"Where do I wash my hands…?"
The large-framed chef was surprisingly docile for his size.
Well, judging by the fact he assumed a fighting stance when the officers surrounded him before, he isn't exactly timid…
But if you lived in the 19th century without at least that much fighting spirit, you'd just die.
"There's no water here."
"But… that doesn't make sense?"
"What, do you think the police are lying?"
"Ah… no, sir."
Of course, even fairly tough guys would be terrified in a 19th-century police station.
If you aren't terrified, you might actually die.
It's not an empty threat; the officers here don't even bat an eye if one or two people die.
What's absolutely unacceptable by 21st-century standards is just the way it is in the 19th century.
"Well…"
"What?"
"It's nothing…"
And so, the chef began cooking without washing his hands.
The ingredients provided to him were just potatoes and salt.
"What am I supposed to do with this…?"
"Cook."
"You just want me to boil these potatoes, right?"
"If you don't like that, why don't you go take a shit and come back?"
"No, you'll just smear that on!"
"Then it'd be over in one go, why all this trouble?"
It was baffling, but honestly, it wasn't entirely unjustified.
It had already been days.
But seeing him react like this every time, he clearly isn't an ordinary person.
How should I put it…
Should I say he's earnest about his cooking?
'But what can we do…?'
We'll probably have to give up on that cooking idea.
I found out through back channels that he was even married.
But…
His wife died.
Records left at our hospital showed she died with a fever and, finally, diarrhea.
They were left by Dr. Jemel; that guy was obsessed with bloodletting, but being a renowned physician of the time, he was diligent about records.
Of course, the treatments he gave the chef's deceased wife were arsenic and bloodletting, so it's confusing whether typhoid was the culprit or if Jemel was.
"Hmm… I had a feeling…"
"Huh?"
Anyway, I thought we'd just have him hand out boiled potatoes bare-handed again today, but this gentleman brought oil.
"Can I fry them?"
"Fry…? Wouldn't that make them too delicious?"
It was the Superintendent who chimed in this time.
He hadn't shown much reaction until yesterday, but the reason he came down today was simple.
Out of the 22 death row inmates the chef was serving, one of them had started running a fever today.
Well…
"Cough, cough."
"Ugh…"
"Please… just kill me…"
London prisons are places where people die even if you don't do anything.
I hear Parisian prisons are even worse, so that must be truly hellish.
First, heating and cooling…?
Let's skip that since even regular houses don't have that.
Squeak, squeak.
Rats?
One just scurried right past us, so let's overlook that too.
They're friends that roam the wards too, so no need to make a fuss just because there are a few more in the cells, right?
We humans are surprisingly resilient and don't lose to small mammals like that.
The real problems are the fact that several people are crammed into a space barely over three square meters, the lack of proper facilities for waste disposal, the food usually being potatoes—and even those are severely short because the officers skim off the top—and the prison uniforms have been in short supply for a while, so inmates inherit them from deceased predecessors. Add all that up, and it becomes something akin to hell.
"Is there a problem… with them eating something tasty, Superintendent?"
"As I've said repeatedly, they are men who deserve to die."
"That… I am well aware. But…"
"But what? They are men even the Lord has abandoned. Part of me wants to burn them all to death."
There weren't only 22 death row inmates total.
The total number was much higher.
That number excludes political prisoners and such.
I hear those people are held elsewhere, not here.
The ones here were anachronistic pirates and murderers.
Whether pirates or murderers, they kill people, rape, commit violence, and rob, so they are truly men who deserve to burn to death, as the saying goes.
"Well…"
"However, if you said you would feed them with your own hands, I would allow it."
"Ah? Really? But why specifically…?"
"We believe you have miasma on your hands."
You should have seen how happy the Superintendent was earlier when one death row inmate started running a fever.
It wasn't just because the inmate was finally receiving punishment befitting his crimes.
It was probably more because his deduction was proving correct.
He was really, really happy.
'Well… that's understandable.'
In an era with nothing, absolutely nothing, the fact that he could find each event strange is truly remarkable.
I'm still amazed how he even came up with such ideas.
Probably, if I didn't know about Typhoid Mary, I wouldn't have been able to progress this far.
Well… Typhoid Mary is a staple when learning about the carrier concept, and even pseudo-educational YouTube channels like 'Surprise' or 'History of Medicine' cover it, so it's harder not to know.
"I don't believe it. How could such a thing be possible?"
"That's why we want to test it. It's not a difficult concept, is it?"
"I understand… I will do it."
"Good, good! Then proceed."
As soon as the Superintendent gave permission, the chef started a fire with firewood, heated the oil, and began frying the potatoes.
A savory aroma began spreading in all directions.
Even if this were Korea, the impact would have been significant, but this is England.
A place utterly estranged from good food, that's what it is.
But he's frying potatoes, so what's this…
"Haa…"
"Can't we try some too?"
The officers began approaching, one by one.
Like a horde of zombies.
Not exactly.
They ate some weird sardine pie thing for lunch earlier.
Even though they must eat it every day, seeing some officers gagging intermittently…
Perhaps God inflicted food upon the British Empire as punishment for the sins it has committed and will commit.
Conversely, maybe eating that food made people both resilient and twisted, leading to that state of world history.
"No."
"Are you crazy? That's a lump of miasma."
Anyway, the Superintendent and Liston blocked the path of these pitiful men.
If it were anyone else—another officer of similar rank, or even just Blundell—they would have already been beaten and thrown out.
But how could anyone hit the Superintendent and Liston?
One is socially untouchable, the other physically untouchable.
"Ugh."
"How does it make sense to give that only to prisoners, especially death row inmates?"
"We want fried potatoes too!"
The problem is they're too desperate.
The bigger problem is…
"Pyeong."
"Yes, Hyung."
"I want some too."
…Liston is also wavering.
"Hyung… one of them already started running a fever."
"But I'm strong. Just between us, isn't everyone's resistance to miasma different?"
He's not just wavering; he's bringing up the concept of immunity, he's that desperate.
Well… he's not wrong.
Liston is strong, after all.
But isn't physical strength and stamina being strong surprisingly different from being strong against pathogens?
Ironically, sometimes when young, healthy people get infected, their immune response can be too strong and cause problems.
Although usually, the elderly are much more susceptible…
"We suspect miasma, wouldn't everyone get it regardless of strength?"
"Is that so…? Then let's go get fish and chips after this instead."
"Well, that's…"
Eating somewhere else would actually be better.
I'm getting pretty hungry myself.
When they served that smelly thing they call food earlier, I almost beat up the server, officer or not.
'I should bring my parents over here soon…'
Thinking about food made my thoughts jump to this… I feel like such an ungrateful son.
If you asked me: be a filial son and eat British food, or be an ungrateful son and eat Korean food, I'd choose to be ungrateful.
"Listen here, men! I'll treat you all later, so hold on for now."
"Wahhh! Sword Saint Liston!"
Anyway, Liston had a generosity befitting his fame, so the officers' complaints soon subsided.
It wasn't just because they thought they could eat later.
"The fellow who had a fever earlier, I heard he started vomiting too."
"He's isolated, right?"
"Yes, we had some scheduled for hanging tomorrow anyway… so we moved them elsewhere, and a room became free."
"I see."
"It's certainly… progressing as you said."
The inmate who ate the chef's potatoes got typhoid.
No one in the entire cell block had diarrhea, and while there were those with fevers, they all had consumption.
If it were the Superintendent or officers from before, they would have thought it was all the same illness…
But these guys have been conspiring with us for quite a while, so they've made significant medical progress.
"Is it really…"
"How…"
"A curse?"
So, they were somewhat accepting the idea—which now seems like a logical leap—that the prisoner got typhoid because of the chef.
Amidst the whispers of a few officers, the chef, surrounded mostly by silence, continued frying potatoes with an inexplicably anxious expression.
The delicious smell still spread everywhere, but no one seemed to find it mouth-watering anymore.
Thinking it was an ominous smell, the officers scurried away.
No matter how much we said miasma spreads through contact, it was useless.
The theory that miasma spreads through foul air, i.e., bad smells, still dominated people's minds.
"Damn it all…"
The chef was scared, unjustly accused, and resentful, even shedding tears.
But, perhaps not forgetting his duty as a chef, he wiped his tears and continued cooking.
'Is this for the best?'
It's better than feces, but there would probably be typhoid bacteria in those tears too.
It might feel excessively cruel…
But this kind of thing needs to be proven quickly to reduce unnecessary victims.
Right now, the Capel Count's household is the most at risk.
Sometimes I wonder if we really need to save the guy trying to start the Opium War…
But whatever the case, it's strange to stand by and do nothing when you can clearly see people about to die before your eyes.
"Ugh… ugh…"
"My stomach, my stomach hurts so much…"
Whether the tears were effective, or whether the chef didn't wash his hands after defecating before coming here, within less than ten days of starting our experiment, 20 out of the 22 inmates had contracted typhoid.
Two of them had already died and been dumped in the burial grounds.
With things having gone this far, what choice did we have?
"Is that really true?"
We had to call Count Paul Capel.
He looked incredulous at first, but then, perhaps remembering my reputation, he grabbed my hand.
"Th-thank you. You are the savior of my life."
Life is going well.