by Doug MacLeod
‘I can’t. I won’t.’
‘You must. You saw how I had to dismiss Tolerance. I’m a man down. You can’t expect me to be a resurrectionist on my own. Any number of awful things might happen. Don’t you have a heart? I was so impressed with you last night. Such presence of mind. Such strength and intellect. I have no doubt that one day you’ll be the best resurrectionist in England. Not that we have awards nights or anything like that.’
‘Plenitude, I cannot do what you ask.’
‘You can. I saw you.’
‘That was merely to appease my grandfather.’
‘But you took the five pounds.’
‘No, I didn’t. You stuffed it in my pocket.’
‘Let’s not quibble over details. You’re meeting me at St Martin’s tonight. Do you know where the cenotaph to Horatio Nelson is?’
‘You’re not digging him up, surely?’
‘We will meet at the cenotaph at eleven o’clock. And no, we are not digging up Vice Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson. He’s not actually buried there. Even if he was, I don’t think he’d be much use to the medical students. For starters, he’s missing an arm.’
I am becoming exasperated. ‘Plenitude, you don’t understand. Nothing on God’s earth would drive me to more body-snatching.’
‘What will you do when they find out that you dug up your grandfather?’
‘I already told the chaps at school.’
‘And I’m sure they laughed and called you a jolly good fellow.’
‘Actually, I was whipped for it.’
‘But they thought you were making up stories, didn’t they?’
‘They did. Like it or not, people see me as a man of breeding and honour.’
‘Which is precisely what you are. You just happened to dig up your grandfather last night.’
‘No one will believe that.’
‘They will when they dig up the coffin.’
‘Why will they dig it up?’
Plenitude pouts and rolls his eyes. He splays his bony fingers and presses them together gently. ‘Word may somehow get out that the grave has been tampered with.’
‘You would tell the authorities?’
‘They could find out if I wanted them to.’
‘They’ll have no evidence I was involved.’
‘In the notary’s office you voiced considerable disapproval when your mother insisted on defying the will.’ Plenitude sees my look of surprise. ‘I did mention that the notaries are a prattling lot.’
I shrug. ‘Well, people always argue at will readings.’
‘They bicker about land and money and jewels and who gets the second-best chair in the hallway. They don’t usually argue about bodies. Not as fervently as you did.’
I am about to close the door. ‘Sorry, Plenitude, but the case wouldn’t hold up. The evidence is circumstantial.’
‘I dropped your fob watch in the coffin.’
‘What?’
‘Your watch. It’s engraved. Thomas Timewell.’
‘You scoundrel.’
Plenitude doffs his top hat a second time. ‘See you tonight, my talented resurrectionist.’
CHAPTER 7
I arrive early at the churchyard, for I have a plan. I will not assist Plenitude. Rather, I will once again dig up my grandfather’s coffin and remove the fob watch, the crucial piece of evidence that Plenitude has left to incriminate me. I am wearing the monkey cap gifted me by Plenitude when he returned my clothes.
I have barely started my excavation when I hear the familiar owl hoot. I turn to see Plenitude perched near the small mound of soil I have made.
‘Hello, Thomas,’ he whispers.
‘Hello, Plenitude,’ I reply, in resignation. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘Since you started digging. You’re becoming very adept with the resurrectionist’s spade, I must say. You work with a gentle but swift action. I have never seen anyone learn so quickly. Though you are a joy to watch, I must ask that you desist.’
‘I shan’t.’
‘You are absolutely correct to try to remove the damning evidence. I would be disappointed if you hadn’t attempted it.’
‘Please go away. I will complete my task.’
‘Of course you will. And you will discover that your grandfather’s coffin does not, in fact, contain your fob watch.’
I take a moment to register this. ‘It doesn’t?’
‘The coffin is quite empty, I assure you.’
‘You lied?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Since I do not need to worry about being implicated, I can bid you good riddance and return to a guiltless life.’ ‘You cannot. And I think in your heart of hearts you realise.’
‘Where is the watch, Plenitude?’
‘An excellent question, Thomas. It is certainly somewhere in this peaceful spot.’
‘Where?’
‘That is a secret that God and I share.’
I sigh. ‘How many of these coffins are empty?’
‘About half. But one of them does contain your watch. You will probably have to dig up quite a few before you find it.’
‘Then I will.’
Plenitude shakes his head slowly. ‘You won’t have the time. Once the authorities learn that a body has been taken, they will immediately dig up all the other recently interred coffins. They will prise them open and discover – eventually – your fob watch.’
Tonight’s sky is as dark as the night before, and yet I can see well enough. Perhaps my eyes are adjusting to the new vocation into which I appear to have been forced. Perhaps I am developing the eyes of a resurrectionist. I silently curse the day I met this ghastly man.
‘Come, Thomas. Backfill the grave. We have far more important things to do.’
I reluctantly do as Plenitude says, then join him at the cenotaph.
‘There was a burial yesterday afternoon,’ says Plenitude. ‘You can see the fresh grave over there, to your right.’
I see it. The marble headstone is new.
‘It was a particularly sad funeral,’ says Plenitude.
‘Not for you, obviously.’
‘That remark is not worthy of you. On this occasion, the Grim Reaper felled a beautiful young woman. She was but twenty-two when she died.’
‘Horrible. Might I ask how she died?’
‘No one knows. The poor woman – a humble milkmaid without a blot on her reputation – dropped dead for no reason that anyone can fathom. If our noble commissioners, the anatomists, can examine poor Mary’s body they might find what killed her, and use the knowledge to prevent further violations of the youthful and innocent.’
I shake my head. ‘Plenitude, I am reluctant to dig up such a young body. It seems … perverse.’
Plenitude wears an expression of deep despair. ‘It never ceases to amaze me what an uncivilised people we English can be. Did you know that two thousand years ago the Egyptians were medically more advanced than we are now? You’ve heard of Herophilus?’
‘The father of anatomy, of course.’
‘He was dissecting cadavers to see what makes people unwell, so that he might save future lives. And the Egyptians applauded him for it. We are talking about a people that worshipped pussycats and had an unhealthy obsession with pyramids. Yet, for the greater good, they wanted to know how people function inside, which makes the ancient Egyptians more humane than we are.’
‘If I remember correctly, Herophilus dissected people while they were still alive.’
‘Well, yes, some say he did do that. It must have been rather noisy. They were criminals that were cut up, of course, but I agree it’s a touch barbaric. However, at least the Egyptians were inquisitive. We English don’t care to learn. That’s why English doctors aren’t as good as they could be.’
I feel my defences melting. I do want to further the frontiers of medical science.
‘We owe it to Mary,’ says Plenitude. ‘We owe it to England and St George. And Herophilu
s, if you overlook the business of the live dissections.’
‘And I suppose a young corpse fetches a higher price?’
‘I had not considered that.’
‘Will I have to come with you to London tonight?’
‘Not if you do not wish it.’
I am worn down. ‘Let’s get to work.’
Plenitude walks slowly around Mary’s grave. For all the world he looks as though he is paying his last respects. Then he opens his bag and lays out his curious instruments. He instructs me to commence digging.
I have barely moved the earth when I hear a yell that sounds more animal than human. I make out two figures running towards us from the direction of the cenotaph.
‘Devils!’ one of them yells.
He’s large, with an outrage so vast that it bursts from him. I do not know if he is armed, or if he even requires a weapon. The man looks capable of ripping me apart with his bare hands.
‘Run!’ yells Plenitude.
It is too late. The giant of the two has me by the collar. The other man is in pursuit of Plenitude, who has sprinted into the night. I am strong, but my accoster is superhuman. I try to face him but the man has me in an armlock; the pain is excruciating. He is twisting and forcing my injured arm into the small of my back. I see stars. The man continues to twist my arm. My other arm flails and he pins that too. I am in agony.
‘Tonight you find hell,’ spits the man. ‘Tonight you see the nine circles. For Mary was my sister.’
My self-loathing intensifies the pain. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I am unable to speak.
‘Say your name so I can curse it for eternity.’
My voice still eludes me. My arm feels as though it will be wrenched from the socket.
He pushes me down towards the earth.
‘Say your name!’
By chance, I spy Plenitude’s tools by the graveside. They have been scattered about in Plenitude’s haste to flee. I do not recognise one of the tools at first. Then I perceive it for what it is. Inverted, it sticks up from the earth. The single wooden stake has its sharpness pointing at the sky.
‘I am Thomas,’ I gasp. ‘My name is Thomas.’
‘Full name. What’s your full name?’
I can feel the man’s chin digging into my shoulder. He wants to make sure his words penetrate my cap.
‘I am … sorry …’
The man continues to curse me, his head next to mine. Abruptly, I’m aware of what I must do to save my life. As my assailant damns me, I thrust myself at the earth with all my strength and pull my torturer with me. In a split second I am on the ground. There is a bestial scream and my arms are released. Gasping, I turn around. The giant is staggering backwards. The sharp end of the stake has punctured him. He covers his bloody face with both hands and collapses. Next to the grave the stake still protrudes from the ground, its point wet.
The giant’s scream was loud. People may come soon. I have to leave this place. I scale the iron fence around the church’s perimeter and run away from Wishall. There is another man out to kill me. He may already have killed Plenitude. It would be madness to return to town tonight. It would be better to run west, towards the wilderness known as Piper’s Heath, the place where robbers, cutthroats and lunatics are said to lurk. I cannot think of a more appropriate hiding place for the loathsome wretch that I have become.
CHAPTER 8
It is raining lightly when I wake up in Piper’s Heath, in the shelter of the larch tree where I collapsed the previous night. For a moment I fear I have gone deaf. Then I realise I am still wearing my monkey cap. I remove it and breathe deeply. The morning air is freezing. It would be more comfortable to wear the cap, but I am in Piper’s Heath, the alleged home of all manner of criminals. Hearing properly is of the utmost importance.
I do not know the time of day, though I guess it is mid-morning. I feel my arms. The right one is particularly sore and I feel sorry for myself.
Then I recall that the man who injured me received an undoubtedly terminal injury of his own. He was there to watch over his beloved sister’s grave and, for his noble act, I killed him. I am unworthy of being called a human being.
I prop myself against the trunk of the larch and try to work out what my next move will be. I wonder how Plenitude fared with the second man, no doubt another aggrieved member of poor Mary’s family. Has Plenitude been killed or did he escape? Would he, under torture, have uttered my full name? Is Thomas Timewell a wanted man in the town of Wishall?
I am abruptly joined by another party, who can apparently move as silently as Plenitude. Standing before me is a peculiar woman who seems of Romany descent. She could not look more like a gypsy if she had gone to a theatrical supplier and hired a costume. She wears a long tassled cape that reaches the ground. It is decorated with various pagan symbols and shapes. The textile bag she carries is garish and I’d be surprised if it doesn’t contain a glass sphere and deck of tarot cards. She is exactly the sort of person my mother has warned me against. Mind you, my mother has warned me against everyone.
‘Sprig of heather, sir?’ the gypsy croaks, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth.
‘Go away, I have a headache,’ I tell her.
‘It will bring you luck,’ she persists. Her speech is stilted, as if someone has written lines for her to recite.
‘Yes, yes, I know the supposed properties of heather.’
There is a pause as if she is trying to remember her next line.
‘You look like you could use some luck.’
‘More than you can possibly imagine.’
She holds out her offering. ‘Give me a penny for the heather and you will have good luck before the end of the day.’
‘That isn’t heather,’ I say.
‘No?’ The gypsy looks puzzled.
‘Heather is usually white. What you have there isn’t heather. It’s a dead mouse.’
She looks at the creature in her hand, surprised.
‘It will bring you luck.’
‘Dead mice aren’t lucky.’
The woman puts the creature in her bag. I wonder if she will eat it later.
‘I am the beginning, the middle and the end,’ she intones.
‘Please don’t talk rubbish.’
‘Tell your fortune, sir?’ she asks, in her peculiar stilted way.
‘No.’
‘I know what you will become.’
‘No one knows that.’
‘I have made many predictions in my time and all have proved to be true. You are in great peril.’
I am running out of patience. ‘And what is the nature of this peril?’
‘You’re about to be consumed.’
‘By what?’
The woman shrieks. ‘By the devil!’
Then she does something so remarkable that I find it difficult to record. She tosses her bag to the ground and opens wide her cape.
I gasp.
The woman is younger than I first thought. A likeness of the horned devil adorns her. This would be disturbing enough if it were on an article of clothing. But it is not, for the woman is almost naked. The devil likeness is a tattoo that is splayed across her torso. The folds of skin distort the tattooist’s art to make it an even more alarming spectacle. I have seen pictures of Beelzebub before, but none as monstrous as this, on its grotesque human canvas.
I am speechless.
The woman twists and writhes so that the devilish visage winks and leers.
I cannot take my eyes away.
The woman snatches something from her bag. I am so mesmerised by the tattoo that I barely realise that she has picked up an object and is holding it high with both hands. Then the spell lifts, and I see her plunging something towards my head. I spring aside to avoid the blow. The woman stops and makes a huffing noise. She drops the object – a meat cleaver, as it turns out – and collapses.
Plenitude stands behind her, holding a peculiar weapon of his own. He smiles. I must confess I am relieve
d to see him.
‘Thomas, we are destined to be a team,’ he says. ‘It seems I have saved you.’
‘I think you did. What sort of monster is she?’
Plenitude kneels beside the woman. He holds her filthy wrist lightly to check for a pulse. He puts his face close to hers, to detect if there is breathing.
‘Fortunately, she will be all right.’
‘I’m not sure it is fortunate.’
‘Never kill unless absolutely necessary.’
‘But the woman is a murderous maniac.’
‘Refrain from judging too harshly, Thomas.’
‘Harshly? She may even be a cannibal. She said the devil would consume me. And I think she believed herself to be the devil incarnate.’
‘I don’t think she meant “consume” in the sense of “eat”.’
‘She was going to cut open my head!’
‘I’d be surprised if she wanted to eat your head, Thomas.’
‘You talk as if you know her.’
‘Our paths have crossed.’
I don’t care to dwell on this. There are other matters to discuss.
‘How did you escape?’ I ask.
‘I was clever,’ Plenitude replies. ‘I know that graveyard well. One of the more elaborate tombs has a lid that can be moved aside. I sought refuge there and pulled the lid closed. Eventually my opponent gave up his search.’
I am horrified. ‘You spent the night in a tomb?’
‘There’s a whole family buried there. Lovely people when you get to know them. Quite useless for medical purposes, but good company nevertheless. I came straight here after sunrise. I knew you’d be clever enough not to return directly to Wishall. He looked a regular brute, your man.’
Plenitude sits next to me but keeps an eye on the woman. She remains in the arms of Morpheus, the god of sleep, who will no doubt want to wash his hands afterwards.
‘What did you hit her with?’ I ask. ‘It looks like a root of some sort.’
‘You find them if you know where to look.’ Plenitude nods. ‘It’s perfect. A nice thin handle and a big knob at the end.’
‘Is it called a cosh?’
‘It is.’
‘Interesting.’
‘So, how did you do it, Thomas? How did you escape the brute?’
