SGB Chapter 312

## Chapter 312: The Source of the Plague

**Holborn, London, Greville Street, London Free General Hospital.**

At first glance, this red-brick building, barely larger than a few storefronts, was hardly what anyone would call a hospital. Its size made it easy to mistake for a run-of-the-mill private clinic found on any street corner.

However, despite its small size, it was fully equipped. Most importantly, since its establishment in 1828, the London Free General Hospital had been dedicated to providing free medical care for the city’s poor.

Speaking of its founding, one cannot overlook Dr. William Marsden, who currently served as a professor at the University of London Medical School.

In the winter of 1828, Marsden discovered a young girl, dying from illness and hunger, on the steps of St. Andrew’s Church in Holborn. Moved by compassion, Marsden picked her up, hoping to seek help from a nearby hospital.

However, no hospital was willing to accept her due to her inability to pay for medical expenses. The girl, having missed the best time for treatment, died two days later.

This incident tore through Marsden’s heart. To prevent such a tragedy from happening again, he used his savings to establish this hospital in the Holborn area where he found the girl.

Due to a lack of medicines, staff, and stable income, the hospital struggled to operate.

However, when the University of London learned of its existence, the Board of Directors, always committed to utilitarian principles, quickly extended a hand to Marsden. The hospital had now officially established a teaching connection with the University of London Medical School, becoming one of their affiliated teaching hospitals.

With a large number of interns and university funding, the London Free General Hospital’s situation rapidly improved. This year marked its third year of operation in London.

While the hospital primarily had close ties with the University of London Medical School, students from other colleges, like Arthur, also frequented it for medical care.

Although they could not receive full free treatment like the truly impoverished, the hospital’s affordable medical prices were quite cost-effective compared to other hospitals in London.

Arthur leaned against the hospital’s front desk, with Marsden sitting beside him.

As a doctor, Marsden had a promising future and a decent amount of savings, earning a respectable income. He held a prestigious position at the Royal Hospital, making him a respectable member of the middle-class gentlemen.

However, to keep the hospital running, he had not only sold his carriage and dismissed two servants, but also had to squeeze into a two-bedroom apartment in Holborn with his wife and two children.

Arthur looked at the poor people who entered and left the clinic, supporting each other, and the interns radiating youthful energy. He took a sip of his tea, asking, “Dr. Marsden, long time no see. How’s the hospital doing lately?”

Marsden, seemingly fresh from surgery, had beads of sweat on his forehead and visible bloodstains on his sleeves.

He wiped his sweat with his hand, not minding his appearance, and took a large gulp of tea. “It’s better than before. Thanks to Mr. Brougham… well, maybe we should call him Lord now. Anyway, since he became Lord Chancellor, the University of London’s donation this year is much higher than in previous years. As a result, the Medical School’s tight teaching funds have become more abundant. So, the school’s allocation to teaching hospitals has doubled this year. However, although the shortage of medicines has improved, you know, it’s only enough for us to barely maintain. There are just too many poor people in London.”

Arthur listened, stirring his tea with his spoon, seemingly lost in thought.

The Red Devil frowned, and Agareus warned, “Arthur, don’t meddle in this.”

But Arthur clearly ignored him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brand new check for one hundred and fifty pounds, placing it on the counter. “Take this, please.”

Marsden took another sip of tea and picked up the check. “What is this… one hundred and fifty pounds? Did the Board of Directors ask you to bring next semester’s payment?”

Arthur just smiled. “Sort of. I was going to donate this money to the school anyway. I guess when the Board gets it, they’ll probably transfer it to you. So, why bother with all that hassle? It’s easier if I bring it to you directly.”

“Is this your donation?”

Marsden set down his teacup and looked Arthur up and down. He hesitated for a moment before pushing the money back. “Arthur, you were one of the most outstanding graduates in the first batch. I’ve heard many professors mention it. But your career is just starting. Although I don’t oppose your dedication to charity, you’ve only been working for a few years. This money should be all your savings, right?”

Arthur just waved his hand, patting the bandage on his arm and joking, “You’re underestimating me, sir. This one hundred and fifty pounds was earned with this arm. I haven’t touched a penny of my savings. It’s just that I think this one hundred and fifty pounds is blood money, so it should be used where blood is shed. After looking around, your hospital is perhaps the most suitable place in all of London.”

Marsden wanted to continue persuading him.

But Arthur shook his head gently, signaling him to stop. “Dr. Marsden, your conscience is enough for showing mercy to the poor. A Scotland Yard inspector shouldn’t be the object of your pity. I’m just donating a little charity now, it’s just a way for me to secure my future. If one day I end up on the streets, don’t use lack of medicine as an excuse to turn me away.”

Marsden laughed, “Come on, Arthur. God won’t let you fall to that point, and my hospital will never turn away the poor. Both of your conditions are impossible.”

But after accepting Arthur’s money, Marsden felt a little uncomfortable. He was always a man of action, and he pointed at Arthur’s arm, asking, “Let me take a look at it. To be honest, although I consider myself a general practitioner, my forte is surgery. I assure you, I worked in the Royal Navy’s casualty station for a while. Nobody is better at this kind of wound than me.”

Arthur, of course, couldn’t agree to Marsden’s request. His little fake injury wouldn’t escape the old doctor’s keen eyes.

“My injury isn’t serious. Just take a look at the friend I brought with you today. If possible, it’d be best to issue him a diagnosis. Someone informed the Bethlem Royal Hospital today. If you can’t provide him with a health certificate, he might really be taken in.”

“Bethlem Royal Hospital…”

Marsden understood why Arthur came to him when he heard the name of the hospital.

Established in 1247, the Bethlem Royal Hospital was the earliest specialized institution for treating mental illness in the world. In its early days, it wasn’t a hospital, but a monastery.

At that time, Britain didn’t have the concept of mental illness. People usually called the mentally ill possessed by demons.

The name itself reveals the methods Bethlem used to deal with its patients: binding, whipping, and beating were their common exorcism techniques.

Some female patients were even subjected to torture, and once they admitted to being witches, they would be sent to the stake.

Bethlem’s barbaric treatment methods continued until the early 19th century. When Arthur’s favorite social satire cartoonist, George Cruikshank, depicted the plight of patients inside Bethlem, the British public finally began to notice the issue.

However, although the infamous Bethlem Royal Hospital underwent several major reforms, and corporal punishment and other harmful practices gradually improved, they still used many forms of indirect abuse on patients because of the slow progress in psychiatry.

After their “careful” treatment, although the insane might not become normal, the normal would likely become insane.

This was the reason why Arthur, upon learning that Whitemore might be taken to Bethlem, rushed to find Marsden to obtain a mental health certificate.

A simple pistol could cure Whitemore’s social phobia, there was no need to torture him.

Marsden always had strong opinions against the brutal treatment methods of Bethlem. When Arthur spoke, he readily agreed.

“To be frank, sending mental patients there won’t help them at all. I visited there before, they tied patients to a chair suspended from the ceiling and then spun it at 100 revolutions per minute, calling it ‘rotational therapy’. But apart from seeing the patients vomiting constantly after they got off the chair, I didn’t feel it had any therapeutic effect.

Their only goal is to make the patients quiet so they can have a peaceful life. Not to mention their history of sending patients to the circus for freak shows. First, your friend is currently very healthy, second, even if he does have some mental disorders, he shouldn’t be sent to Bethlem for treatment.”

After saying that, Marsden, without hesitation, took out pen and paper to write a certificate. “I just took a look at your friend, he might have some symptoms of depression, but it’s not serious. A country vacation might help improve his mental state. If his condition doesn’t improve afterwards, you can send him back to me, I’ll look for ways to help him.”

Arthur took the diagnosis from Marsden’s hand and looked at Whitemore, who was being diagnosed in the next room, letting out a long sigh of relief. “Thank you so much for your help, he’s safe.”

With the immediate crisis resolved, Arthur finally had the chance to chat with Marsden. “Now that Lord Brougham is Lord Chancellor, he’s also responsible for matters related to healthcare. I happen to be attending a meeting at the Lord Chancellor’s office next week, and I’ll have the chance to meet him in person. Is there anything you need me to convey to him? I remember you used to complain about the frequent outbreaks of typhus and yellow fever?”

Marsden just shook his head when he heard this. “Arthur, typhus and yellow fever can’t be eradicated by simply increasing funding. I’ve been researching these epidemics, and I talked about it with Mr. Chadwick recently. You must know him, right? He’s Mr. Bentham’s secretary, and he’s now assisting Lord Brougham at the Lord Chancellor’s office.”

Arthur nodded slightly. “I met him once, he came to Scotland Yard.”

Marsden said, “Mr. Chadwick was recently appointed by Lord Brougham to prepare for the establishment of the Poor Law Commission. Their first task is to investigate the living conditions of the poor across Britain. They’ve compiled statistics of several epidemic outbreaks in Britain since the 19th century, and the statistics show that more than half of the hundreds of thousands who died each year from several specific diseases lived in urban areas. The epidemic outbreaks also mostly concentrated in several industrial cities, while rural areas were rarely affected.

Interestingly, this is consistent with my research findings on epidemics. I believe these epidemics breed in filthy urban environments and spread in the form of miasma. You’ve lived in London for a few years, you should know the extent of the filth flowing on the streets whenever it rains.

And it’s not just London, Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, it’s the same. I lived in Manchester for a while, and on Parliament Street in Manchester, there was only one public toilet for 380 residents. It was located in a narrow passageway, stinking to high heaven, harming the surrounding area. Such an environment is naturally fertile ground for breeding diseases.

According to Mr. Chadwick, many of the parish officers who were sent out to collect statistics this year became ill in those slums, and two unlucky fellows who went to the East End to investigate died from typhus within days. As Wordsworth’s poem says, factories have broken the peace of rural life, and smoke has polluted the once clear rivers and fertile land. We live in this kind of watery Venice, how can we live healthily?”

Arthur felt the same way about Marsden’s words. He said, “I’ve always been concerned about this. I was in charge of the East End security for a while, and many of our officers became ill and even died there. Although this was never brought to light, the proportion of compensation payments in Scotland Yard’s annual expenditure is actually not low. But fortunately, the Lord Chancellor’s office seems to be genuinely planning to do something about it.”

Marsden sighed when he heard this. “But… how should I say this? I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Regarding improving sanitation, Parliament seems to be arguing fiercely, and there are also differences within the Lord Chancellor’s office. Mr. Chadwick doesn’t want to reveal too much about the specific reasons, so I don’t know how far the sanitation reform can be pushed.”

As a doctor, Marsden wasn’t very interested in politics, but Arthur guessed the root cause of the differences from his words.

Ever since the Magna Carta was issued in 1215, opposing authoritarianism and respecting individual freedom have been the most important traditions in British society. The Duke of Wellington, a symbol of power, had just fallen, and everyone’s minds were filled with the idea of upholding freedom.

If anyone wanted to implement comprehensive, unified control over the field of health and sanitation, they would quickly become the target of everyone’s ire, becoming a target to be mocked.

Politicians always cared about their reputation, especially since the Harrison incident had just happened. No one wanted to take the lead at this time.

Arthur was pondering how to explain the intricacies to Marsden, but before he could speak, he heard a thud behind him.

He quickly turned around to look.

He saw the man collapse on the brick path outside the clinic, his head hitting the wall, leaving a large gash. Blood was flowing down his head, past his cheek, seeping into the brick joints of the street, merging with the mud and grime.

Marsden rushed out, instructing his apprentices, “Sir, are you alright?! John, Mark, get the patient to the rest room! Horn, prepare some honey water and bread for him!”

Arthur wanted to follow him out to see what was going on, but before he could take a step, the Red Devil suddenly put his hand on his shoulder.

Arthur was confused, “Agareus?”

The Red Devil didn’t say a word, his red eyes like a video camera, feeding countless images into Arthur’s mind.

It was a ballroom filled with people, he seemed to see Heine and Dumas dancing happily in the ballroom.

Music played, clowns took to the stage, the performance was just as entertaining as always.

But as if in an instant, the roses in the vase wilted, the light dimmed.

The clown, with white powder on his face, suddenly stopped dancing, his legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, his expression vacant.

The mask on his face slowly slipped off, revealing a face that was already purple.

Laughter vanished, replaced by countless screams.

The circus performers fell one after another, the stage was almost stained red with blood, even Arthur’s vision was blurred by the blood.

Amidst the bloody scene, carriages roared out, they were like ants on the march, carrying the revelers from the dance floor to the hospital. The carriages were filled with corpses, no one would have thought that they were still pouring out their passion on the stage just moments ago, only the carnival costumes still worn on their bodies could serve as a testament.

Arthur’s body froze. “What… what’s going on?”

No one answered him, the only response was the Devil’s low whisper in his ear.

“Arthur, I told you, don’t meddle. If you insist on meddling, then be prepared. Because the minions of Baal… are coming.”

(End of Chapter)