The First Case of Rot

One evening, when the feral cats have already called off the hunt and retired to their nests, there is a knock on the door of the modest quarters I currently rent.

I reach for the Empress, my trusty cane. I don’t frighten easily, but it is wise to be prepared. This part of Rive Gauche is of modest repute, yet well-suited to my persona as a foreign druggist, specialising in exotic remedies, and occasionally practising as an unlicensed doctor.

My housekeeper, who is also my landlady, lets me know that there is a visitor for the gentleman. I conclude, based on her uncombed hair and untidy cardigan, that she, like the cats, had already turned in for the night. Her startled, disapproving look tells me this is the kind of visit she objects to, but she nods and disappears without another word. The old widow treats me with due kindness and respect. She needs her coin as badly as anyone.

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A Courtly Giant

When I step into the small hall that serves as a reception room, I realise that her worried expression is not only due to the late hour but also due to the caller. A giant, about twice my size, stands with his back to the front door, dressed in a dark greatcoat that reaches below the knee. His eerie appearance is accentuated by a face mask, which leaves only his eyes, mouth, and chin visible. It’s presumably meant to conceal a deformity, not hide his identity. Half of Paris must know who he is.

The visitor exudes the spirit of a beast rather than a man, but in contrast to his ogre-like presence, he speaks with a pleasant baritone voice and expresses himself with the poise of a gentleman.

– I beg your pardon for calling at such a late hour, Monsieur Docteur. I hope I have not caused you any inconvenience.

– Not at all, Monsieur. I’m available around the clock if necessary.

The ogre bows courteously but stays momentarily silent. He carries a coachman’s riding stick, so I assume he is not the patient but the ride.

– What is the emergency? I ask so I can gather the right equipment.

The ogre hesitates.

– There is no immediate emergency. I represent a gentleman who has requested your services for a matter that requires utmost discretion.

– I see. If this is the case, why don’t we hold this consultation tomorrow morning?

– My master insists that it takes place tonight.

The ogre reaches into his pocket and picks out a purple money pouch.

– Consider this an incentive. You may keep it, whether you agree to the full assignment or not.

He tosses me the pouch. The weight and sound of it, as it lands in my hand, tell me that it contains several times my usual fee.

– You have my curiosity, Monsieur.

The ogre grunts in reply.

– You may call me Vincent, Monsieur. I will take you to him, and back again, and I guarantee that you are in safe hands.

I don’t doubt this, but I still bring my cane with the built-in firing mechanism along. You can’t be too careful in Paris at night.

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At the Temple

After a journey across the river and through some ancient quarters, Vincent steers the carriage into the courtyard of a private house that from the outside looks quite unassuming. He leads me up a staircase to a reception area. This home lacks the extravagance of a classic European residence. The interior is simple with a darker theme, and the decorations are foreign. Vincent knocks on a heavy oak door.

– The doctor you requested is here, Master.

– Thank you, Vincent. Please show him in.

I am ushered into a study with a large set of French windows that lead to a balcony overlooking the courtyard. In front of them, with his back to me, stands a man dressed in formal but comfortable clothes, a shirt and a pair of trousers and not much else. He turns to me with a scrutinising but not unfriendly gaze, still in a half-contemplative state. His hair is greying with flowing curls, a little thinner on top, and his face ends with a well-groomed beard. I judge him to be in his late 40s. His shoulders are broad, and he exudes power when he speaks, with a resonant voice, albeit with a slight accent.

– Please come in, Herr Doctor. I hope we have not caused you too much trouble by dragging you out at this hour.

– Think nothing of it. I am a night owl.

– Good to hear. Let me introduce myself. My name is Zechariah Rot, an entrepreneur and a lawyer. May I offer you a glass of wine?

– I don’t mind if I do.

He pours me a glass of amber coloured wine from a carafe on his desk, and one for himself.

– This particular wine is made by a relative of mine, who happens to be in the business.

We toast, and I have to nod approvingly. It is an exquisite, honey-like wine.

– But forgive me. I did not drag you here to talk about wine.

He seems hesitant to come to the point of my invitation, swirling his wine.

– I have a rather sensitive problem. To go straight to the point, I have been in a happy marriage for several years, and I am very fond of my young wife. Sadly, despite us trying, she has not been able to give me a son. To make things worse, her monthly bleeding appears to have stopped, though she is not much more than thirty years old. I have turned Paris upside down in search of a solution, but thus far, no one has been able to help us. One tells me that you possess some unique talents in your field, performing miracles practically, so we turn to you as our last resort.

– Do you know how long it has been like that for the young lady?

Mr Rot seems embarrassed by the question.

– A couple of months, at least.

I contemplate his account of the situation.

– I’m afraid my talents may be exaggerated in those rumours. I am a mere apothecary, or, as they call me here, a druggist. I dabble a bit in surgery and medicine, but mixing potions is my forte. Unfortunately, regarding the problem you have described to me, I can’t offer you much hope. I indeed know some old recipes that the French universities have never heard of. I have remedies that will increase the blood flow of the young lady’s veins and organs, and others that act as potent aphrodisiacs; however, if her monthly bleeding has stopped, there’s not much more I can do. Sometimes, this happens early to a lady, and we don’t know why. It is not a condition that the worldly art of medicine can cure.

Mr Rot seems disappointed but not surprised. He drinks his wine to the bottom and puts the glass down, sighing.

– I was afraid you would give me the bad news. As you can see, this is a matter of great concern to me. I am not a learned man like yourself, but I, too, have certain responsibilities on my shoulders and a tradition to uphold. My family has built a small business empire here in Europe, and as its head, I am expected to produce an heir. I already have a son from a previous marriage, but unfortunately, he is not up to the task. God, in his inscrutability, seems reluctant to bless me with another, and you were our last resort to find a remedy. Yet, I must thank you for your honesty, Herr Doctor.

– I will be happy to examine the young lady if you think that it would help, but again, if she is past her fertile days, it is usually irreversible. What I can offer is a couple of potions that will act as aphrodisiacs for both her and you. However, I don’t have the ingredients with me tonight.

– Thank you, Herr Doctor. I will consider your offer, and a sample of your medicine would be splendid. I will send Vincent to pick it up in a couple of days.

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Divine Lubrication

Undeniably fascinated by the charismatic Mr Rot and his bizarre manservant, and inspired by the generous fee for my services, I will prepare some of my best recipes for him and his missis. For the gentleman, I have the Cock Oil, the strongest potency enhancer the world has ever seen, at least according to my advertisements. Its bonus effect is that it rubs off on the lady, and the impact on her should not be underestimated.

Unfortunately, I can’t offer much help to the barren woman. Many recipes have been tried over the centuries to restore fertility, but none have proven reliable.

Still, I want to provide her with my best option. Forbidden Fruit is a blend for the impatient, containing my usual base ingredients: sweet syrup for flavour and texture, cognac and opium for a pleasant rush, and then the active ingredients from the Triangular Books. Yes, this is an ancient recipe of obscure origin. It contains dried, crushed Silphium (a herb almost impossible to find anymore), a reduced bouillon of goose tongue and vampire bat lung, gall of billy goat, pulverised rhinoceros’ penis, green tea for colour, and to counter the odour, a good portion of well-aged ambergris. As usual, there are a couple of ingredients the guild won’t share with the world.

For Vincent, my assessment of his most urgent problem is that a man of his size with heavy breathing suffers from indigestion and constipation. I prepare a bottle of Doctor Brown. This is a long-acting laxative that turns the toughest stool into a purée, which is a delight for the sphincter.

It is the counterpart of Doctor Yellow, the favourite for the elderly gentleman who struggles to empty his bladder.

Watch Out for Doctor Brown

The good Vincent arrives a couple of days later to pick up the parcel. Again, he hands me one of Rot’s velvet money pouches. When I protest that I’ve already received sufficient payment, he refuses to hear me. It’s the Master’s wish that I accept it.

Since I am not sure that the big man can read the label, I hand him his bottle with a warning to take it alone in his quarter, with easy access to the lavatory. A crooked smile on his lips tells me that he understands.

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