Professor Atticus’s study had the prerequisite looming bookcases of medical tomes. Spaces between covered with diagrams of the human head and botanical prints. The fire was out and the room was damp. The professor went to the mantelpiece and removed the dropper from a tiny glass bottle of yellow liquid. A sharp unpleasant odour filled the air. He looked into the Regency mirror above the mantelpiece and dropped the yellow liquid onto his eye. He blinked and stared in the mirror. He replaced the dropper and picked up the bottle, crossed the room to his walnut desk and sat down. He checked the grandfather clock on the wall and noted down the time in a leather-bound notebook. For years the professor had been obsessed with the link between different intoxicants and the functioning of the brain. He’d researched the ingredients that so-called primitive tribes had used to reach elevated states: the Incas and the coca leaf, the peyote and the Aztecs, the liberty cap and the Druids.

 There was a knock at the door. He shoved the glass bottle and notebook into a drawer.

“Enter!” commanded the professor.

Daphne Blanc, the young housemaid, timidly entered and made an awkward curtsy. “Sir.”

“Well what is it lass? Stop dithering!” said the professor.

“Excuse me, begging your pardon sir. Master Grimes is here to see you,” stuttered Daphne.

“Well show him in lass!” said the professor.

Daphne ushered Wilton Grimes into the study, then she left. Wilton bowed. The professor impatiently gestured to a seat and Wilton flopped down. Suddenly the professor’s face whitened. He turned and vomited into his wastepaper basket.

Wilton got up, walked behind the professor and patted him on the back. “Are you alright, sir?”

The professor sat up and brushed Wilton off. “I think it was the kippers.”  He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. He clutched the bell pull and gave it a tug. Wilton went back and sat down.

“How did you get on with the petition?” asked Wilton.

“Eight signatures collected so far. That’s out of the nine lecturers that I asked,” stated the professor.

“Oh who didn’t sign?” asked Wilton.

“That prissy Dr Love. What a cheek he had! He actually told me that the women were intellectually superior to the men!” bemoaned the professor.

“Unbelievable!” gasped Wilton.  He slapped the desk and the phrenology bust next to him fell over.

“Careful!” said the professor.

“Sorry sir!” apologised Wilton. He righted the statue.

“Ours is a thankless task. Saving the fair sex from unnecessary ugliness,” sighed the professor.

“Exactly. What kind of woman would want to become a doctor? A midwife I can imagine. But a doctor. It’s unnatural!” ranted Wilton. The professor nodded.