Excerpt:

The Pain woke him again. Not the constant throb that was so familiar he could hardly remember being without it. This was one of those sharp stabs from the wound along his thigh. Doctor Farcett had dug deep to get through to the shattered bone, and the layers of catgut stitching pulled as the torn flesh struggled to realign itself inside. After so many interventions by the keen young medic, Montomorency should have been prepared for the agony, but each time the aftereffects seemed worse, and the limited pain relief (alcohol and the occasional treat of an experimental gas) less effective.

The candle on the central table had burned almost to nothing: It must be nearly morning, but there was no sign of light through the bars high up in the wall. Montmorency knew there was no point in calling for the night guard. Marston, silent, still, and unsmiling, saw his duties in the prison hospital as strictly limited to preventing escapes. Never mind the fact that Montmorency couldn't even turn over in bed, let alone run away. He'd have to wait in the dark for the arrival of Nurse Darnley, a brusque but well-meaning woman who believed that bad people could be made good and that providing a sip of water to a sick criminal might help that process.

In the meantime, as so often, Montmorency's memory threw up images from a year ago, of the night he was caught. He had hopped across the roof of the factory like an animal feeling for its life. If he hadn't clung on to the bag of stolen tools, he might have seen the skylight window before his feet found it and he'd fallen through onto the hard iron fram of the grinding machine. He remembered the cold impact of metal against his skin, but nothing else until he'd head people talking about him as if he wasn't there.

"I can assure you there will be no drain on hospital funds. I will provide all necessary equipment and supervision."

I was a voice he later recognized as that of Robert Farcett, the surgeon who wanted to make a name for himself by saving Montmorency from his multiple injuries.

Montmorency could only imagine what had happened in the interim. No doubt the police, finding his distorted body in the factory, had been delighted that he had gotten what he deserved for his crime. A quick death would save the courts the trouble and expense of dealing with him. But he had defied their expectations, and his mangled form had been carried off to the teaching hospital near the bridge, where Doctor Farcett had seen him for the first time. The injuries had been grievous, but the body around them had clearly been athletic and strong.

Farcett was preparing a paper for the Royal College of Surgeons on the treatment of complex wounds. He had considered traveling to the Balkans, to find casualties of war so that he could illustrate his theories with real examples. Now, as he worked late among the puking poor of London, an ideal subject lay before him. Without Farcett's help, the man would surely die. If he lived, Farcett's reputation might live on, too.

So it was that the relationship between the doctor and the pitiful heap of bloodstained clothing had developed into a project. The creature didn't die.