The Great Grey

The thought that Mr. Soroka might be having trouble with young women had so far not occurred to Mort—but why should he not? He had, Mort thought with a sideway glance towards the Russian, despite his awkward manner a countenance that was oddly charming; furthermore, it could not be said that there was nothing pleasing about his features.

Mort could relate, could fraternize himself with women-troubles. "If a young woman can be in a situation to cause you trouble by the manner in which you can familiarize yourself to her, no blame can fall on you—if she is proper, the predicament would not occur," he said and winked. And if she is not proper, he left unspoken, no blame can befall a man, anyway.

"My uncle is an officer," said Mort, "he tells me all the time I ought to make a man out of myself and serve Her Majesty in the field."

The eyes of the surgeon flitted across the faces in the street. The war that had birthed the new country in their midst was not long past. And his uncle always told him that now it was only a matter of time until the next conflict would erupt on the continent.
He thought that his uncle would rather prefer it that way. But Mort had for the time being enough of disciplinary institutions and did not desire a life among soldiers at all. The freedom of his European tour was wondrous to him. Under a foreign sky, his sins seemed to come free of cost—at the very least they came a whole lot cheaper.
There was something in that thought that unsettled him.

Up in his rooms, they sat down to eat. Heinrich sat opposite to Mort and the Russian. He glanced them over and shot Mort an insolent look that seemed to accuse him of something. "So you do not remember last evening at all, Mr. Soroka? That is unfortunate. It was most amusing. You and Mr. Blake make a pair that entertains me greatly," he proclaimed and pointedly broke apart his bread to drop the pieces into his stew.
"I will tell you, Mr. Soroka, that Mr. Blake plans a daring little adventure at the Hôtel-Dieu, or so he claims. There is a bet with Mercier going, who says that Mr. Blake will find a reason not to go through with his plan."

Mort looked up from refilling his glass of wine.

"You, dear Heinrich, have found every reason not to accompany me. We will not talk about how you plan to desert me in my noble mission. But," he gesticulated with his spoon in the direction of the German, "I have found a far more loyal friend. Mr. Soroka will come with me. He will be by my side," Mort said gravely and again placed his hand on the Russian's shoulder.

Heinrich looked away from them as if he had little interest in the matter. That was a theatrical performance, Mort knew, who knew the expressions of this long, distinguished face very well. He read from the downturned corners of the German's mouth that he had succeeded in making him jealous. But Heinrich was far too stubborn to change his course.
"Only because these kinds of morbid endeavors are thankfully not needed for members of my profession," he said with an air of studied dignity.

Mercier arrived shortly after. He carried his bloody apron over his arm and once he had entered the room, he threw a key upon the table.
"Behold!" he exclaimed. "The key to the morgue. You have until tomorrow morning to return it to me, or you get me in great trouble, Mr. Blake."
He fell down on a chair and threw his apron to the floor. His intelligent dark eyes glittered with satisfaction. "Good evening, Mr. Soroka. Good to see you restored to consciousness."

It was a wise answer, as far as Vasiliy could see. He found himself nodding along to the logic of it, glancing again at the surgeon just in time to catch the wink – and rapidly dropping his gaze again to the stones they walked upon, still smiling slightly. While Mortimer Blake was not a man with whom Vasiliy would readily think himself likely to befriend – career choices aside, he was far more bold, far more social, far more demanding than the Russian usually enjoyed – he was glad that fate had put them together.

The matter of war was one that Vasiliy was ready enough to leave behind. His own obligatory service was a thought looming in the back of his mind. It was likely that Grigoriy would be able to continue using his connections, and Vasiliy's ongoing education, as excuse enough to deny the army of his services. But it was also possible that these things would not be enough, and the idea of war made the young physician's stomach twist in distaste.

Far better to focus on the now; on the good company, and good food.

While not completely oblivious to Heinrich's attitude, Vasiliy saw no ready cause of it save, perhaps, for the likelihood of a hangover. He had weathered the previous night relatively well; Mortimer slightly less so, but not terribly. Perhaps Heinrich had drank much more than even Mortimer, or had simply not found a cure for what ailed him. Regardless, the Russian took the words at face value, shaking his head. "I remember drinking, and I think I remember... singing?" It was a very uncertain statement, made with a side-eyed glance at Mortimer for confirmation or denial.

The reveal of the destination for Mortimer's plan, if not the plan itself, did make Vasiliy uneasy. There was very little at the Hôtel-Dieu for a physician, he was certain. That was even more true if it involved sneaking about the place after hours. It was even more true to see Heinrich speaking ill of whatever this bet was. "What morbid endeavors?" Sitting very carefully still under Mortimer's hand, he frowned down at his stew. "I am happy to be a friend to you, Mortimer Blake, but I think that Heinrich von Westau is correct to–"

His denial, stated flatly with politeness as a slight afterthought, was interrupted by the arrival of the French surgeon – bloody apron still accompanying him, though at least this time it was carried by hand and not about his person. Still, Vasiliy's nose wrinkled in distaste at the sight of it, especially upon the floor. Regarding the Frenchman, he ignored the greeting to ask, almost accusatorially, "Why does he need the key to the morgue? What is this bet?"

With every partial revelation, he was more certain that Heinrich had the right of it. They could stay here, then; let the surgeons go play games about cadavers. Pushing his bowl of stew (mostly consumed, by now) aside, Vasiliy's brow furrowed and he regarded Mortimer with nothing short of open suspicion and spoke gravely. "I do not think this is what Grigoriy Nikolayevich considers an appropriate way to spend an evening, Mortimer Blake."

There might have been singing last night, but Mort did not undertake great strain to recall it. Heinrich sang when he was drunk; it was a regrettable fact—not because his voice was unpleasing, it was not. He had a very nice voice. But he liked to sing very vexing songs that one should not think a man such as Mr. von Westau would keep in his repertoire.

So Mort just shrugged in Mr. Soroka's direction upon his question and reached instead across the table to take the key. He looked grimly at Heinrich, who for some reason seemed determined to be bothersome. Worse than that, the Russian was all too ready to hang on to his words. "You are too easily persuaded, Mr. Soroka. You see a man with a beard and a stern face and you give away all your authority at once," Mort complained. "You see, it is for the advancement of science—believe it or not, anatomy is a science more intricate than you would imagine and one that many physicians are regrettably ill-informed of—" Here Heinrich made a contemptuous noise over his stew. "Oh, I beg your pardon," the German interjected. "What use has all this ungodly digging around in human cadavers to anyone? The treatment methods of illness and disease are well established since Pliny the Elder! Your ilk need to know how to stitch and hack, that's it! You should do well to remember it. If the insides of a man are visible enough for scientific discovery, he ought to be shot because there is no saving him by any butcher on earth!"

Mercier laughed and Mort fell silent and took a deliberate swig from his wineglass. "My God," he said earnestly. "I must have insulted you last night, Heinrich, and forgotten about it. You are exceptionally ill-tempered today."

Heinrich leaned back in his chair and watched him over his long, aristocratic nose. "I simply think that you ought to have been less cruel to me in the past, all things considered," he said, and it looked for a moment like he was about to glance over to Mr. Soroka, but held himself back from it.

"I cannot imagine what you might be talking about," answered Mort in confusion. He noticed that his hand was still on the shoulder of the Russian, and in the heat of the discussion he had gripped onto it a bit harder than intended. He took it away and turned towards Mr. Soroka to say: "There is a young, highly ranked nobleman in the morgue who died unexpectedly, and no one can make sense of his symptoms before death, and a big fuss is being made. I firmly believe that I will find a malformation of his arteries, but of course as a foreigner I did not get permission to have a look, seeing as it is an aristocrat."

Mercier, who had quietly listened so far, now piped up: "Mortimer has complained about it so much, I could not hear it any longer. So I bet him that if I get him the key, he will not dare to sneak into the morgue and prove his theory."

Mort replied: "Which of course I will dare—and if I do and if I am right, Mercier will pay for all drinks and entertainments I could wish for all night long. For our entertainments, because of course that shall include you, Mr. Soroka. But I fear…" and here the leonine face of the surgeon somehow managed to produce the sad expression of a deserted puppy, "you shall reject my pleas to accompany me."

The argument was not one into which Vasiliy wanted to wade. The concept of it was familiar enough to him. He had taken part in no small number of similar arguments – though he and his friends would always call them debates, if pressed – and while there were occasionally sore feelings, it always seemed to work out. This would too, he was certain; though their ways were quite foreign to him (in much more than a literal sense), it seemed that the three men held each other in high esteem. It was not the kind of esteem with which Vasiliy himself was familiar with or adept at navigating, with their brashness and their forwardness and their laughter and their ribbing, but an esteem nonetheless.

...Though it certainly looked like less than esteem on Heinrich's long features.

Contrary to the light touch of Mortimer's hand resting upon his shoulder, the deeper pressure the surgeon placed upon him unwittingly was far more pleasant. But then it was gone, and Vasiliy was left looking between the two men a moment before turning his attention fully to Mortimer, who was sitting quite close to him. Because this was the information that he had been so desperate to know, and because it seemed important, the young physician's brow furrowed and he met Mortimer's eyes unblinkingly for the duration of the impromptu lesson.

It wasn't so bad, he thought. Surely there would be no one there to catch them, and as they had been given the key, it was not quite the same as trespassing. Though he was still cautious of indulging entirely too much, given Grigoriy's disappointment from the night before, he was also quite interested in drinking more on someone else's bill, to say nothing of what other entertainment Paris might hold for young men of learning such as they.

Mortimer's best attempt at playing the kicked dog was met with that same flat expression and unblinking gaze. If he thought to coax Vasiliy to action through facial expression alone, he had chosen his weapon poorly. Instead, with a glance at Heinrich, he asked, "Does France still hang body-takers?" It was not the correct term exactly, but it hardly mattered. He smiled, to show that it was a joke no matter how dry his voice. "Surely an aristocrat could have had the finest physicians before he died. A surgeon may be enough in death. I would like also to see what killed him, if it indeed was some malformation of his vessels."

It really was a scientific endeavor, no matter the distasteful nature of it. For that alone would Vasiliy risk the ire of both Grigoriy and any who might catch them – catch Mortimer – at work. Still, he couldn't quite help the sigh as he relented. "I will go with you, Mortimer Blake. There will need to be an impartial witness to this wager." And, because he did want the man with the beard and the stern face to accompany them, he added to the German, "Surely there is no harm in coming with, Heinrich von Westau. You may wait outside the Hôtel-Dieu, if you wish. Whoever loses, surely it is our victory." Because, presumably, if Mortimer were wrong, then he would be the one paying for drinks and ... entertainment.

"There you go! I knew I could count on you, Mr. Soroka," Mort said cheerfully. "To the naysayers and rogues of my acquaintance I have added with you a gentleman with a sense of adventure and curiosity," he added, to stoke the flame of Heinrich's jealousy.
It was somewhat of a hyperbole, but Mort felt that the backhanded compliment and tentative curiosity was the best that he was going to get out of Mr. Soroka regarding his surgical endeavors. He would take it. While the face of the German grew yet more indignant in its expression, Mortimer's brightened. He started inquiring with Mercier about how to best enter the morgue. His smiles were wide; he had white teeth that gleamed through his words and grins when he was satisfied.

After the stew was finished and Mercier had described the best route into the Hôtel-Dieu morgue—by way of the garden wall on the east side—Mort led their little party of conspirators out into the Paris night. He was feeling rather pleased with himself. It had taken only a little persuasion to win Mr. Soroka over to their cause, despite Heinrich's best attempts at discouragement.
"You have done this before, breaking into medical institutions?" Heinrich asked as they walked, his face a study in disapproval. "Or is this another new vice you are developing?"
"Not at all," Mort replied lightly. "But the principle is quite the same as climbing into the dorms at school at night. Though I was a bit lighter then."
They crossed the Pont au Double in the mild summer night. The streets were not yet empty—Paris slept late and never entirely—but the foot traffic had thinned enough that four gentlemen moving with purpose drew little attention. Mort did no longer keep a steady hand on Mr. Soroka's shoulder as they navigated the narrower alleys, but he nudged him forwards playfully when he dawdled and found reasons to grab his arm and jostle him about a little in some jest or another.

Then the garden wall loomed before them, a good twelve feet of weathered stone. In daylight, it would be clearly visible from several hospital windows, but now it lay in convenient shadow.
"Right then," Mort said, shrugging off his coat and rolling up his sleeves. "Mr. Soroka, you go first. After that, Mr. von Westau might lend me a hand, if he is charitably inclined, so I can join you."

He leaned his back against the wall and flexed the muscles in his legs and back. "You step up on my leg and then on my shoulders. I'll steady you. Come on."
He looked expectantly at the Russian, hands ready to grab on to his legs. He was not sure at all if Mr. Soroka was particularly athletic.

It would not be accurate to say that dinner was an awkward affair after the disagreement between the German and the Englishman. It certainly wasn't for Vasiliy, in spite of being aware of the disagreement and recognizing the expression upon the other physician's face. While he could not entire understand the true nature of the frustration the surgeon prompted in Heinrich, the information was nonetheless filed away for later consideration.

It was easiest still to remain in the background; to ignore the looks that Heinrich gave him – or more specifically, seemed determined not to give him – and merely listen as this illicit little outing was planned. Though Vasiliy had joked about bodysnatchers, it did seem rather questionable, this plan. Climbing over a garden wall to cut into a nobleman's body... It seemed something very much in line with gothic horror, missing only rumors of resurrections or perhaps something more romantic, such as a poisoning.

Despite his intentions, Mortimer remained intent on hassling him. Whether it was some fear that the Russian would change his mind (unlikely, though the surgeon may or may not yet know as much about Vasiliy), or merely in the boyish spirit of the evening, Vasiliy could not truly admit to disliking it. A reluctant smile was drawn forth with each grab and jest, and it was in good spirits he eyed the wall of the garden. To hear Mercier describe it, it had seemed an easy enough thing to climb. Looking at it now, Vasiliy had his misgivings.

"This is truly the best way inside? We should have brought a ladder." As steady as his hands, Vasiliy was not the most coordinated of men, as any of his previous dancing partners would no doubt be eager to reveal to any of the men gathered in the shadow of the wall. But neither was he a man willing to overly linger upon his failings, at least before he had actually failed. So, jaw set in stubborn determination, he lifted his leg – only to pause. "Are you sure? I'll get your trousers dirty." It was a valid concern. Though Vasiliy did not make it a habit to step in puddles and piles of horse shit, Paris was a large city, and even if it were merely dust upon the bottoms of his shoes, he would feel uncomfortable smearing it upon Mortimer's trousers.

Knowing that it was silly of him, but feeling compelled to do it anyway, he quickly pulled his shoes off, instead tying them together by the laces and draping them around his neck. Only then did he nod sharply to himself, and proceed to climb the wall. It was not a particularly graceful affair, and it took more effort than he probably should've needed to expend, but by the end he was straddled atop it. Then he made the mistake of looking down the other side, and found his head swimming for the height of it. "It is very tall," he remarked to the others undoubtedly needlessly, swallowing hard.

Keeping his eyes closed, he lowered his body along it to drop his arm down to offer Mortimer aid in climbing up to join him – though the surgeon hardly seemed to be quite so inexperienced in these criminal matters as Vasiliy, and the physician had little doubt that Mortimer would be able to climb the wall far more easily than he himself had.