Helen picked up the dishes and went down the passage to the back room to wash them. Hare stood up and contemplated the coffin, picking his teeth.
“I was thinkin’,” he said. “It’s a mighty shame to see Johnnie go to a pauper’s grave—an’ him wi’ an unpaid debt on his dying conscience.”
“Aye,” said Burke, wondering what Hare was getting at.
Hare tried to lift the coffin lid. It yielded slightly, with a creak. Not noticing that Helen had returned and was standing in the doorway, watching him suspiciously, he went on: “Sure, they put them things on very loose …”
Helen interrupted him. “What are ye up to?” she asked.
Hare gave Burke a meaningful glance. “Could yer missus,” he said, “go and get a can o’ gin from the pub?”
“An’ what do ye suppose I’ll be usin’ for money?” Helen demanded. “I’ve spent what you gave me last night.”
“Stop yer clackin’, woman,” said Hare. “Have ye no respect for the dead? Here!” He threw her a coin. “Now do as your man says—be off wi’ ye!”
Helen hesitated, sensing that a plan of some kind was being hatched, but she couldn’t guess what. Her husband, nevertheless, quickly realized what Hare was thinking. The two men glared at her in silence until she picked up her shawl, wrapped it round her and stumped out.
Hare pointed at the coffin. “We could get five guineas for him up at the doctor’s place, an’ that’d wipe out the debt.”
“That’s so, Willy,” Burke agreed. “An’ besides,” he added, glancing heaven-wards, “we’d be giving him his proper chance of salvation.”
Hare reached for the hammer which the undertaker had left behind and immediately started prising up the lid. “What a pleasure to be doin’ someone a kind service!”
The lid swung back to reveal Johnnie in his shirt, white, tiny and emaciated.
“If only he knew how he’s goin’ to wipe the slate clean,” said Hare tenderly, “how happy he’d be!”
But Burke’s expression hardened cruelly. “Hasn’ae he got a mean face! No wonder he died owing me money!”
“Help get him out,” said Hare.
Together they lifted the body from the coffin. Then came the problem of where to put it. “Shove him under the straw in the corner for the time being,” Burke suggested.
“Good idea.”
“The undertaker won’t be wantin’ to go away with an empty coffin, though,” Burke remarked thoughtfully.
“We’ll have to fill it again,” Hare agreed. “Why not go over to the tannery and ask Bob Logan there for a sack o’ tanner’s bark? He wouldn’ae refuse us such a small favour. Last night we were buyin’ him whisky enough for ten men!”
Burke soon returned with the large, bulky sack, which they laid inside the coffin and packed round with straw to prevent it from shifting. Then they each took one end of the coffin and raised it to test the weight.
“The same as Johnnie!” said Burke delightedly.
Hare quickly nailed on the lid. “We’ll take him up to the doctor’s as soon as it’s dark,” he said. “Have ye got a big box? Maybe we’d better put him in it now before he gets really stiff.”
“The Connoways are sure to have one,” Burke replied. He went along the passage to their room and came back holding a tea chest. “They weren’t in, so I borrowed this,” he said. “It’s rather pretty. A leaf pattern round the edges!”
The corpse was still sufficiently pliable for them to double up the legs and thrust it into the chest. They had just pushed the chest into a corner, and thrown Burke’s coat over it as a covering, when the door burst open. Helen came in with the can of gin she had bought.
“The undertaker’s back,” she announced. “Met him on the stairs.”
The undertaker followed her, accompanied by a swarthy, hairy man who was in his shirtsleeves despite the coldness of the day. The undertaker noticed the tea chest at once. “Packin’ his belongings, I suppose?” he asked.
“Aye,” said Hare. “He wanted to leave us a little somethin’ to remember him by. His last remains, as you might say.”
“Oh, well,” said the undertaker, “we’ll be carryin’ him to the kirk now.”
Burke and Hare noticed with relief that he and his companion picked up the coffin without comment. “Will ye no’ be coming along to say goodbye to Johnnie?” asked the undertaker.
“I dinna think so,” said Hare. “He was a very independent man. He couldn’ae abide with sentimentality.”
The undertaker lifted the coffin to shoulder height, saying to Helen: “Old Mrs. Black a couple of doors up passed away in the night too. I promised to see to her by ten. And I haven’ae had my breakfast yet. I’m always busy in the winter when the wind’s from the north!”
Burke, Hare and Helen followed him to the back door to see the coffin off the premises. Helen, curious about the tea chest, wanted to go back to the bedroom, but her husband and Hare firmly steered her into the living-room, where they shared the gin and spent a convivial day.
In the evening, the crystal candelabra were lit in the large drawing-room at No. 10 Surgeons’ Square. Davey had brought out the best silver, carefully polished, for display. Chairs and carpets had been moved aside to clear the parquet floor for dancing, and a three-piece orchestra was tuning up. Down below in the kitchen the cook gave instructions to four liveried “footmen” (students who had gladly offered to play the part for the evening for a small fee), and fussed around, putting the finishing touches to dishes for the buffet table—collations of cold meats, pastries and cakes. Tonight was a special night; Dr. Knox was giving a party to introduce Martha to the society of Edinburgh. Although the doctor held most of the local nobility, and almost all his medical colleagues, in a contempt which he made no effort to conceal, he recognized the convention that society had to be invited to his house if Martha were to receive return invitations and thus make friends of her own standing.
Martha stood in front of the wardrobe mirror of her bedroom, helped by her maid, Jean Tait, to put on a necklace of pearls and diamonds. She wore a magnificent ball gown of pale lavender.
“You’ll win the heart of every man in the house tonight, Miss Martha,” said Jean Tait proudly.
“You’re very sweet,” said Martha. “If only I didn’t feel so nervous!”
“Och, dinna worry about that! A couple o’ dances an’ ye’ll enjoy yerself so much that it’ll be mornin’ before ye know it!”
There was a knock at the door. Martha turned. “Come in!”
The doctor entered, immaculate in evening clothes. “I claim the honour of escorting you to the Den of Fools!” he said cheerfully.
“That’s a charming way of describing your guests!” said Martha.
“Charm is the opposite side of truth.”
Martha nodded to the maid and said: “That will be all, thank you, Jean.” As the maid left the room, Dr. Knox went over to look at a huge bouquet of flowers which lay on the dressing table. The card attached to it read: TOMORROW AND THE NEXT DAY—AND THE DAY AFTER THAT.
“Hm,” he said. “Mitchell! Dear me, he seems to be very attentive these days.”
“Do you mind?” Martha asked.
“Not at all.”
Martha was pleased. “And you like Geoffrey?”
“People in our lives fall into two categories, Martha; those we like, and those we can see through. Geoffrey is the only person I cannot see through. He is a sly fellow.”
Martha put both hands on his shoulders impulsively. “Darling,” she said, “why do you try to make people dislike you?”
“Try? Whatever I do comes naturally. It is my only talent. Society, to whom I am about to introduce you, try, and they still hate one another!”
Martha smiled up at him. He bowed like a true gallante and offered his arm. She, in turn, curtsied with a flourish and they went out on to the landing and down the staircase, laughing happily.
Many of the guests had arrived. The older ones—buxom matron
s in ropes of jewellery and stocky, be-whiskered spouses with cheeks almost the colour of port wine to which they were so addicted—sat on gilded chairs and settees round the walls. In the middle of the floor, a dozen or so of the under-thirties trod and postured through a minuet with exquisite gentility. Mitchell was standing by the doorway, deep in conversation with a group of distinguished-looking surgeons, doctors and local ministers, when he saw Martha and Knox arrive. Excusing himself from the group, he hurried over to greet them.
Knox handed him Martha with the air of a man relinquishing a rare piece of Dresden. “Out of this bed of nettles,” he said, “pluck this flower!”
“Thank you, sir,” Mitchell replied.
He took Martha’s hand and led her to the side of the floor, where they bowed and curtsied to each other and started to dance.
“The bouquet is wonderful,” Martha whispered.
“I’m glad you liked it,” Mitchell grinned. He spotted Knox walk over to the group of surgeons, doctors and ministers with a purposeful smile, challenging and aggressive. “I can’t help feeling,” Mitchell remarked, “that perhaps the doctor had an ulterior motive for this party.”
“Oh?”
“He wanted to collect his friends and enemies alike in one room—and insult them all indiscriminately!”
Already, the doctor was talking to the group in his lecture room manner. “I tell you, gentlemen,” he said, “medicine is being driven underground. The law yields to us the body of a murderer when he has been caught and hanged. But how often is that? My classes and I have to wait a long time for Justice to unravel itself. Meanwhile, the ‘resurrectionist’ plies a useful trade.”
The Reverend Daniel Lincoln, tall, angular and coldly pious was shocked. “Oh, really, Dr. Knox!” he protested.
Knox rounded on him. “You deny it?”
Lincoln was at a loss for an answer. “Well …” he said, “I agree that doctors need … eh … bodies for dissection. But to condone the violation of graves by these … eh … ghouls …”
“I neither condone nor condemn,” said Knox crisply. “I accept. Is the feeding of worms more sacred than the pursuit of truth?”
“To violate the grave is to violate the soul.”
“Oh, really? I am told that when the body is clay the soul has flown”—he glanced round at his companions impishly—“one way or the other.”
“Fortunately for those poor victims of the grave-snatchers,” said Lincoln indignantly, “that is true.”
“Of course,” Knox told him, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I was wondering why I’d never come across one in my work.”
Some of the guests felt that Knox had gone too far, particularly Doctor Peter Ferguson, a big, florid-faced surgeon who was one of Knox’s rivals, but who nevertheless had considerable admiration for him.
“Now, now, Robert!” he said.
Lincoln was fuming. “Do you deny, Knox,” he demanded, “that the soul exists?”
“I deny nothing,” Knox replied blandly. “I can show you the heart, my dear reverend. Can you show me the soul?”
“It is there, just the same.”
“Where?” Knox asked, lifting an arm. “Is it here, beneath the armpit?” He put a finger to his forehead. “Or between the eyes?” He clutched his stomach. “Or perhaps in the abdomen?”
Ferguson raised a hand to try to stop the argument, but Lincoln ignored him and continued primly: “The fact that you can’t see it doesn’t prove its nonexistence. For example, you can’t see a thought!”
“No,” said Knox. “But you try having one without a brain!”
This time Ferguson succeeded in interrupting. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said good-naturedly, clapping Knox on the shoulder.
“Once more, Doctor Ferguson to the rescue!” observed Knox drily.
“The trouble with Doctor Knox,” said Ferguson to the rest of the group, “is that he’s a teacher. I don’t mind admitting that I’m old-fashioned. In my opinion—and it’s purely my opinion—you can have too much of anatomy. For me, a surgeon needs two things: a patient disposition and a pair of strong hands.” He held up his own as illustration. They were large and powerful.
Knox scrutinised them and remarked: “Admirable qualifications for building the Caledonian Canal! I suggest that you are wasting your talents, Doctor Ferguson!”
“I consider that an insult, sir,” said Ferguson angrily.
“I merely complimented your strength,” said Knox.
Another doctor, Andrew Elliott, intervened timidly with: “Please, please …” He was short and fat. Although it was early in the evening and the room was still cool, and the punch-bowl as yet untasted, perspiration beaded his brow.
“Ah, Doctor Elliott!” Knox exclaimed, as if he had only just noticed this guest’s presence. “We are honoured that you could come!”
A premonition warned Elliott that Knox was planning mischief. He began: “I …”
“Tell me, Elliott,” Knox cut in, “is it true what they say?”
“And what is that?” asked Elliott nervously.
“That no matter what the patient’s complaint is, you have only one prescription?” Knox paused. “Senna pods!”
The other guests chuckled discreetly, but Elliott was furious. “That’s slander!” he said.
“I know.”
“But … but … you can’t go around saying that sort of thing in public!”
“A lawyer told me the story in a coffee house,” Knox replied. “You must sue him sometime! Excuse me.”
He left the circle with a curt bow and strode over to another group of guests. They welcomed him with such expressions of feigned pleasure as: “How nice to see you,” and “How are you, dear boy?” but tensed themselves for the verbal combat out of which, inevitably, Knox would emerge the victor.
Lincoln, Ferguson and Elliott watched him go. “That man,” said Lincoln sadly, “is doing the Devil’s work!”
“Aye, but he does it brilliantly,” said Ferguson.
“Yes,” said Elliott, with feeling. “Damn him!”
CHAPTER IV
One Last Drink for Aggie
While Dr. Knox enjoyed himself at the expense of his guests, his notorious destiny was being decided elsewhere in the city, entirely by chance.
When Burke and Hare, having loaded Hare’s horse-drawn cart with the tea chest, set out from Tanner’s Close that evening, they intended to sell the remains of Johnnie Donald to Dr. Alexander Monro at the Old College on the South Bridge.
Since they were new to the business of marketing corpses, Monro was the first likely buyer who came to mind. The first Dr. Alexander Monro became the College’s Professor of Anatomy in 1720 at a salary of £15 a year. His son, another Alexander, succeeded him thirty-four years later and ensured that the anatomical school of Edinburgh was firmly established. The third Alexander Monro inherited the chair in 1798, and although by 1827 some of the extra-mural lecturers—notably the meteoric Dr. Knox—were stealing some of his thunder within the profession, the dynasty had lasted so long that to most citizens of the Scottish capital, Monro was still the only big name in surgery.
Burke drove the horse and cart along the cobbled street up to the College. Hare, who was asserting himself as the brains of the partnership, told him to stop in the shadows by the gate.
“Wait here a while,” he said. “I’ll go in and find the doctor.”
Hare went into the quadrangle and met a student walking towards him. “My apologies for troublin’ ye,” he said, raising his hat, “but could ye be tellin’ me where the doctor has his rooms?”
“Aye,” said the student. Before he gave the directions, though, he enquired: “And what is it you want with him?”
“Just a small transaction,” Hare said off-handedly. “I’ve got something to sell him.”
Judging from Hare’s seedy appearance and the lateness of the hour at which he was proposing to do this transaction, the student at once guessed the reason for the call.
“You’ve got a ‘subject’?” he asked.
“An’ what might that be?”
“A ‘subject’ for dissection.”
Hare, realizing there was no longer any need for evasiveness with someone obviously acquainted with body-snatchers, smiled and said: “That’s right.”
It so happened that the student wasn’t a member of the College, but had only been visiting his friends there. He was a pupil of Dr. Knox. The lively competition among the city’s lecturers for any available bodies was well known, and the student, a champion of Knox’s cause, immediately took Hare by the arm and led him back through the gate.
“There’s only one man for buying subjects, and that’s Doctor Knox,” said the student confidentially. “You’ve heard of him?”
“Well since you mention it, I haven’t,” Hare said doubtfully.
“Everybody’s heard of Doctor Knox! You go along to his place—Number Ten, Surgeons’ Square—ring the bell at the back and ask for the doctor. He’ll see to you all right.”
“How much will he pay? Five guineas?”
“At least!” the student assured him. “At least!”
Hare told Burke to make for Surgeons’ Square—and thus the dreadful scandal of associating with the partnership happened to Knox instead of Dr. Monro.
When Hare rang the bell at the back entrance it was heard by one of the temporary “footmen”, who happened to be in the kitchen. He went to answer it, much to Hare’s astonishment. Hare realized from the address that he was calling at a well-to-do household, but to be greeted at the back door, on a wet November night, by a footman in green velvet, gold braid and powdered wig, completely shook his confidence. He stood in the alleyway awestruck until the student asked: “What can I do for you?”
“I want to see the doctor,” said Hare.
The student eyed him shrewdly. Surgery in the early nineteenth century, done at lightning speed without any anaesthetic, was little better than butchery, and patients with growths or anything else wrong with them put off a visit to the surgeon until the last possible moment. Knox was always having such visitors who couldn’t pluck up the necessary courage, or drink themselves half-insensible, until some awkward hour.
The Flesh and the Fiends Page 5
