sir. It is simply a problem with the paperwork.’

*****

Kane’s manservant grinned: “So, Mr K – when that old lady in the corner shop – the one what does a good trade in sherbet lemons – when she throws some lead and opium into a jug in the back room – then she’s an apothecary?’

‘It would appear so, Mr Horse.’

Horse sat and took a draw from his long clay pipe: ‘Blimey.’ He smiled: ‘Does that mean that when I gets a piece of meat that a dog would turn his nose up at, and I make us s stew that lasts two days – does that make me a chef?’

Kane held aloft his glass of milk: ‘No – Mr Horse. Given our un-curable impecuniosity, that makes you a veritable magician!’ He gave a mock bow: ‘And I become your mere assistant.’

Horse couldn’t help it, but his face fell – recalling his recent role as ‘magician’s assistant’ at the seance with Maisie Mount. Kane registered this: ‘I apologise, Mr Horse, if my attempt at humour has vexed you in some way…’

The manservant held up his hand. ‘It’s not that sir. It’s…’. Horse had got in late on the night of the seance and had not told his master about the contact with the dead French soldier. The event had preyed on his mind with something like dread, like the awareness of an approaching storm cloud in the distance. A dull feeling in his chest that would not shift. But it wasn’t time to tell. Not yet. Held up his clay pipe: ‘Sorry, Mr K. Just didn’t sleep well again last night, a-tossing and a-turning. You know how it is.’

Kane smiled: ‘Mr Horse, given the numerous adventures to which you have been a party, I wonder that you are able to sleep at all!’

Horse laughed and lifted his old tin mug in cheers. Took a sip from his tea, then: ‘I’ve laid out your things, sir. You said you was in court today?’

Kane stood up and stretched: ‘Indeed I am, Mr Horse. Indeed I am. In an attempt to raise the dead.’

Horse said nothing.

Edward Kane and Mr Horse Collected Short Stories Volume 1 is available on Amazon, Kindle and from all good bookshops