ONE
The Doctor Floats
WANTED: Airship Doctor
Physician welcome, surgeon preferred. Remuneration according to experience level. Education open to negotiation. Progressive philosophy and equable temperament preferred. Must tolerate explosions and cats.
Dr Arsenic Ruthven turned the advertisement over in her hand. She’d spotted it three days before, in The Mooning Standard, which was a very forward-thinking paper. Yet it went beyond her expectations. It was, in a word, ideal. The author of such an oddly worded advert might be convinced to overlook her greatest failing as a doctor in the eyes of society: being female.
She read it over for the hundredth time. That last line was a corker. Arsenic knew of very few doctors who would put up with both explosions and cats. Or explosions caused by cats. She was one of the few.
Arsenic had contacted the brokering agent and been told, curtly, to seek out The Spotted Custard dirigible, moored in Regent’s Park at five in the afternoon on Thursday next.
Accordingly, she’d arrived by half past four. Arsenic abhorred tardiness. She was standing next to her collapsible mono-wheel with medical kit in hand in time to watch a distinguished-looking physician with prominent muttonchops and even more prominent teeth go up the gangplank. He was not particularly fit, and the colour and texture of his nose suggested a preference for, and regular indulgence in, claret of an evening – and morning and afternoon and just before bed.
He was after her position, if his doctor’s bag and smug expression were any indication.
My position, Dr Hairy Jowls Strawberry Nose! She thought it, but she didn’t let it show in her expression or posture.
Arsenic tilted her head back, pretending at a tourist’s curiosity over the dirigible. It was modern, massive, and cheerfully spotted. It was also heavily armed, which was an aberration in a pleasure craft.
Her pretence seemed unnecessary as the muttonchops didn’t sway in her direction. A modern young lady in outrageous dress was beneath his contempt. Medical kit or no.
Arsenic judged him for his doctor’s bag more than anything else. So old-fashioned. His techniques are likely equally so.
Oh, she very much judged him.
She needn’t have worried.
He came back down the gangplank a mere ten minutes later, flushed and blustering. Which made Arsenic nervous but also immeasurably pleased.
She rubbed sweaty hands over the black serge skirt of her golf costume. It was hemmed in scarlet and six whole inches off the ground. As if that weren’t daring enough, she’d paired it with a scarlet blouse and black knickerbockers. It was beyond progressive, some might even say outrageously suffrage.
But Arsenic wasn’t one to hide. She had a demanding profession and she rode a mono-wheel. It was silly to wear long skirts and fancy lace blouses, they impeded mobility and were a challenge to clean. She was a surgeon, blood and mess were part of day-to-day operations – literally and figuratively. She’d even been known to roll up her sleeves when the situation warranted, and scuttle the consequences!
Aye, she wanted the position, rather desperately, but she wasn’t going to compromise in personality or attire in order to achieve it. The advert said progressive, Dr Arsenic Ruthven would give them progressive.
Thus buoyed, she checked her watch.
4:50 p.m.
She took a breath and, mono-wheel slung over one arm, medical kit under the other, she marched up the gangplank and aboard the aptly named Spotted Custard.
“How’s this? Fancy, fancy. I like this one.”
A suite of young ruffians was lounging about applying commentary to the applicants. The young lad who spoke was smudged and cheerful, lean and fit, and possibly not a lad.
“No wager on this one, gentlemen, I give even odds.”
Arsenic squinted at the malcontent. Female, she decided after a moment’s focus on skeletal structure.
“Proper stuffing, she is,” agreed one of the others, chewing happily on reed or cob or something similarly tough and vegetative. He was also smudged and muscled. Bit sunburned. I must remember to stock burn balms. I wager the boilers can scald too.
“Definitely nibbles the biscuit,” added one of the others.
Arsenic was rather chuffed by this observation. She’d never before nibbled anyone’s biscuit, so she was disposed to be pleased, even when coming from the mouths of babes. Wisdom of youth and all.
“Swanky duds.” The first turned bright sharp eyes onto Arsenic.
Clear sclera. Healthy.
“Thank you verra much,” replied Arsenic. “I’ll do, then?”
“Not up to us. More’s the pity,” lamented the girl.
“Still, I’d like to know I’ve your approval.” Arsenic was not above enlisting backers, small and scruffy though they may be.
The girl jumped down off her perch and sauntered across the deck, hands deep in pockets, examining Arsenic with interest.
“I’m Spoo,” said, apparently, Spoo.
Arsenic inclined her head. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Spoo.”
“Just Spoo’ll do. You got dulcet ways for a lady sporting trousers.”
“They tried,” Arsenic explained.
Spoo laughed. “Could be our ship’s motto, that.”
“No one is here to collect me just yet. Would you like to start the interview, Spoo?”
Spoo looked delighted. “Would I ever! How do you feel about candied fruit?”
“Favourably.”
“What would you do if the forward ballast collapsed?”
“Stay out of your way.” This girl must be a deckling, and from the way the others stayed back watching, probably head deckling.
“You good with a needle?”
“Very.”
“You a leech?” Spoo had excellent upper-body musculature, probably from balloon-stimulated gymnastic endeavours. Decklings did a great deal of rigging-work.
“Never. That’s well out of date.”
“Allergic to cats?” One of the others asked that question. He was shorter with impressive shoulders. Those muscles were from shovelling and he was more smudged. Arsenic guessed he was a sootie.
“Nay, love them.”
“Well, don’t love them too much. Miss Primrose wouldn’t like that.” Spoo spoke with sepulchral foreboding.
“Neither would Mr Percy,” said a new voice. Another young person trundled up.
This one was about Spoo’s age, early teens. He, however, was meticulously clean and dressed in a dark vest and jacket with striped trousers and crisp white shirt. The attire indicated staff of some kind, a footman or valet. Although he was rather young for either position. He was also on the tubby end of the spectrum, with hair trimmed short and a grave round face. Arsenic worried about his diet.
“Are you our five o’clock?” He held himself with dignity and gravitas.
“Aye, sir.” Arsenic was already confused by the nature of authority on this ship, so she erred in favour of politeness.
“I like this one.” Spoo patted Arsenic in a conspiratorial way.
“Oh you do, do you?” The dapper youngster was not impressed. “Gave her good odds, did you?”
“Now don’t go getting all over contrary, Virgil. You know we got to have us something out of the ordinary for this here airship.”