Burke wasn’t interested in clothes. He wore an old pair of grey trousers, a tattered shirt and a waistcoat. A large handkerchief knotted round his neck made do for a cravat.
The back room where he and his wife ate and slept was as squalid as its occupiers. Cobwebbed and filthy, it was about seventeen feet by eight, furnished with one chair, two wooden stools and a bed, consisting of a rectangular, box-like frame filled with straw and rags. At most hours of the day, in order to satisfy the Burkes’s occasional urges to eat instead of drink, an iron pot of potatoes boiled on the fire in the grate.
The room which served as the actual lodging house was in the front of the building. It contained a table loaded with unwashed dishes, a deep pile of straw in a corner, and three ancient truckle beds. Business was slack, there being few casual visitors in Edinburgh in November, and the sole inmate that night was “Johnnie” Donald, an Army pensioner of seventy-two. He had been in poor health for years, suffering from age and neglect, and was prostrate on his bed, a thin coat drawn over him in an attempt to keep out the cold.
Four months previously the Burkes had welcomed Donald as a permanent lodger, but the old man was soon behind with his bills and now owed a total of four pounds. Burke tackled him aggressively.
“When am I goin’ to see yer money?” he demanded.
Donald opened his eyes. “I keep tellin’ ye, it won’t be long before my pension comes,” he said. “It’s due any day; any day …”
“That’s what ye told me last week!”
“It’s the truth, Mr. Burke, and ye know it is. Canna I have somethin’ to eat? I haven’ae eaten since this mornin’. Ye’re an army man yerself. Ye canna refuse food to a fellow-soldier.”
“The army taught me to be tough—to make the best of life,” Burke retorted.
“One o’ these day ye’ll be as old as I am,” said Donald. “Then ye’ll know what it’s like to be alone in the world.”
Burke laughed.
Helen M’Dougal came into the room and the two of them gazed down at the old man.
“He wants food,” said Burke.
“An’ what does he think this place is?” said Helen. “A charitable institution? How can we feed ye, Johnnie, if ye dinna pay us?”
The pensioner looked at her imploringly. “All I ask is one o’ yer potatoes.”
The door opened again. The Burkes had a caller—their friend William Hare, who also was destined to play a leading part in the sensational drama awaiting him. In contrast to Burke he was tall and slim. His hair was black and long, and he had a thin cruel mouth and staring eyes. His career was much the same as Burke’s in that he was of similar age, nationality and class. He too had been a navvy on the Union Canal, and currently took in lodgers. Furthermore his marriage, to a widow, Margaret Laird, had substance only in the eyes of friends; no mention of it could be found in any parish register.
One of the chief differences between the two men was in appearance. Whereas Burke didn’t bother about his clothes, Hare at least tried to look presentable. There was even a hint of dandyism in his brocaded waistcoat (third-hand, with frayed pockets), his brown velvet jacket striped with yellow (once the property of a nobleman, so he claimed, though he couldn’t remember how the nobleman came to part with it) and his lace cravat (a deep shade of soiled grey). Black trousers, a greasy black top hat and a knobbed cane completed the outfit of this faded, moth-eaten man-about-town.
Seeing Burke and Helen standing beside Donald’s bed, Hare asked: “Hasn’ae he paid ye yet?”
“Not a penny,” grumbled Burke.
“Oh, well, no doubt ye’ll get it—in time. Comin’ to the Merry Duke?”
“If ye two are goin’ out,” interrupted Helen crossly, “what am I supposed to do? Stay here and nurse him?” She pointed at Donald.
Hare dipped into a pocket and handed her two coins. “Here’s tuppence,” he said. “Buy yerself a jug o’ gin. Then invite the Connoways in from next door to share it.”
“See what a generous friend I’ve got!” exclaimed Burke proudly. “But of course, he owns a proper lodgin’ house. How many beds is it?”
“Eight,” said Hare modestly. “We charge three-pence a night.”
“An’ how many to each bed?” enquired Helen with professional interest.
“Never more than three.”
Hare took a watch from his waistcoat pocket. It hadn’t gone for years, but he raised it to one ear with a sage expression and shook it. “Odd,” he said. “Seems to have stopped. Still, I think it’s time for us to leave.”
“No point in stayin’ here,” Burke agreed.
“When will ye be back?” snapped Helen.
“When we feel like it,” said Burke. He put on a ragged overcoat and a grey hat, then set off with Hare, out through the back entrance of the tenement, across a muddy refuse-littered yard which had a pig-sty in one corner.
At the Merry Duke, three streets away, the night’s gaiety had already begun. In the crowded bar-room, cheap tobacco smoke clouded the air. Some of the customers lay sprawled on benches, helplessly drunk. There was a couple of pipe-smoking old hags; a sailor with a sluttish-looking brunette on his knee. When a lad of about nineteen bent down to the fire to light a spill for his pipe, his neighbour pushed him, making him thrust his hand into the flames. All the sympathy he got was a shout of laughter.
Burke and Hare fitted inconspicuously into this coarse, boisterous scene of the dregs of Edinburgh’s society at play. When they had both spent the last of their money, they took to looking, with evident thirst, at the other customers.
Among these were Baxter and Mackenzie, who sat at a long table in the company of a motley collection of thieves, vagabonds, old lags and three very obvious prostitutes. The body-snatchers were having an excellent time; their mugs were full.
“Do ye see what I see, Willy?” whispered Burke.
“Baxter and his pal, ye mean?” said Hare, with a shudder.
“They call themselves ‘Resurrectionists’,” Burke chuckled. “Gives a classy tone to the profession, eh, Willy?”
“I call it disgustin’. A place like the Merry Duke goes downhill when it serves the likes o’ them.”
Burke looked again at Baxter and Mackenzie, then at the empty mug on the table in front of him. “But ye know, Willy,” he went on thoughtfully, “there’s money in it …”
“Ye mean ye’d want to handle a broken-down old corpse that’s been lyin’ in the grave for weeks, and ye’d do it for money? I’m surprised at ye!”
“Ye make it sound much worse than it is,” Burke argued. “Anyway, the last few days my old woman’s been goin’ on at me—about our debts an’ all that.”
“Oh?”
“She’s been sayin’ that what we earn from the lodgers wouldn’ae keep a child of ten in drink, let alone her and me!”
“If ye take in lodgers like that Johnnie Donald o’ yours, I suppose she’s right.”
“Do ye know what she said, Willy?”
Hare shook his head.
“She was sayin’ that I ought to go out and work; sell boots and shoes again.”
“Work?” said Hare incredulously. “An’ ye a landlord as well? It’s unheard-of!”
“It’s the truth, as I sit here. I told her straight that my days for that sort of thing are over.”
At that moment Hare, whose restless eyes had been roving round the tavern, nudged his companion and pointed to the door. “We’ve a visitor,” he said.
The new arrival was Jackson. He had come to give Baxter and Mackenzie the four guineas which Dr. Knox still owed them. The sensitive boy’s first reaction on entering the Merry Duke was complete bewilderment. His upbringing in his poor but good-class family had been strict. He had never been inside such a place before, and he felt, and looked, extremely uncomfortable. The heat of the stuffy room after the cold air in the street caused him to stand in the doorway for a moment; the tobacco smoke gripped his throat and the whole lively scene of uninhibited revelry
made him stare in surprise.
On spotting Baxter and Mackenzie at the long table, he began to thread a hesitant way across to them. In doing so, he tripped and nearly fell over the outspread legs of a man half-under a table. Jackson clutched at the table-edge to prevent himself from touching the sand-covered floor. The man quickly reached up a hand and was about to pick Jackson’s pocket when the girl who was stroking his head slapped him reprovingly.
“What do ye think you’re doin’?” she said. “He’s nice!” She giggled.
Jackson blushed deeply. “I’m sorry,” he apologised to the man.
Another girl laughed: “Ooo, listen to that! Politeness at last in the Merry Duke!”
Everyone guffawed. Jackson felt more wretchedly conspicuous than ever. By the time he reached Baxter’s table the entire room was quiet, all heads turned in his direction. A labourer slumped across the far end of the table, fast asleep, his head on his arms, awoke at the silence and asked bleerily: “Wha’s the matter?” One of the prostitutes kicked his shins and whispered: “Shh!”
Baxter said nothing to Jackson. He simply opened his mouth in a gap-toothed grin and held out a hand. Jackson, acutely conscious of being stared at, shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
Then suddenly, at Baxter’s right, he saw a girl— not just an ordinary girl, but Mary Paterson, a voluptuous, perfectly proportioned brunette of twenty-five, slightly tipsy, and brazen to the point of impudence. Her hair tumbled in ringlets; her complexion was magnificently clear in an age when many women’s cheeks were pockmarked; her blue eyes sparkled, and her low-cut white blouse was flimsy and skin-tight. Jackson marvelled at the daring inadequacy of it.
The instant she turned to him, their eyes locked in mutual attraction. To Mary he was so clearly a cut above the men who usually came to the Merry Duke; to Jackson she was so different, so much more excitingly mature, than other girls he had seen.
But Baxter interrupted the silence by bawling to the rest of the room: “Don’t be mindin’ us now— go on wi’ yer clackin’!”
Quickly the former hubbub returned; the raucous laughter, the shouts. Jackson, tearing his thoughts away from Mary and remembering his reason for coming to the tavern, fumbled for the purse in his pocket, took it out and carefully counted four guineas into Baxter’s hand. The gold reflected the light temptingly.
“He’s got cash an’ all …” Burke murmured.
“Too much for him to be carryin’ around,” sniffed Hare. “Let’s wait for him outside. Come on.”
They pushed through the crowd to the door, then ran to a dark corner in the street where the shadows hid them and they could waylay their victim.
Jackson, his embarrassing transaction with Baxter over, prepared to leave. Muttering: “Thanks, Mr. Baxter”—the mention of “Mister” sent one of the women into fits of mirth—he started for the door too. Impulsively, Mary rose to follow him. Baxter, though, was in a possessive mood. He leaned across to her, grabbed her bare arm and pulled her back.
“Where are ye away to?” he asked.
She struggled to release herself. “Take your dirty hands off me!”
Jackson turned to see what was happening.
“Haven’ae I been good to you tonight?” Baxter growled. “I want your company. Anyway, these hands of mine weren’t dirty until the ‘quality’ came in.”
“Yer hands haven’ae changed since the day ye were born—in a stinkin’ midden!”
She wrenched herself free, swung back her hand and gave Baxter a powerful smack across his face which made his ears sing.
“Perhaps that’ll teach ye some manners!” she said.
The tavern roared with laughter. Jackson was elbowing his way back to Mary when Baxter, his anger roused, determined to deal with her.
“If it’s manners ye want, ye little witch, I’ll do the teachin’! Come here!”
Once more he grabbed her; once more she wriggled from his grasp. At the third attempt to catch her, he took hold of her red skirt.
“Let go o’ that!” she screamed. “Ye’ll tear it!”
Baxter pulled. The skirt came off, leaving her standing in just her blouse and petticoat. She bumped into Jackson.
“Don’t let him near me,” she pleaded.
Jackson was shocked at this sudden development. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in a brawl. But Mary was close to him, and Baxter stood at the table holding the skirt like a toreador’s cape, taunting them.
Jackson heard himself say in what he hoped was a confident voice: “Give the lady back her skirt.”
Baxter twirled the garment, making passes with it. “Come an’ get it,” he said.
There were a few sniggers, then silence again, as everybody waited curiously to see what would happen. Mary looked at Jackson appealingly, as though challenging him to fight on her behalf.
He lunged forward to grasp one side of the skirt, but Baxter side-stepped neatly. Jackson missed. His clumsiness put the crowd on Baxter’s side as he groped frantically for the skirt. Baxter merely held it away from him at arm’s length with one hand; the other hand he placed squarely in the middle of Jackson’s chest and gave a tremendous push. Jackson reeled back, crashing into tables and chairs. He staggered to his feet, made another lunge at the skirt—and fell heavily on the floor.
“Even ye, Mary,” said Baxter triumphantly, “could have done better than that with a night’s gin inside ye!”
Jackson lay with his head close to Baxter’s boot. The body-snatcher kicked the boy savagely on the temple, making blood spurt. He was about to kick again when Mary picked a bottle off a table and brought it crashing down on Baxter’s head. Drenched in whisky, Baxter collapsed on the spot, to the enormous amusement of his friends. One of the women hauled him up and sat him in a chair, but he was unconscious, his gnarled face wearing a kinder expression than ever it did when he was awake.
The fight over, the tavern returned to the more serious business of drinking. Mary helped Jackson to his feet and looked at him anxiously. “Are ye all right?” she asked.
“Yes, thanks.” He touched his temple, which was aching. “I’ll manage.”
Mary’s skirt was on the floor beside the inert Baxter. Jackson reached for it and gave it to her, reflecting how horrified his parents would be if only they could see him. Handing a girl her skirt in a tavern, indeed!
Mary put it on quickly, to the accompaniment of wolf-whistles from the men. “If ye’ll wait a jiffy,” she said to Jackson, doing up the side-buttons, “I’ll buy ye a drink.”
But Jackson felt that his game of Sir Galahad had gone quite far enough; besides, Baxter might come round, and then there’d be trouble.
“I have to go,” he said, making for the door.
“Oh, come on, now,” said Mary. “Just a wee one …”
“No, really. I mean it.”
In a moment he was out into the street, thankful to be going back to his lodgings. Hardly had he gone a few paces, however, when Burke and Hare leaped out at him.
Fearing they were murderers, he shouted: “Help!” and lashed out furiously. He managed to ward off the first blow from Hare, being equally matched with him, and knocked him flat on the ground, but the heavy Burke soon had Jackson’s arms pinned and clamped a large hand over his mouth.
“Find his purse,” said Burke.
Jackson was kicking and struggling like a madman when Mary opened the tavern door. She screamed: “Murder! Police! Murder!” and ran to his aid.
Slipping from Burke’s grasp, Jackson reeled back against a wall. The two prepared to pounce on him afresh. Again, Mary called: “Police! Murder!”
Lights came on in the windows of neighbouring houses. The burly figure of the landlord of the Merry Duke appeared in the doorway.
Hare glanced at Burke, undecided what to do. Then they heard the sound of a police whistle, loud and clear.
“Run for it!” said Hare.
They turned and darted up the street, out of sight.
&nbs
p; In a daze, Jackson sat against the wall. For the second time in minutes, Mary asked him if he was all right.
“I think so,” he gasped. “I’m more out of breath than anything.”
“Can ye walk?”
He nodded. She tugged him to his feet and half-dragged him across the cobbles into a dark alley and down another street.
Mary Paterson—or Mary Mitchell, as she was alternatively known—was a warm-hearted girl in spite of a life of great hardship. She had lost both her parents when she was a child. No one wanted to take care of her, and she became a waif, begging for food. By the time she had reached her late teens she was famed for the beauty of her body, and easily earned a living on the streets. Despite the ravages of her profession, though, and her constant bouts of hard drinking which often left her stupefied for days on end, but which passed unnoticed in a depraved society where even children got drunk, she remained lovely.
Jackson thought her an incredibly beautiful guardian angel when, with her help, he arrived at a tall green-painted door under a flickering street lamp. Mary propped him up against the wall.
“Stay like that a minute,” she said, fumbling in her skirt pocket for a key. “I work here.”
The door opened to reveal a long dark passage.
“This way,” she said, slamming the door behind them. “Through here.”
She opened another door. A blaze of light flooded out. Jackson squinted into the glare, unable to believe his eyes. It was an extraordinary sight; certainly one which he’d never seen in his village at home.
Eight couples were in the room, all of them in various stages of undress. A half-nude girl trotted across in front of him, bound for a portly man in a corner whom Jackson could have sworn was a highly respected member of the City Council (surely such a thing was impossible?). A buxom girl sat primly on a sofa—rather ludicrously, because she wore only a pair of shoes—while her escort leaned on her ample shoulder, snoring loudly. In another corner, to the shrill sound of feminine laughter a sailor poured red wine down the front of a blonde’s neck, looking to see where it ran.
The Flesh and the Fiends Page 3
