"He literally went berserk..."
"I hope it was worth it."
Robert Liston.
This devil of a man—no, this surgeon—had been swamped for the past month, barely having time to breathe.
Even without concrete evidence, it was obvious, but I had proof.
'The rings on the knife... no, damn it. The bloodstains have increased.'
And not just a little—they had increased significantly.
Lately, it seemed like he was reliving his glory days, as the numbers kept rising every single day.
This meant that a lot of people had lost their arms or legs.
And many must have died too.
The dead don't speak, so Dr. Liston's reputation remained untarnished.
Of course, the families probably had a lot to say, but...
Well.
Who would dare utter a word in front of Dr. Liston holding a knife?
"Here... is the morbidity rate of puerperal fever in Ward 1."
"Morbidity rate?"
"Ah, yes... the rate of occurrence. Of puerperal fever."
"Ah, I see. But that... it just happens sometimes. It's bad luck if it does."
Blundell shook his head.
I wished I could smack that head so hard it would spin the other way.
'Luck? Did he just say luck?'
These bastards, seriously...
They refuse to admit they're wrong, and even when they do, it's all mixed up.
Sometimes they blame it on miasma, sometimes on luck, and other times on underground water or some other nonsense.
'Take a lesson from the midwives.'
They... well, they didn't even fully understand why they had to wash their hands.
But at least they habitually washed them with water.
Though they did throw a fit when I introduced chloride of lime.
Anyway, during my investigation, I compared patients attended by midwives and those attended by doctors, and unsurprisingly, there was a difference in survival rates.
The midwives were better.
At least they washed their hands with water, and they didn't perform autopsies.
"As you can see... it's about 4%."
"Hmm."
"The other wards... the lowest is 18%, and the highest is 24%."
I struggled to suppress the anger bubbling up inside me as I continued.
This was something I had wanted to say for the past month.
I had waited a whole month to say this obvious fact: that wards where hands were washed had lower rates of puerperal fever, or infection rates.
Maybe that's why I felt like tearing up a little.
"Hmm...
But this Blundell bastard kept pursing his lips.
Was he trying to say it was a coincidence?
Is that it?
I wanted to pour chloride of lime down his throat.
"There really is a difference."
Fortunately, Dr. Robert Liston seemed interested.
He wasn't just saying it—he genuinely was.
Right now, he was staring intently at the stack of documents I had brought.
"Who conducted this investigation?"
But his tone wasn't exactly friendly.
No, it wasn't just his words—the atmosphere felt sharp.
Honestly, with his intimidating presence, anything he said felt threatening.
Anyway, I avoided eye contact and answered.
"I led the investigation... with the help of Joseph and Alfred. We cross-verified the data."
"So, it was just among friends, huh?"
"Well... yes, that's correct."
"Even so, the data seems meaningful..."
Robert Liston muttered, seemingly to himself, as he paced around holding the documents.
His eyes were clearly fixed on the numbers.
And for good reason.
The difference was astounding.
Puerperal fever doesn't discriminate—whether you're nobility or not, it can kill you. And the rates had dropped significantly.
It was nothing short of a dramatic change.
"It's almost too meaningful. Just by washing hands, this kind of result... hmm..."
He seemed almost dissatisfied because the change was so dramatic.
As Dr. Liston spoke, Blundell's confidence seemed to grow.
"Exactly! Does it make sense? A hypothesis from a student who just entered medical school being validated to this extent!"
There was probably some resentment toward me behind his words.
No, not just resentment—more like disdain.
I understood.
Even I, who lived in the 21st century, had my own biases when dealing with people who looked different from me. So, how could they be any different?
'But I can't forgive them.'
Understanding and forgiveness are two different things, I realized as I looked at Dr. Liston.
I hoped he would smash this guy's head and make everyone wash their hands.
"Well, we've got nothing to lose."
Oh.
This is why he's called a doctor, not a butcher.
"Let's try it for another month. This time, in all the wards."
Dr. Liston slammed the stack of documents down with a thud.
It didn't seem like he put much force into it, but the corner of the desk cracked.
Of course, it wasn't Dr. Liston's desk.
"Ah..."
Blundell weakly nodded as he looked at his shattered desk—a sleek, expensive-looking black wooden one.
Maybe he thought if he brought up the desk, his own head might be next.
Whatever the reason, it was a good outcome.
If everyone entering the wards started washing their hands, the number of deaths in this hospital would drop significantly.
'As for other causes of death... well, that's beyond my control.'
Like cancer.
There was nothing I could do about that right now.
Surgery?
I could perform surgery perfectly, but...
Operating on cancer without anesthesia? Even I would struggle a bit...
"Ah, and, Pyeong."
Having finished my business, I was about to stride out like a triumphant general.
Well, I would have, if Dr. Liston hadn't called me back.
"Yes, Professor!"
Who would dare hesitate in front of him?
I turned on my heel and rushed back to Liston.
Blundell was trying to piece together the broken fragments of his desk.
It didn't look like it would ever be fixed.
Just like his shattered ego would never recover.
"Lately, the people working in the wards... the staff here."
"Yes."
Dr. Liston continued, not even glancing at Blundell.
His expression was serious, and since I'm good at flattery, I made sure to look attentive.
"Many of them have been badmouthing you. You know that, right?"
"Yes, I'm aware."
"Looking at the results... it's clear you're worth the hate. But tell me... don't you think that chloride of lime is too harsh?"
Do I?
Of course, I do.
Chloride of lime.
Chemical formula: Ca(Cl2). CaCl2.2H2O.
Have you ever washed your hands with this?
'Bleach... this stuff...'
If anyone has, and if someone told you to wash your hands with it, you should report them to the labor board or the police.
"It is harsh. I've been thinking about how to improve it... every day."
As I said this, my eyes naturally fell on my hands, which were red and raw.
They hurt.
If I kept washing them like this, what would happen?
I might be overreacting, but it felt like I could get cancer from this.
"Really? You've been thinking about it? It didn't seem like it, from all the fuss you've been making."
"Y-you saw that?"
"I left my knife there, so I saw it occasionally. I like people who can make a fuss like that. If a man has a goal, he should go all out to achieve it."
"Ah..."
Unexpectedly, I had won Liston's favor.
Was that a good thing?
I'm not sure.
I don't know if there's anything to learn from this man.
But... if I play my cards right, maybe I can use him to remove all obstacles, including Blundell...?
"But a man must also care about his reputation. If you don't want to, you need overwhelming skill. One or the other."
Coming from a man of power, his words felt forcibly persuasive.
But...
There was something even the great Dr. Liston didn't know.
This was all part of my plan.
"Yes, I'll look for something gentler."
Would I have said that if I had found a way to produce alcohol cheaply?
No, that wasn't it.
The problem was that I couldn't store it.
It would all evaporate...
If I could turn it into a gel, that would be great, but if I could do that, I'd be a chemist.
'Soap... that's all we need. For now.'
Running water and soap.
To be precise, the surfactants in soap were the key.
Most viruses couldn't withstand that combination.
Of course, it wouldn't be "sterile," but for that, you'd need negative pressure devices.
And in 19th-century London, such things didn't exist, no matter how much you wished for them.
"Well, I'll look into it too. But whatever it is that's coming off your hands... whether it's miasma or some unknown substance... I'm not sure what's needed to remove it."
Unaware of my true intentions, Robert Liston said this, and I walked out, picking up the chloride of lime again.
The harsh, acrid smell hit my nose, no matter how much I tried to get used to it.
In fact, this was why others disliked it, but it also made it seem plausible.
Since the miasma theory was based on smell, the strong, deadly smell of the lime seemed to fit the narrative.
"Ah... how long do we have to wash with this?"
"I'm going crazy. Washing is good, but... isn't there anything else? It's too harsh."
As I walked down the hallway holding the lime, Joseph and Alfred whispered beside me.
It was the exact reaction I had anticipated.
'Bastards.'
People are like this—if you push them hard at first and then ease up, they don't get angry; they become grateful.
How did I know? I experienced it myself.
When I entered the university hospital—starting as an intern, then resident, fellow, and finally a clinical instructor...
I went through hell, and the first year as an intern and resident was so brutal that as I moved up, I felt grateful.
Objectively, it was all tough, but that's how it felt.
'Hehe.'
This is the shock therapy.
Amazingly, it's a term used in psychiatry too.
"The patients are alive, aren't they? You're a doctor—can't you handle that?"
For the shock, I hid the fact that there were other methods besides chloride of lime.
I felt no guilt.
"Ugh."
I wash my hands too, you know.
Damn it.
Because of you guys...
"Ah, Pyeong."
About a week later?
That day, as usual, I was blowing on my reddened hands when Alfred, with his own red hands, approached.
Fortunately, like the others, Alfred no longer openly complained.
After the handwashing protocol was expanded to all wards, the survival rates improved so dramatically that there was no need for further statistics.
"Yes, Senior."
"My dad... he said to come by regarding the rubber."
"Oh, did it work out?"
"Not sure. Something came up. Let's stop by on the way."
"Sure. Sounds good."