by Doug MacLeod
‘Wisely? But you threatened to murder me.’
‘I did it to test you. Most men would have turned to water. They would have begged me on hands and knees to spare them. But you, Thomas, were magnificent. You didn’t seem the least bit scared.’
‘I was.’
‘But you didn’t show it. You had the bearing of a man who is about to be offered afternoon tea. I’m most impressed. Would you please move that gun away? It’s distracting and it isn’t loaded anyway. Go on, fire if you will.’
‘Turn around,’ I say.
‘What? I didn’t think you were the type to shoot a fellow in the back.’
‘You shouldn’t be so worried if the gun isn’t loaded. Turn around.’
Plenitude turns. Keeping the gun poised, I pat down his clothes, looking for concealed weapons.
‘You’ll find there’s a dagger tucked into my left boot,’ says Plenitude, helpfully.
I take out the dagger and pocket it. I find no other weapons and advise Plenitude to face me.
‘There,’ he says. ‘You hold both my weapons and therefore have quite an advantage over an old man. So, are we going to London?’
‘I’m keeping your weapons.’
‘Have them. Now, let’s climb out of this hole. You go first. You’ll have to help me up.’
‘You go first,’ I say. ‘I’ll not turn my back on you. And I’ve already observed that you need no help to climb out of a grave.’
‘You still don’t trust me? Ah, how sad.’
Plenitude has no difficulty climbing out. I follow him. Then he picks up my calico bag and shakes his head.
‘This will never do. You need a double canvas sack. And how will you carry it?’
‘I thought I would hoist it over my shoulder.’
‘Another mistake. You will need at least two people to carry the body. You’re very lucky we crossed paths.’
I hear a rustle as Plenitude takes something from his seemingly bottomless bag. He lays it out carefully on the earth. It is the double canvas sack.
‘Could you help me to remove his suit and shroud, Thomas?’
‘Can’t we take him like this?’
‘No. There are rules. We must leave the suit and shroud in the coffin. They are valuable.’
‘I would prefer him to keep his suit and shroud until the last possible moment.’
‘We must leave them here, Thomas. Otherwise it would be stealing.’
I stand more than a foot taller than Plenitude and have both his weapons.
‘It’s a matter of dignity. He will wear his suit and shroud if we are to take him anywhere.’
‘Very well. I will allow an exception to be made. Lift his feet, please.’
I do as he says, even though it means I have to pocket the gun. Effortlessly, Plenitude slips the sack over my grandfather’s legs.
‘Now lift his middle.’
Again, I do as directed. Plenitude continues to pull the sack.
‘And finally, the head and shoulders. Lift them high.’
I obey. Plenitude finishes the job, and ties the sack.
‘Now we both carry him to the tannery,’ Plenitude announces, as though it is the most natural thing in the world. ‘It won’t take long. It’s on the river, on Bolter’s Lane.’
I’m aghast. ‘The tannery?’
‘My centre of operations.’
‘A leatherworks?’
‘Don’t worry. I promise not to make handbags out of your grandfather. Come, let’s backfill the grave and make sure everything looks as it ought.’
The streets are deathly quiet, except for the occasional sound of fighting cats. Between us, Plenitude and I carry the sack. I have the feet, Plenitude has the head. Once or twice the bundle sags and scrapes the cobblestones.
‘Do be more careful, Plenitude.’
‘That was your fault. Do you think I would leave behind a trail for an observant detective?’
‘It’s your fault for holding the head too low,’ I protest.
‘Wrong. You must pull back as you carry. Do you have any idea how many bodies I’ve resurrected?’
I don’t want to think about it.
‘Fifty at least,’ he says, ‘in less than a year. So kindly stop finding fault with someone who knows his craft.’
A thought strikes me. ‘Plenitude, you said that two people are required to carry the body.’
‘That’s always been the way.’
‘And yet you came alone to the churchyard. You can’t have known I was there. The owl noise you made; you were signalling a colleague, weren’t you?’
‘That’s exactly what I was doing.’
‘Then why wasn’t your colleague there?’
‘That, dear Thomas, is a particularly good question.’
We arrive at Bolter’s Lane and the rows of warehouses lining the riverbanks that lead to the sea. There are more cats here. They hiss and spit as we pass. Their hostility is directed at me. For some reason, cats do not like me.
We stop at one of the warehouses. Plenitude gently puts down his end of the sack, then takes out a key. He opens the padlock on a small hatch set into two large swing doors. He slides the bolt and we enter the tannery. I’m overwhelmed by the smell, even though I have been preparing myself. Animal skins soak in vats of noxious chemicals and urine, awaiting their magical transformation into leather.
Plenitude tells me to sit while he organises the horse and cart. There is a stable at the back of the tannery, he explains. I sit in the dark, surrounded by the foul vats. Rats scurry about. I hear the clip-clop of horse’s hooves and strain my eyes to see into the darkness. ‘His name is Sultan,’ says Plenitude proudly. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’
I am not surprised to see that Sultan is black. I glimpse shiny muscles, withers, a full belly. Sultan is an Arab. And Plenitude is right. Sultan is indeed beautiful.
The back of the cart is on a hinge, and drops down when Plenitude releases a bolt. Together we heave the sack containing my grandfather onto the cart. There is already a small, square crate there. It seems excessively well-sealed and my curiosity overwhelms me.
‘What’s in the crate?’ I ask.
‘That is not your concern.’
‘Will you open it for me?’
‘I told you, Thomas, it is not your concern. It would also take far too long to remove the lid.’
‘What are the dark stains on the side?’
‘This is a tannery. There are stains everywhere.’
‘I would like to know –’
Plenitude sighs. ‘It is just some leather that I have to deliver.’
He locks the gate upright so that the cart is secure, then throws a canvas over the back.
‘Presumably you know how to handle a horse?’ he says.
Indeed I do.
Plenitude opens the large swinging doors of the tannery then tells me to climb onto the cart and direct Sultan into Bolter’s Lane.
I flick the reins and Sultan pulls the cart out. Plenitude closes the tannery doors then hops up.
‘You may like to take this, resurrectionist.’
He hands me a monkey cap.
CHAPTER 3
Sultan travels through the night, his breath coming out in white clouds. The air is freezing and I’m glad I have the thick woollen monkey cap to wear. As yet we have passed no one on our trip to London.
‘Are you a tanner as well as a body-snatcher?’ I ask Plenitude.
‘I am neither. I’d thank you to refer to me as a resurrectionist.’
‘And who runs the tannery?’
‘A kind man called Mr Worral whose discretion I purchase for the monthly sum of two pounds.’
‘That seems a lot of money for rent.’
‘When you’ve found a person you can trust, it pays to look after them. I also do him the odd favour when I can. Tonight’s delivery of leather falls into this category.’
‘Have you really taken more than fifty bodies?’
‘Resurrected them
, Thomas.’
‘This must be a typical evening for you.’
‘Far from it. It is the first night I have committed a felony, but I do it out of admiration for you.’
There are lights in the distance. Greater London glows murkily on the horizon.
‘Surely “resurrecting” a body must count as a felony?’ I say.
‘What crime do I commit?’
The answer seems obvious. ‘Well, theft.’
‘Theft involves the taking of property. Corpses do not count as property. If I am caught by the authorities, the most I can expect is to be charged with breaking and entry or offending public morals. Many parish churches do not lock their burial grounds at night, hence the charge of breaking and entry rarely applies.’
‘And the offence of public morals? Doesn’t that trouble you?’
‘I think I can live with it, given what I have come to know of people. The severity of my penalty would depend on the judge who tries my case. There is no statutory punishment for the offence of public morals. Some judges would recommend a brief incarceration, others a long one. None would hand down the death penalty. But tonight is the first time I have stolen. In leaving the clothes on your grandfather’s body we are now common thieves. I can barely live with myself.’
Plenitude both disgusts and fascinates me. The hazy lights ahead grow brighter.
‘Would you resurrect the body of your own mother?’ I ask.
Plenitude shudders.
‘That question is in extremely poor taste. My mother is long dead and remains in her coffin.’
‘I’m sorry. But say she had just died. Why wouldn’t you resurrect her? Is it like professional ethics, where doctors are not permitted to operate on members of their own family?’
‘I would not resurrect my mother because I know it is not what she wants. She is worried about Judgment Day.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘Of course. But she fears she will not rise to heaven unless she is eaten by worms. You know the passage from The Book of Job: Though after my worms destroy my skin, I will yet be restored and shall live forever in Paradise.’
‘Job is not one of the better books of the Bible.’
‘Well, you can’t expect them all to be page-turners.’ Plenitude sighs. ‘I can’t see what difference the worms make, yet my mother fervently believed she had to be eaten by them.’
‘If she specified in her will that she would like her body to be dissected –’
‘Then of course I would do it, just as you have done for your grandfather. It would be impolite not to.’
‘What of the other bodies you take? Do you think they have requested to be left to science but their families have disallowed it?’
‘It happens more than you think. The notaries tell me. They’re a prattling lot. This is why I have no qualms about my work, provided it is the season.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Resurrectionism is best practised between the months of October and May. The cold weather means the bodies don’t decompose quickly. Though December is out of the question, as the earth is frozen.’
‘So there is a season for it, as with duck-shooting?’
‘Indeed. In the summer I keep myself occupied by painting wildflowers and reading medical journals. You like anatomy, don’t you?’
‘Enough to leave my body to science,’ I say.
‘And I also,’ says Plenitude. ‘We are intellectuals.’
‘I don’t think I could call myself an intellectual at sixteen.’
‘Modesty forbids me from doing so at the age of fifty; nevertheless it’s the case.’
As we reach Greater London, the road improves. The cobbles are laid tightly and have been smoothed by wear. The streets of Wishall, which we have left behind, are so badly surfaced that you take your life in your hands if you run on them. We begin to see people, shapes moving through the streets as we pass more and more buildings. There are the new gaslights burning on either side of the street. Orange glows emanate from shopfronts as ovens are lit in bakeries. The night air is heavy with the smell of burning wood and coal.
Plenitude brings Sultan to a halt outside a bakery. The odour that wafts from within is mouth-watering.
‘Wait here,’ says Plenitude.
He climbs down, then slips around to the rear of the cart, where he throws back the canvas. He then knocks on the shop door. A portly man wearing a leather apron opens the door. He does not look pleased.
‘You were supposed to be here ages ago,’ he grumbles.
‘Didn’t you hear? The Albion flooded. Just like the Thames. No loss of English life, thank heaven. You’re lucky to see me at all.’
‘Who is the boy?’
‘My colleague.’
‘I don’t care for the way he stares.’
Plenitude calls to me. ‘Thomas, face the front. Be a good chap, and Mr Mortimer may reward you with a warm bread roll.’
I do as Plenitude asks though I don’t care for anything baked by such a surly man as Mr Mortimer. When I look ahead I notice a woman who must be twice my age but is made up to look like a teenage girl. She stands in the radiance of a gas-lamp. She would do well to stand further away. The sharp light accentuates the wrinkles in her red dress, the artificial blonde of her hair and the excessive make-up. I realise I am staring at her. The woman smiles in a suggestive way and I immediately look down.
Still grumbling to himself, Mr Mortimer walks to the back of the cart. I hear the crate being hauled out, followed by the jingling of coins as money changes hands.
‘What’s in the sack?’ Mr Mortimer asks.
‘Sand,’ says Plenitude. ‘For making sandbags. I believe I mentioned the flood?’
Mr Mortimer grunts as he carries the crate to his shop.
‘You could help me,’ he growls. ‘You normally do. And your new boy could help me too.’
‘Perhaps next time, when you know not to make enquiries about sacks in carts.’
Disgruntled, Mr Mortimer kicks his shop door open.
Plenitude climbs back onto the cart and sits beside me.
‘I’m sorry about the delay,’ he says as he gees up Sultan. ‘It was a rather urgent delivery.’
‘What is so urgent about a box of leather?’ I ask.
‘You saw that filthy thing Mr Mortimer was wearing.
I hesitate to call it an apron. As for the boys in the bake-house, they too require new aprons. I’m sorry you didn’t receive your hot roll. I’ll get you something from the muffin man. There’s one who parks outside the hospital.’
Thanks to the gas-lamps I can better see that part of Plenitude’s face that is unmasked by the monkey cap. He has white hairy eyebrows that poke out from under the wool. His eyes are as pale as a bluebird’s egg.
‘Do you like muffins?’ he asks.
Plenitude is patronising me. I don’t like being treated like a child.
‘Did you see the prostitute?’ I say, to prove I am a man of the world.
‘Which one?’ asks Plenitude.
‘She was in a red dress, outside the bakery.’
‘That was Mr Mortimer’s wife,’ says Plenitude.
‘Oh.’ I am embarrassed to have sullied the reputation of a good lady.
‘But you’re right, she is a prostitute,’ adds Plenitude.
The buildings get larger and more elaborate as we approach London’s heart. The air is fetid with smoke and horse dung. There are long rows of the gas-lamps now, and coaches rattling by. We turn down an alleyway, where the gas-lamps don’t shine. There are deep ruts in the cobbles, but Plenitude has been this way before and avoids most of them. We enter a yard where there is nothing but mud underfoot. Abutting it is a huge building with lamps burning in some of the windows.
‘Welcome to Craigieburn,’ says Plenitude. His voice is louder and bolder, now that we’ve reached our destination. ‘Welcome to the finest anatomical school in London.’
Sultan stops and shakes his head as though
he disagrees. Plenitude climbs down, whispers to the horse, strokes his fine black neck then offers him a small cake of sugar.
‘Good horse. Good Sultan.’
A figure with a lamp approaches. He is closer to my age and he too wears a leather apron. His face is ruddy. He has long hair, like mine, though he has tied his back.
‘Hello there,’ he calls.
Plenitude advises me that we must remove our monkey caps because it would be impolite to keep them on when among colleagues. When Plenitude removes his, and I at last see him in all his glory. The chin is sharp and the nose is almost aristocratic, not bulbous and bloated from drinking wine. There are pockmarks on his high cheeks, but they are not deep. Plenitude, I find to my surprise, is almost handsome.
The young man stands before us, waiting.
‘Thomas, I’d like you to meet my friend Lucifer,’ says Plenitude.
I gasp. Surely this man can’t have such an improper name? Lucifer holds out his hand, I remove my glove and attempt a friendly but firm handshake. I don’t wish to appear overwhelmed or timorous.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ says Lucifer.
‘Likewise,’ I reply.
I replace my glove. Lucifer goes straight to the rear of the cart. He and Plenitude throw off the canvas cover. Plenitude releases the two bolts, and the back of the cart swings down on its hinges. Lucifer reaches in and grabs the tied end of the sack. He pulls it towards him, opens it and takes a deep sniff, like a connoisseur judging the bouquet of a wine. My grandfather’s head is now exposed.
‘What’s he doing all dressed up like this?’ Lucifer asks. ‘Why is he not presented in the usual way?’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Plenitude. ‘There is a slight matter of etiquette. The boy here – this is his grandfather.’
‘Rot.’ Lucifer scoffs.
‘It’s true,’ I say.
‘You’re really going to sell your own grandfather to me?’ It sounds as though Lucifer might burst into laughter.
‘Well, no, I certainly don’t intend to sell him.’
‘Though there is, of course, a small handling fee,’ adds Plenitude.
‘He wanted you to have him,’ I tell Lucifer.
‘Me personally?’
