by Doug MacLeod
‘Mother, I am not guilty.’
‘Oh, Mrs Tilley is always saying that and it’s never once been the truth.’
There is a knock at the door. Mother frowns.
‘If that is the sheriff wanting a reference to your good character, I shan’t provide it.’
‘I’ll see who it is,’ I say.
‘Nonsense, Thomas.’ Mother places her hands at either side of her mouth to form a type of loud hailer.
‘Mrs Dunwoody, get off the roof and answer the door!’
CHAPTER 19
I open the door and there stands Plenitude in his fine day clothes. He removes the top hat in greeting then replaces it. I am perplexed to see him look so composed in the light of what has happened to the tannery. I am also guarded in my response. Tolerance laid many dark charges against Plenitude. While I do not consider Tolerance a man of utmost honesty, I concur that Plenitude is guilty of at least some of the charges.
‘Thomas, I have the most sensational news,’ he says, replacing his top hat.
‘They have put out the fire?’
‘I have no idea. My news isn’t about the fire.’
‘I’m surprised. You don’t seem concerned.’
‘I’m not.’
‘My mother is poorly,’ I say. ‘Otherwise I would invite you in. It is probably best that we conduct our business on the stoop.’
‘As you wish.’
I hear Mother chiding Mrs Dunwoody fiercely for taking so long to descend from the roof. Mother sounds anything but poorly, thus my lie is exposed. But Plenitude does not seem offended.
‘The fire is certainly annoying, but I see no reason to despair,’ he says. ‘I merely rented the tannery from Mr Worral, who is well insured. I have already organised a temporary alternative venue.’
I’m determined to make Plenitude more excited about recent events.
‘It was Clemency who caused the fire,’ I say. ‘He and his brute offsider.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me in the least. Did you witness the arson?’
‘Charlie and I were inside the tannery when it happened.’
At last I have the reaction I want. Plenitude’s eyebrows shoot up and a shiver runs through him.
‘My poor boy,’ he says. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Charlie and I are perfectly fine. Although your dread arsonists covered us in Jagar’s spirit and meant us to burn with the rest of place.’
‘The blackguards. But you clearly made an ingenious escape.’
‘We did. Through the trapdoor.’
‘Ah. So you know about what’s under there.’
‘Tolerance told us.’
‘He was there as well?’
‘He appeared moments after you left. He intended to kill Charlie and me.’
Plenitude removes his hat again and clasps it to his chest in mortification.
‘Dear Thomas, can you forgive me? I had no idea I was exposing you and your charming friend to such great danger.’
‘Fortunately, we managed to overpower Tolerance.’
‘A drunk assailant is usually vanquished easily.’
I don’t tell Plenitude that it was Charlie’s excessive application of the ether that killed Tolerance. ‘The man burned to death in the fire,’ I say.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Is it not possible that he effected some miraculous escape?’
‘Tolerance is dead,’ I say firmly. ‘I saw him die. As God is my witness.’
‘Well, as witnesses go, He’s certainly hard to beat.’
‘Thomas, who is it?’ Mother calls, from the parlour.
‘A travelling salesman,’ I call back.
‘I detest salesmen. Mrs Tilley is forever inviting them into her home for reasons I simply cannot fathom. Do rebuke him and send him away.’
‘I will, Mother. First I must hear his news.’
‘It will be some rot about the need to own a set of encyclopaedias. Do not be swayed. Mrs Tilley owns several sets and she has not improved a jot. If anything, they have made her dimmer. She still says that the Americans defeated us.’
‘They did, Mother.’
‘Yes, but one doesn’t go around saying it.’
I cast a despairing look at Plenitude.
‘Your mother takes quite a lot of laudanum, doesn’t she?’ he says, quietly.
‘She does,’ I reply. ‘What is the sensational news?’
‘It is this.’ After repositioning his top hat, Plenitude reaches into a pocket and hands me a small glass jar with a gold lid.
‘A present for you,’ he says. ‘A memento, if you like, for when you are a doctor.’
I examine the jar. It contains a yellowish liquid and a peculiar object that seems to be a tube of grey-pink flesh.
‘What is it?’
‘It came out of a human body,’ says Plenitude. ‘The liquid is a formaldehyde and alcohol solution.’
‘It looks like a part of the digestive system.’
‘Very good.’
I turn the jar slowly to better examine the intriguing contents.
‘What is it called?’ I ask.
‘An appendix. The appendix lumen, to be precise.’
‘Why call it an appendix when the word means “something extra”. God made us complete. How can we have “extra” parts?’
‘The appendix seems surplus to requirements.’
‘Surely every part of the body has a function.’
‘This one doesn’t. Not as far as the anatomists can tell.’
‘And why have you brought it to me?’
‘Because this, my dear young man, is why we do what we do.’
Afraid that Mother might overhear I shuffle Plenitude into the garden. I have never seen him so excited.
‘For centuries, men and women have been developing mysterious stomach aches and then keeling over dead, like the poor young milkmaid. It has been one of the great medical mysteries. Everything has been blamed, from eating contaminated food to inhaling near a Chinaman. Thousands of people, many quite young, have suddenly died a most painful death. And now we know why. The cause is in that jar.’
‘The appendix is responsible?’
‘That little monster you have there can cause all manner of problems. It can become obstructed, bloat and burst. It can leak a poisonous pus into the body. It can be attacked by an intestinal worm that would be otherwise harmless, and spread the foulest infection throughout the gizzard. It can kill you horribly in a few short weeks. And the anatomists have just discovered it.’
I hold the bottle up to the dim light of the sun. The air over Wishall is tainted with smoke. I want a better view of this monster in its formaldehyde bath.
‘The appendix you have there is inflamed and swollen,’ says Plenitude. ‘It killed a boy of eleven. When the anatomists compared it with a healthy appendix, they realised they had found their mass murderer. The doctors call the condition appendicitis.’
‘What a beastly name.’
‘Unlike resurrectionists, maladies rarely have beautiful names.’
‘Can the doctors cure the appendicitis with medicine?’
‘No. The damaged appendix must be removed by surgery.’’
‘Mightn’t that kill the patient?’
‘It’s a possibility. But remember, we are not removing a vital organ, merely evicting a troublesome tenant. And while the patient may be at risk from the surgery, he will most assuredly die without it.’
I thought that when I next saw Plenitude I would quiz him about the abhorrent acts of which he has been accused. Instead, I am having an anatomy lesson. ‘Where exactly is the monster located?’
Plenitude pokes me gently below and to the right of my navel. I had no idea that such a demon lurked within.
‘And how can one avoid the appendicitis?’ I ask.
‘No one knows,’ says Plenitude. ‘Perhaps it is something that the anatomists will discover in the future. But you and I, Thomas, have
played a part in saving thousands of lives.’
‘Thank you for the present,’ I say.
Plenitude is ingenious. He knows what horrors Charlie and I have discovered beneath the tannery. He may even realise that Tolerance mentioned other unpleasant things, such as coshings and double-dealing and sales to pie manufacturers. But Plenitude has once again disarmed me. He is a mesmerist of the first order.
‘I have another present,’ says Plenitude. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out two ten-pound notes.
‘One is for you, the other is for Charlie.’
He presses them into my hand.
‘I cannot accept this,’ I say.
‘I’d consult with Charlie before answering on his behalf. The body of Mr Atkins fetched thirty pounds. If you don’t want the money, give it to charity. I won’t take it, for it isn’t mine.’
‘It seems strange that you should receive thirty pounds for a villain like Atkins, yet only ten pounds for a saint like my grandfather.’
Plenitude inhales deeply, which is possibly unwise given the current state of Wishall’s air. He looks pensive. ‘I will tell you the truth,’ he says at last.
‘Is it so difficult?’
‘The fact is, Thomas, I received no payment whatsoever for your grandfather.’
‘What? Tolerance told me you would have received twenty pounds at least.’
‘Tolerance is a bad negotiator. I would have argued for more.’
My heart sinks. ‘So, my grandfather did not achieve his final wish. You did not sell him to the hospital?’
‘I did not.’
‘What happened when I was unconscious?’
‘I will tell you soon enough. First I must reassure you that, while I received no money for your grandfather’s body, he did achieve his final wish. He served science.’
‘Then why did you give me money if you hadn’t received any yourself?’
‘Because I wanted to cement our association.’
‘You cannot buy my friendship.’
‘But you do appreciate me, don’t you, Thomas?’
‘Plenitude, I am unsure. I have heard such terrible things about you. I have swum through a sea of human heads that were put there by none other than yourself.’
‘Nobody’s perfect,’ he reflects. Then he brightens. ‘I have another resurrection planned for tonight. Join me, and perhaps I can reassure you that I am not a fiend.’
‘I don’t think I will join you, Plenitude. I don’t have the heart for it.’
‘The heart? Ah! I’ve worked it out. You have fallen in love.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘You have met a beautiful girl and you daren’t be a body-snatcher because you fear she may not approve.’
‘Well, it’s hardly likely to win her over, is it? I’ve already made a bad enough first impression.’
Plenitude does a little jig of delight, despite his imperfect leg. ‘I was right.’
‘Anyway, the girl will never be mine. There is already a gentleman in her life. He is wealthy and dull.’
‘I cannot picture you falling for a girl who admires dullness. The lure of wealth I can fully comprehend. Perhaps you should tell her that you’re a body-snatcher. She may be a romantic, like Mary Shelley, and fall for you on the spot.’
‘That won’t happen. She dislikes Mary Shelley. And I’m afraid I made some ill-considered remarks about another author that she clearly – if misguidedly – loves.’
‘Where is this beautiful young lady?’
‘She’s staying at The Empire.’
‘Then go to her and apologise for the foolish things you said. Tell her that you were muddled, that her pulchritude overwhelmed you.’
‘I don’t think she would accept such an apology. It wouldn’t be enough.’
‘Then take her a gift.’
I scoff. ‘A bunch of a flowers?’
‘I would hope that a resourceful young man like you could come up with something more original than that. Do not give up so easily.’
I consider these last six words, though they are scarcely earth-shattering advice.
‘And just in case you change your mind about working with me tonight, this is where you will find me at eleven o’clock.’
Plenitude gives me my hand-drawn map of the graveyard at St Brendan’s. He has made another cross on the grave alongside Mr Atkins’. It puzzles me.
‘But Mr Atkins was buried only yesterday. Is there to be another interment today?’
‘No, it happened two weeks ago.’
‘Then surely the corpse will be useless.’
‘This one is rather special. I didn’t think I’d bother with it, but now I rather fancy the challenge.’
‘What is special about it?’
Plenitude taps his nose. ‘You will have to meet me there to find out. And bring your red-haired friend. If you don’t come, then I will be philosophical, not sad. I’ll merely return home. There will be other graves, other challenges.’
‘And where will be your centre of operations now?’
‘Ah. Another mystery to be revealed tonight. Do enjoy your appendix. Have this as well.’ Plenitude presses into my hand the fob watch that he stole. ‘It was never buried.’
I am distracted when I walk into the house, holding the jar.
‘Did you rebuke the salesman?’ Mother asks.
‘I forgot. Sorry.’
‘Really, Thomas. You’re becoming impossible. And I see that he even managed to sell you something. What is that thing you hold?’
‘It’s a jar.’
‘I can see that. What does it contain?’
‘A part of the human body.’
Mother gasps. ‘What?’
‘I jest, Mother. It is a rare pickled sea creature. The salesman told me it is called an appendix lumen.’
‘And he sells these from door to door? Is there much demand?’
‘Apparently there is.’
Mother takes the jar from me. ‘Then we shall put it on the mantelpiece. One does not wish to appear out of step.’
CHAPTER 20
The oysters cost me next to nothing, and the vendor on the seafront is surprised to see a gentleman like me purchase such mundane fare. It is a Saturday, so there are many stall holders. There are barrows of fresh turbot and sole, curious flat fishes, still flapping about. There are magnificent crustaceans only just pulled from the sea and tied. But I have my oysters and that is all I want. The fire on the riverbank (mercifully contained owing to the splendid efforts of our fire brigade) has not stopped the wheels of trade. It is not the first fire to strike Wishall and it will not be the last.
I take my oysters home then wrap them in fine parchment on which I have written the finest sonnet Shakespeare ever wrote. It is number twenty-nine, the one that begins with the couplet: When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state. In just fourteen lines we are taken from the depths of despair to the pinnacle of romantic love. The sonnet’s beauty makes me weep. And yet it is probably something that Shakespeare scribbled before breakfast. I now have my offering for Victoria Plum, in the hope that she might forgive me my boorish remarks about her favourite author.
Mrs Greenough has come to call. I find Mother proudly showing her the new ornament on the mantelpiece. Mrs Greenough studies the appendix in its jar while Mother provides a commentary.
‘It is a most extraordinary sea creature,’ Mother says. ‘Quite rare and very valuable.’
Mrs Greenough is perplexed. ‘It doesn’t seem to have a face. Are you sure it’s marine life?’
‘Oysters do not have faces, yet they are marine life.’
Unwisely, I contribute to the conversation, such as it is. ‘By a remarkable coincidence I have only this day bought two dozen oysters.’ I am nervous about my plan for the morning, or I would not be so indiscreet.
‘Why on earth did you buy oysters?’ Mother asks. ‘We don’t have a cat.’
‘These are not
for a cat.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Thomas, throw them away or feed them to Mrs Dunwoody.’
Mrs Greenough remains intrigued by the appendix. ‘It doesn’t seem to have any legs or arms or anything at all.’
‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’ Mother says. ‘Many of the best homes have them.’
‘It seems a most unattractive creature.’
‘You must not say that,’ says Mother. ‘All of God’s creatures are attractive in their own way.’
‘With the exception of my husband,’ puts in Mrs Greenough.
‘Yes.’ Mother nods.
Mrs Greenough unscrews the gold lid of the cylinder that contains the appendix. She is intoxicated by the solution of formaldehyde and alcohol. She takes a deep, satisfied sniff.
‘What is the creature for?’ she asks. ‘Do you eat it?’
‘God, no!’ I cry.
Mother is furious. ‘Thomas, do not take the Lord’s name in vain. First you buy oysters, then you break the third commandment. What are we to expect next? Will you urinate on the furniture?’
‘Not unless heavily coerced,’ I promise.
Mrs Greenough is about to take a sip of the solution so I wrest the jar from her grasp and replace it on the mantelpiece.
‘I still don’t understand why you want that in your home,’ Mrs Greenough says.
‘It’s luminescent,’ Mother fabricates.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It glows in the dark. You can read your Bible by it. Thomas, why are you still here? I thought I told you to get rid of the oysters.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
I leave The Beaufort Estate and head directly for The Empire Hotel. I carry the parcel of oysters and recite the Shakespearean sonnet to myself, to give me strength. Plenitude has told me not to give up too easily. I will soon discover whether his advice is sound or not.
When Victoria Plum appears in the foyer of the hotel, I am again staggered by her exquisite beauty.
‘You are very kind to consent to see me,’ I say. ‘I fear I acted disgracefully when we met.’
‘Not at all,’ says Victoria. ‘You spoke your mind. There is nothing wrong with that.’
I follow Victoria to the small antechamber that abuts the foyer. She seats herself. The room is magnificently upholstered and is the prize of the hotel. I sit opposite Victoria. The fire in the grate burns brightly, but is put to shame by Victoria’s own radiance. The merest hint of a smile from her perfect lips is more comforting than the finest upholstery in England. I curse that I ever heard the prose of Mr Aubrey Wilks and that it has caused me to write rubbish like this.
