Read Online The Bloodless Boy by Robert J. Lloyd - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert J. Lloyd
Tags: Ian Pears, Umberto Eco, Carlos Ruiz Zafon, An Instance of the Fingerpost, Dissolution, Peter Ackroyd, C J Sansom, The Name of the Rose, The Hangman's Daughter, Oliver Pötzsch
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Hooke!’ she beseeched him. ‘An evil thing!’
‘Husband died peacefully abed,’ Diodati said to her. ‘That all world know. Cloths.’
Dr. Diodati was a small rat-like man whose old-fashioned beard emphasised the rodent cast of his features. His economy with words left few gaps for a patient to interject; nevertheless he was able to exude an air of kindliness and trustworthiness. He did not look at all worried by the deception he was asked to carry out.
Dora-Katherina fetched a small china bowl filled with water, and Harry took it from her. He carefully wiped down the back of Oldenburg’s neck. The middle finger of his right hand shook slightly, which exasperated him. The matter of his body was disloyal, refusing to be governed by his will. He did not want the older men to see his reaction to dead bodies.
Even Mr. Hooke, though, looked rattled by the Secretary’s choice.
Harry rinsed the cloth, and the water stained red. Steeling himself, he picked off the larger pieces from the chair, and put them into the bowl. The others, silent, watched his progress, until Diodati took an instrument from his bag and moved to assist him. It was a hollow scraping levatory, made to remove splinters from the skull after a trepanning. Hooke cut around the wound with a small knife, and Diodati produced some parrot’s bill forceps, and excavated all of the shards from the hole.
Harry wiped at the remaining matter in Oldenburg’s hair, and asked Tom to empty the contents of the bowl into an oilcloth bag that Hooke had thought to bring with them. The boy was overjoyed to be given such an important task.
‘Where are your husband’s papers, Dora-Katherina?’ Hooke asked thoughtlessly, looking about the room. ‘His correspondences?’
Dora-Katherina looked at the Curator in astonishment, having to reach her hand to the wall to steady herself. Her face went pale, and the muscles around her mouth pursed. Her voice went dangerously quiet. ‘He tidied them all away yesterday. He busied himself for most of the day.’
Oldenburg’s large oak chest, with ornately decorated wrought-iron bands and a heavy lock securing it, sat under the window.
‘I imagine you will be anxious to replace my Henry?’
‘We will need to peruse and catalogue them for the Society,’ Hooke continued obliviously.
The old lady flicked a look at the chest. ‘The Royal Society may have them when he is in the ground, and not before!’ The volume of her angry retort made them all jump, the lanternlight lurching as Tom did so. ‘I want all of his papers to go to the Society. I do not want you choosing what can and what cannot be published!’
‘It may help us understand the reason for his death,’ Hooke said, looking chastised, as he at last registered her upset.
He was unsettled that she knew precisely what he wanted to do: to have first look at the correspondences, and to see how his own interests had been reported to others.
Harry, quite used to Hooke’s lack of tact, continued to clean the body, scrubbing at the burns over the Secretary’s forehead. The powder had pushed itself into the skin, and so their removal was incomplete, but after the hole had been plugged with some quickly-mixed paste made from ingredients found about the house – beeswax, turpentine and some suet, with whitener rubbed liberally over the area – Henry Oldenburg looked acceptable.
They undressed him, pulling off his bloodstained clothes. Diodati held him while Harry turned the shoulders. Diodati and Hooke lifted Oldenburg; Harry dressed him in the nightgown, of cheese-coloured Irish linen, and, with Dora-Katherina leading the way up the narrow staircase, they carried him to the bedroom.
They lay him onto the bed, and drew the bedclothes up over him so only his face could be seen.
Diodati inspected the wounds. With an arrangement of Oldenburg’s long, thin hair, and a final polish of the suet mixture’s surface, he announced that he was done.
Clasping
‘Husband died peacefully abed,’ Diodati said to her. ‘That all world know. Cloths.’
Dr. Diodati was a small rat-like man whose old-fashioned beard emphasised the rodent cast of his features. His economy with words left few gaps for a patient to interject; nevertheless he was able to exude an air of kindliness and trustworthiness. He did not look at all worried by the deception he was asked to carry out.
Dora-Katherina fetched a small china bowl filled with water, and Harry took it from her. He carefully wiped down the back of Oldenburg’s neck. The middle finger of his right hand shook slightly, which exasperated him. The matter of his body was disloyal, refusing to be governed by his will. He did not want the older men to see his reaction to dead bodies.
Even Mr. Hooke, though, looked rattled by the Secretary’s choice.
Harry rinsed the cloth, and the water stained red. Steeling himself, he picked off the larger pieces from the chair, and put them into the bowl. The others, silent, watched his progress, until Diodati took an instrument from his bag and moved to assist him. It was a hollow scraping levatory, made to remove splinters from the skull after a trepanning. Hooke cut around the wound with a small knife, and Diodati produced some parrot’s bill forceps, and excavated all of the shards from the hole.
Harry wiped at the remaining matter in Oldenburg’s hair, and asked Tom to empty the contents of the bowl into an oilcloth bag that Hooke had thought to bring with them. The boy was overjoyed to be given such an important task.
‘Where are your husband’s papers, Dora-Katherina?’ Hooke asked thoughtlessly, looking about the room. ‘His correspondences?’
Dora-Katherina looked at the Curator in astonishment, having to reach her hand to the wall to steady herself. Her face went pale, and the muscles around her mouth pursed. Her voice went dangerously quiet. ‘He tidied them all away yesterday. He busied himself for most of the day.’
Oldenburg’s large oak chest, with ornately decorated wrought-iron bands and a heavy lock securing it, sat under the window.
‘I imagine you will be anxious to replace my Henry?’
‘We will need to peruse and catalogue them for the Society,’ Hooke continued obliviously.
The old lady flicked a look at the chest. ‘The Royal Society may have them when he is in the ground, and not before!’ The volume of her angry retort made them all jump, the lanternlight lurching as Tom did so. ‘I want all of his papers to go to the Society. I do not want you choosing what can and what cannot be published!’
‘It may help us understand the reason for his death,’ Hooke said, looking chastised, as he at last registered her upset.
He was unsettled that she knew precisely what he wanted to do: to have first look at the correspondences, and to see how his own interests had been reported to others.
Harry, quite used to Hooke’s lack of tact, continued to clean the body, scrubbing at the burns over the Secretary’s forehead. The powder had pushed itself into the skin, and so their removal was incomplete, but after the hole had been plugged with some quickly-mixed paste made from ingredients found about the house – beeswax, turpentine and some suet, with whitener rubbed liberally over the area – Henry Oldenburg looked acceptable.
They undressed him, pulling off his bloodstained clothes. Diodati held him while Harry turned the shoulders. Diodati and Hooke lifted Oldenburg; Harry dressed him in the nightgown, of cheese-coloured Irish linen, and, with Dora-Katherina leading the way up the narrow staircase, they carried him to the bedroom.
They lay him onto the bed, and drew the bedclothes up over him so only his face could be seen.
Diodati inspected the wounds. With an arrangement of Oldenburg’s long, thin hair, and a final polish of the suet mixture’s surface, he announced that he was done.
Clasping
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