Mary screamed: “Fire!”
Jackson leaped off the bed, pushing her aside. He took hold of his pillow and beat out the flames, Wreathed in smoke, and in darkness except for the moonlight, they stood facing each other.
“Mary …” said Jackson tenderly.
The incident had a sobering effect. Mary had a fit of alcoholic remorse. She flung herself on the bed, pounding the blankets with her fists and sobbing bitterly. Jackson took her by the shoulders.
“Go away!” she cried.
But he held her closely. “It’s all right, darling,” he said. “Everything will be all right.”
Mary wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet. “Ye must hate me,” she sobbed.
Jackson offered her his handkerchief. Recovering a little, she took it and sat on the edge of the bed, blowing her nose. Jackson lit a candle and started to collect his papers, putting them back on the table.
“Are they spoilt?” she asked.
The writing on several of the sheets was totally obliterated by the ink, but he lied: “It’s only a few smudges. Don’t worry.”
When the table was straight again, he asked: “Where did you go tonight?”
“Oh,” she said, “I was across the way. I felt in need of just a wee drink. Ye know how it is.”
She got up and moved to the window, watching him, “Chris …” she said.
He looked at her eagerly.
“There was somethin’ ye asked me to think about.”
“Our getting married?”
“I’ve been thinkin’. An’ the answer I must give ye is no.”
“Can’t I ever make you happy, Mary?”
She went and sat with him on the bed. “Be reasonable, Chris. Ye can see the way I am. Half of me wants to stay with ye; an’ the other half keeps tuggin’ the other way. I’m not a good girl for ye. I never was. I need to go out an’ have fun, an’ laugh, an’ maybe drink too much. I dinna wan’ to make ye miserable.”
“I know it’s dull just sitting here,” said Jackson. “But I’ve got to work. I’ve got exams to pass. I’m trying to be a doctor.”
She wiped her eyes again. “I know that.”
“I will try to take you out more. I will try …”
Mary brightened up immediately. “Will ye, Chris?”
They kissed.
“Tomorrow night,” Jackson promised, “we’ll go out and set the whole town on fire!”
Mary shivered. “Let’s not talk about fire!” she said.
He laughed. She clung to him, laughing too, a little hysterically.
Burke and Hare’s success with Aggie, and the speed with which she was ensnared, killed, packed and sold, acted as a powerful encouragement. Even Burke, who in his weaker moments felt disturbed by his horrific occupation, had to agree with Hare that murder was ridiculously easy.
The partners noticed that Dr. Knox’s payments varied according to the condition of the victim; skinny little Johnnie Donald was worth only £7 10s. for example, whereas Aggie, who though nearly the same age, was in better physical shape, was worth £10.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” said Hare, one evening over a mug of porter at the Merry Duke. “If we could supply the doctor with a man—a fine, youngish specimen—we’d get more than ten pounds. Twelve, maybe—or fifteen!”
Burke looked at the crowd around them. “It would have to be a labourin’ man,” he said. “Or a sailor …”
“That’s it!” Burke exclaimed, “It’s right that ye are; a sailor!” He glanced over the rim of his mug at a sailor of medium build, with fair hair, who was by himself at a corner table, looking out of the window. “What about him? At least, let’s introduce ourselves to the gentleman!”
The sailor didn’t take kindly to Burke and Hare sitting at his table uninvited, and at first he merely contributed a surly “Aye” or “No” to the conversation. But after Hare had bought him a mug of whisky—“I’ve always admired seafarin’ men, and it’s a pleasure to sit in the company of one,” said Hare—he became more talkative. Several mugs of whisky later, he confided in them that his ship, a merchantman in nearby Leith, was due to sail in the morning, but he was afraid to show himself in the streets just yet. The police were after him for robbing a jeweller’s shop of four rings. Hare, upon saying how much he respected anyone with criminal daring, was shown the rings, and duly admired them.
“If it’s givin’ the police the slip ye’re worried about,” said Hare, “that’s simple to arrange, isn’ae it, Burke?”
“Aye,” Burke replied. “Ye might almost say that we are old hands at the game!”
The three of them laughed, and the sailor asked: “What are ye suggestin’ then?”
“Well,” said Hare, thinking quickly, “we know the streets round here like the back o’ yer hand. We can get ye away from this tavern safe enough. An’ ye’d be welcome to spend the night in a lodgin’ house I’m by way of runnin’. Ye can be off early in the mornin’—five o’clock, say—to the ship. There wouldn’ae be any police around at that hour of the day!”
The sailor was grateful for such a helpful offer. He rummaged in his pockets. “I’ve no money to pay ye, though,” he said.
“Dinna let it worry ye,” said Hare. “As I’ve said, I’ve always admired seafarin’ men. It’s the least I can do.” Accordingly, Burke and Hare led the sailor out through the back entrance of the Merry Duke, and by devious unlit alleyways, to Tanner’s Close.
The murder routine began the same as with Aggie. The guest of honour was liberally plied with more alcohol.
“But ye must drink wi’ me!” the sailor protested. The partners saw no harm in having some whisky too, and the talk flowed so enjoyably that it wasn’t until after 1 a.m. that the sailor declared he was ready for bed.
“Since ye are a special friend,” said Hare hospitably, “ye must have a special room—all to yerself!”
They escorted him downstairs and into the side-room. The bed on which Joseph the miller and the Englishman had writhed in their death agonies stood in the centre of the floor.
“There ye are!” said Hare. “Ye’ll be comfortable in here. A bolt’s on the door, an’ should ye be needin’ it, a quick way out is through the window—as long as ye dinna mind walkin’ through a pig-sty!”
The sailor mumbled his thanks, lay down and closed his eyes. Hare nodded to Burke, who at once jumped on the bed, holding a hand over the sailor’s mouth.
But the partners had underestimated their prey. The sailor was an even better drinker than they were, and he still had his wits about him. Also, he had learned the art of taking care of himself in some of the toughest rough-houses that the world’s ports could provide. As soon as the attack started, he struggled to his feet and gave Burke a colossal punch on the chin, sending him reeling against the wall.
“What the hell are ye playin’ at?” the sailor roared.
“We dinna mean ye no’ harm!” cried Hare.
“Ye want these rings o’ mine; that’s it!” said the sailor. “An’ ye aren’t goin’ to get them—for all yer fine talk!”
He aimed a brawny punch at Hare, who ducked nimbly. Burke was too befuddled with the whisky and in too much pain to continue the fight. The sailor stormed out of the door and into the Close, where he made straight for the docks.
“Well,” Hare reflected, “at least he won’t be goin’ to the police …”
Burke worried about the incident for nights afterwards, but the police didn’t call. The partners thankfully assumed that the sailor had caught his ship.
Chastened by their defeat, Burke and Hare decided to lower their sights and concentrate on elderly victims. Hare tended to regard murder as a nocturnal pursuit, so he filled in his days by working as a boatman on the canal. He did this reluctantly; he had no more urge for honest toil than Burke. But Mrs. Hare had become spoilt by the extra income from the murders. She wanted more money than the lodgers could provide. Therefore her husband, in order to pacify her at a time when trade in corpses
was slack, resolved to go on the canal for a while. He was, in fact, returning to a former job. He was a boatman (as well as a fishmonger) in the period between working as a navvy and taking over the lodging-house.
Mrs. Hare couldn’t help overhearing the commotion made by the sailor, and she soon wheedled out of her husband what had happened. She told him bluntly that if he couldn’t find suitable subjects for the doctor, she could.
Next morning she was coming back from the market when she met a woman, of about the same age as Aggie, who said she was looking for somewhere to stay.
“Ye come right home wi’ me,” said Mrs. Hare kindly. “I’ll fix ye up nicely!”
On arrival, the woman went straight to bed because she was so tired, and Mrs. Hare gave her a jug of whisky. The drink had a most unexpected effect. The woman perked up at once.
“I’ve never felt better in my life,” she said. “I’m goin’ out to get some work.”
“But ye are tired,” Mrs. Hare insisted. “Ye must rest.”
She persuaded the woman back into bed. Altogether, the woman got out of bed and was firmly bundled back again three times before she dozed off.
She was asleep when Hare came in for his mid-day meal. On hearing what had happened he went down to the dormitory, only to return to the table a minute later.
“Ye wasn’ae long,” said Mrs. Hare. “Did ye do it?”
“I’ve seen to her,” was all Hare said. “I wouldn’ae go into the dormitory again for the rest o’ the day if I were ye.”
He couldn’t bring himself to murder the woman with his hands as Burke would have done; he had pulled her thick feather pillow over her mouth and nose and left it there.
This method, nevertheless, proved to be just as effective. When he came home at night, the woman was dead. Hare called Burke, and together they pulled off her clothes—which they threw into the canal—and stuffed the body in a tea chest.
Knox rewarded these efforts with £10.
The murderers celebrated their good fortune in the usual way at the Merry Duke. Next morning, they had enough money left for a shopping spree. Burke, whose love for Helen had been almost totally replaced by fear of her, bought a tartan shawl in the hope that it might honey her tongue. Hare, on the other hand, spent his remaining cash entirely on himself. He bought a brand new waistcoat. Making this important purchase took half-an-hour. He discussed with the tailor the various merits of each waistcoat in stock while Burke stood by in silent respect for his partner’s sartorial knowledge. Eventually, after much walking up and down in front of the mirror, and puffing out of his meagre chest, Hare settled for one in red silk.
“It’ll do justice to our new standin’!” he said to Burke proudly.
They returned to Burke’s house for a mid-morning drink to find Helen in the dormitory, making one of the beds and pausing to take a swig from a whisky bottle that stood on the table. When the partners came in, Burke was still admiring the waistcoat.
“It’s the finest-lookin’ one I’ve ever seen, Willy,” he said. “It suits the colour of yer eyes.”
“Aye,” said Helen. “Bloodshot!”
Burke tossed her a shawl. “Here’s somethin’ for ye, woman. Be civil.”
At the sound of a knock at the front door, Helen went to answer it. A frail, shabby old man holding a carpet bag was standing outside.
“Wha’ do ye want?” she asked.
“I saw the ‘Bed to Let’ notice,” said the man timorously. “If the bed’s still vacant …”
“It is,” said Helen. The old man didn’t move, so she snapped: “Well, don’t be standin’ there in the draught. Come inside.”
Burke and Hare, who were taking turns to drink from the bottle, overheard the conversation and exchanged a sly glance. When the old man shuffled into the dormitory, Hare was ready for him, He greeted the newcomer as a friend.
“It’s more than welcome ye are, an’ that’s for sure!” he said, taking the man’s bag. “Eh, Burke?”
“Aye, ye are as welcome as a golden guinea,” said Burke. “Would ye like a bit to sup, now? Helen, don’t be standin’ twistin’ yer hands. Get the gentleman a plate o’ somethin’!”
Helen smoothed her apron nervously and went out.
“Ye’re verra kind,” said the old man. “I’m poor, but I’ll be no bother.”
“Ye won’t be any bother at all,” said Hare smoothly.
The old man sat down wearily in a chair which Hare was holding ready for him. His eyes lit up when Hare raised the bottle for another swig.
“Have ye been in Edinburgh long?” Hare asked, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“No. I arrived today. I’m down from Inveran—that’s up in the Highlands, ye ken.”
“Is it now,” said Hare. “Did ye hear that, Burke? He’s just arrived in town from away in the Highlands. Will ye be wantin’ the bed for long?”
“It’s hard to say,” replied the man. “I’m lookin’ for work, y’see!”
The man’s possibilities as the next client for a trip to Surgeons’ Square were increasing every moment. Hare poured a liberal drink of whisky into a mug and handed it to him. He drank it eagerly. Hare then squatted on the floor beside the man’s chair and gazed meaningfully at Burke.
“An’ tell me, Mister …?” he began.
“The name’s McLaren. Angus McLaren.”
“We’ll just call ye Angus! Tell me, have ye no friends in town?”
“I haven’ae a friend in the world,” Angus replied. “I’m a crofter. But there’s hard times by, and I thought to myself it would be nice to visit the capital and earn a decent sum, so I could end my days in peace.”
Burke and Hare seemed to be genuinely moved by this praiseworthy ambition, and all but wiped away a crocodile tear or two. “Isn’ae that what each of us wants,” said Hare, “to end his days in peace?”
Helen rescued the situation from possible overacting by returning with some plates and a loaf of bread, which she laid on the table. Hare pushed the bottle towards Angus. “Have some more,” he invited. “Dinna be stintin’ yerself!”
“Thank ye,” said Angus, filling the mug nearly to the brim. “I never dreamed that a big city would be so hospitable.”
“Oh, we’re very hospitable people in this house,” Hare assured him. “Aren’t we, Willy?”
“Aye.”
Hare got up from the floor and walked round to stand behind the old man. He laid a hand on each shoulder—a friendly gesture.
“Ye will be all right here, Angus,” said Hare softly. He inched his fingers along the man’s shoulders towards his scraggy neck. Angus nodded happily and smiled. Burke topped up his mug.
“We’ll take great care of ye, that we will,” Hare went on. “Great care …”
CHAPTER VI
Awkward Questions for Dr. Knox
The whisky made Angus talk, and the more he talked the less he drank.
Throughout the rest of that morning, Burke and Hare had to hear in detail about his croft, his chickens, his first wife and the people who lived in the nearest village. Living alone, he was delighted at the chance of getting two such good listeners who only wanted to say an occasional “Aye” or “Really, now?” At two o’clock in the afternoon, the chit-chat was pouring out as strongly as ever; he had reached his second wife and the seven children she bore him. Four died before reaching the age of five.
“Everyone in the house caught the fever except me,” he said proudly. “I’m tough!”
“And obstinate too,” said Hare half-jokingly, trying to hide his impatience. “Ye must treat yourself to some more of our whisky, like I told ye!” The situation of Burke having to look at a bottle which he mustn’t drink was like a dog sitting in front of an open biscuit-box; temptation had to win sooner or later. Hare feared that if his partner succumbed there might be the same fiasco with Angus as with the sailor.
Helen got so irritated with the crofter’s monologue, and with Hare’s constant reminders that no one el
se was to touch the whisky, that at four o’clock she left in a huff, determined to find some friends who had drink left and wouldn’t mind sharing it.
Hare called Burke into the passageway outside the dormitory. “We’ve waited long enough,” he said firmly. “We’ll have to do it now.”
Burke nodded in agreement. At that moment, though, the Connoway’s little daughter Jennie came running towards them. “Dance me a jig, Mr. Burke!” she cried. “Please!”
“Tomorrow, Jennie,” Burke said. “Tomorrow.”
Mrs. Connoway could be heard busying about, preparing an evening meal; so could Mrs. Lawrie, who also had a room on the ground floor.
“Angus mustn’ae make a noise,” Burke muttered. “We canna have him shoutin’.”
“Hit him good and hard,” said Hare.
The partners returned to the dormitory and Hare shut the door. Angus was still talking, not even having noticed their absence. He was saying: “My eldest daughter; she was a fine woman!” when Burke crept up and gave him such a clout on the jaw that he was instantly knocked unconscious. As soon as the old man had fallen to the floor, Burke kicked him with cold, deliberate brutality on the side of the head, then suffocated him by holding his nose and mouth. Hare put back on the table the mug which Angus had let drop as he fell.
When Angus had stopped breathing—but, as Burke noticed, still twitched his arms and legs—the partners hurriedly put him under the straw in the corner of the room. Burke went out to get a tea chest. On his return, they stripped the corpse and folded it into the chest, Burke completing the packing in a workmanlike fashion by nailing on the lid.
“This is the nearest to a coffin poor Angus’ll have,” he said. “Let’s make a good job o’ it!”
Helen came back at five-thirty and wanted to know where Angus had gone. “Never ye mind,” said Hare.
“But what about the money he’d have paid us?”
“Ah,” said Hare significantly, wagging a finger. “Angus will provide us with money soon enough, won’t he, Willy?”
Helen asked no more questions. She went to the bed in the living room to sleep off the effects of her afternoon’s social round.
The Flesh and the Fiends Page 8
