Jamie tried hard, but the words wouldn’t come. Maggie tugged Mary’s sleeve impatiently. “To hell with rhymes,” she said. “Let’s go over to the House. There’ll be a party an’ free drinks.”
As she dragged Mary to her feet, Jamie remembered the rhyme. “I’ve got it, Mary!” he said. “Do ye no want to hear the end?”
Mary was half-way to the door. “Another time, Jamie,” she said.
Jamie looked ruefully at the penny in his hand, unaware that from across the table, Burke and Hare watched him with a strange and terrible speculation.
Jackson arrived at his lodgings at eight o’clock. He climbed the stairs eagerly and called: “Mary!” as he opened the door. There was no answer. He lit a candle. The room was empty, and as untidy as ever. His landlady disapproved so strongly of his association with Mary that although she hadn’t the heart to turn him out, she left him to take care of himself. The bed was still unmade, just as he had left it that morning. The remains of breakfast lay on the table. Jackson blew the candle out.
“I bet I know where I’ll find her,” he muttered.
He made for the Merry Duke. When he rounded a corner by the Market Place he met Jamie. The boy was saying to himself: “There’s creepies an’ crawlies … an’ crawlies and creepies … an’ things tha’ go bump in the nicht …” Then he saw the student. “Och, Mr. Jackson,” he said cheerfully. “Would ye be lookin’ for Mary?”
“Have you seen her?”
“Mary? Oh, aye—that I did. She’s away to the House.”
Jackson was startled. “The House?”
“Aye, wi’ Maggie O’Hara. An’ I’ve remembered the rest o’ the wee rhyme …”
“Thanks, Jamie,” said Jackson. “I’ll hear it another day.” Determination hardened his face as he set off for the address where Mary had taken him on the first night they met. His knock was answered by a large blowsy woman who stood and faced him truculently, one hand on her hip and the other on the edge of the door.
“Wha’ do ye want?” she demanded.
“Mary Peterson!” said Jackson, stepping across the threshold.
“She doesn’ae want ye!” laughed the woman. She tried to push him back into the street but Jackson thrust past her and strode purposefully down the passage towards the sound of music and singing.
The room which had shocked him the first time he saw it was crowded with couples. A young man in shirtsleeves played a piano. Mary was sprawled on a settee, kicking up her legs in rhythm with the music, and a large florid man leaned over her, pouring out a glass of gin. In the centre of the floor, a buxom girl in a flimsy costume of tattered muslin wriggled a crude dance.
When Jackson flung open the door the rowdy scene froze. The dancer stopped; the pianist paused with his hands over the keys. Slowly, Mary sat up, facing Jackson. The woman who had attempted to stop him at the front door gripped his arm. Jackson pushed her away.
“Get your coat, Mary,” he said. “We’re going.”
Mary’s eyes blazed with hatred. In tense, low, tones she spat: “Get out! Get out or be thrown out!”
Jackson stared, unable to believe she could turn on him like this. The man leaning over her said gruffly: “You heard what the lady said.”
Mary got up from the settee. Her blouse was torn; her hair bedraggled. She staggered over towards Jackson. “If it’s a scene ye want,” she said thickly, “I’ll be very pleased to give it to ye. Very pleased …”
“You’re drunk, Mary,” he said. “Do as I say. Get your coat and let me take you home.”
She mimicked him cruelly. “Let me take ye home!” she repeated. “So ye expect me to come runnin’ when ye call me, eh? If ye were half a man ye’d be draggin’ me out by the hair! But just ye try doin’ it an’ I’ll kill ye!” She turned to her companions, joining in the laughter. “Go home ye’self, Chris Jackson, an’ scratch awa’ wi’ yer pen like a good boy so that the Doctor—rest his soul—will be pleased wi’ ye in the mornin’.” She clutched at the edge of a table to steady herself. “An’ by the way, dinna keep a light burnin’ for me ’cos I won’t be back—ever. I’m never goin’ to be bored again wi’ all yer mealy-mouthed talk about bein’ a doctor …”
The room was silent. Jackson felt stunned. Finally, without another word, he turned. At once the revels were resumed. The pianist played again and the dancer went on with her act. Everyone moved except Mary. She stood in befuddled thought. She had never really understood the educated Jackson, and didn’t now. Most of the men in her life would have started that fight. Half of her wanted him to be as tough and uncouth as those men, but because he wasn’t, the other half of her melted in sympathy.
In a sudden fit of remorse, she ran to the closed door. Her florid escort chased her, calling: “Hey, Mary!” and stumbling into the table. The bottles on it crashed to the floor. He caught her when she reached the door and held her by the shoulder.
“You’re mine, tonight,” he said.
“Let go!” she screamed. She grasped his flabby hand and bit it viciously. The man shouted with pain. Mary opened the door and slammed it behind her. She ran down the passage, out through the front door and into the cold street. The night was clear and starry. Edinburgh was silver in the moonlight.
“Chris!” she called desperately. “Chris!”
Jackson had gone. She ran to the corner of the alley and back again, stumbling, lurching across the cobbles. Then she wandered through the streets towards the Market Place.
“Chris!”
She broke down and sat on the kerb, weeping bitterly. Behind her came a gust of hysterical laughter as the door of the Merry Duke opened; then silence when it was shut again.
Two men approached the huddled figure in the gutter, their footsteps echoing across the deserted market. Mary was unconscious of anything but shame for what she had done. But soon she realized that the men had stopped and were standing over her.
Lips quivering, Mary Paterson looked up into the debauched, evil faces of Burke and Hare.
CHAPTER VII
Five More “Subjects”, Nice and Fresh
“Wha’s the matter?” asked Hare with a hideous smile. “Why’s a pretty girl like ye cryin’?”
Mary stumbled to her feet. “It’s nothin’,” she said. Then she noticed that Hare had a bottle under his arm. “Gi’ me a drink!”
“O’ course, me darlin’.” Hare uncorked the bottle and gave it to her. She drank deeply and greedily. Hare, meanwhile, exchanged a sly glance with Burke.
“Tha’s better,” said Mary. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and returned the bottle to Hare. “I’m a poor fool to be greavin’ for him, an’ to be thinkin’ I could ever make a man out o’ a ninny!”
She snatched the bottle back, sat on the kerb and drank again. Then she giggled and held the bottle upside down to show that it was empty.
“There’s more o’ that where we’re goin’, Mary,” said Hare.
Mary was interested. “An’ where are ye goin’?” she asked, rising unsteadily to her feet.
“Tanner’s Close. Do ye know it?”
“O’ course. Known it all me life!”
“There’ll be just the three o’ us,” Hare went on. “As cosy as three bugs in a rug! It’s just aroun’ the corner.”
Mary repeated in a loud singing voice: “Just aroun’ the corner …” as Burke and Hare each took one of her arms and dragged her away. They led her into Burke’s house by the rear entrance. The building was quiet.
“Have ye any lodgers?” asked Hare.
“No,” Burke replied. “Business’ll be slack now until the harvest-workers start comin’ in. We can take her to the dormitory.”
Hare half-carried Mary to the dormitory table and propped her up in the chair while Burke lit a candle.
“Burke, where’s yer wife?” said Hare suddenly.
“Visitin’ friends, I expect. Why, Willy?”
“Go an’ see her.”
“Uh? What for?”
“Because
I’m tellin’ ye!” Hare gave a suggestive look at Mary. Although his first intention when picking the girl up had simply been to kill her, her voluptuous body as he helped her through the streets had awakened his more manly instincts. It was certainly a departure from the usual murder routine to send Burke out of the room; but then, none of the firm’s female clients had ever been so young and attractive.
Burke grinned. “Dinna make the place untidy, Willy,” he said. “Helen will start an awfu’ fuss if ye do!”
He went out, but waited on the other side of the door, listening.
Hare stood behind Mary and put his face close to hers, breathing rapidly. “We’re together now, Mary,” he said. “Just ye and me …”
He put both arms around her, hugged her and tried to give her a kiss. She was accustomed to clumsy embraces, but something about Hare was frightening. Her fear sobered her.
“Let me alone!”
Hare pursued his amorous attack more vigorously. He pulled her down on the pile of straw in the corner, still trying to kiss her. She beat at his chest and face with her fists. Then she managed to break from him, get to her feet, run to the door and put her hand on the latch.
“No ye dinna’,” said Hare. He grabbed her by the shoulder. She wrenched herself free, causing Hare to rip off half her blouse. Again he tried to kiss her; once more she struggled.
In terror she screamed: “Help! Murder!”
Hare was enraged. “Keep quiet!” he ordered.
But she went on screaming. Hare’s lust for her vanished. She had to be silenced or she would rouse the whole building. In recent weeks the neighbours, who were curious why Helen had so much money to spend, had been told that Burke and his partner were in the body-snatching business, but it was assumed that they were resurrectionists—a “respectable” profession in the West Port—not murderers.
“All right,” said Hare grimly. “Ye asked for it!” He clasped a hand over her mouth, and with the other hand pinched her nostrils.
Mary was too drunk to resist for long. Her strength ebbed. Her pulse became slower, weaker, and stopped altogether. She slid to the floor at Hare’s feet.
Though Burke had, of course, heard the tussle, he didn’t at first think of intervening; in view of Hare’s intentions, a certain amount of opposition from Mary was only to be expected. When he realized that the girl was being put to death, he still didn’t come in. If Hare was as clever as he’d said he was, he could get on with the job by himself, and serve him right if he got a black eye!
When the dormitory was silent, Burke reopened the door stealthily and feigned surprise that Mary was face-down on the floor, dead. He turned her over on her back.
“Good work,” he said. Hare, who’d lost a button of his new waistcoat and had his cravat untied, said nothing.
Burke heard footsteps in the corridor. Helen was home; she’d seen the candle burning in the dormitory.
“The old woman’s comin’, Willy,” Burke whispered.
“Let’s get Mary out quickly,” said Hare.
But they were too late. Helen stood in the doorway, taking in the scene—Mary on the floor and Hare fumbling with his cravat.
“Wha’s happenin’?” she asked harshly. “Dinna I know that woman?”
“Aye. She’s Mary Paterson.”
“I thought as much. Wha’s she doin’ in my house?”
“She’s dead,” said Burke.
Hare’s adventures in love-making were no concern of Helen’s, but she was jealous of her husband. “Did ye touch her?” she asked Burke.
“Nobody touched her, as ye so delicately put it,” said Hare sourly.
“Willy just killed her,” Burke explained.
Helen was satisfied. “That’s all right, then. But I dinna wan’ that slut seen in this house. It’ll only gi’ us a bad name.”
“Go to bed,” said Burke. “Me an’ Willy ha’ got work to do!”
“I’m goin’—but get her out!”
Burke listened to her shuffle down the corridor and shut the door of their room. Hare was gazing at the dead Mary sentimentally.
“She looks lovely, Willy,” he said. “I’m thinkin’ the Doctor should pay a bit extra this time …”
Within an hour, the body was packed in a tea chest and taken to No. 10 Surgeons’ Square. A crowd of children appeared as it was being unloaded from Hare’s cart and shouted: “They’re carryin’ a corpse! A corpse! A corpse!” Burke cuffed several of them soundly and they scattered.
The back door was opened by one of Knox’s students, William Fergusson, later to become Sir William Fergusson, Bart., F.R.S., Serjeant-Surgeon to Queen Victoria, and President of the Royal College of Surgeons of England. He showed the partners down to the cellar, and when he saw Mary on the dissecting table was instantly impressed by her physical perfection.
“Where did you get her?” he asked.
Hare had a story ready this time. “We bought her from an old woman at the back o’ Cannongate,” he said. Then, anxious not to have to deal with Mitchell again, he asked: “Is Doctor Knox in?”
“He’ll be down in a minute,” said Fergusson.
Knox pronounced Mary to be an excellent subject and gave Hare £10. Hare looked at the coins.
“I was wonderin’, Doctor,” he said slowly, “seein’ that the subject is rather special, whether ye could raise the price a wee bit—say, fourteen pounds.”
Knox’s eyes narrowed. “I think,” he answered, “I have by now established the principle that the most I can pay for any subject is ten pounds. On the other hand, you know I will buy as many as you care to bring.”
“Aye, yer honour,” said Hare reluctantly; perhaps it was worth forfeiting an occasional fancy price for a steady market.
As soon as the partners had gone, Knox showed more enthusiasm. “Hm. A very well-proportioned girl indeed!” he commented. “In fact, I’ll get that painter fellow, Michael Collins, to do me a portrait of her before she goes into the brine bath. Remind me about it tomorrow, Davey.”
“Aye, sir.”
Knox touched Mary’s naked thigh, remarking; “Still warm. She should keep for a day or two. See that we have her in the lecture room first thing tomorrow. No doubt my students will add their appreciation to mine!”
The following morning, which was April the 10th, Jackson determined that in future he would mend his ways. Mary having left him, he felt that he had nothing left in life but his work. From now on, he would devote all his time to his studies; he would persevere and be a credit to the Doctor. He got up at six and walked to Surgeons’ Square, letting himself in through the back door of No. 10 by means of a key which Davey had given him for his duties as assistant. Then he went straight to the lecture room, where he lit a candle on his desk, took out his books and tried to make sense of his previous day’s notes.
The only sound in the room was his quill pen scratching across the paper when at seven forty-five the door near the lecture platform opened. Davey came in, pushing a trolley on which lay a body covered with a sheet. From the contours of the sheet, the body was clearly a woman’s.
“Ye’re at work early today, Mr. Jackson!” said Davey.
“Yes,” Jackson replied. “I’ve a lot to do.”
Davey positioned the trolley beside the platform and pointed at the corpse with a grin. “This is the best we’ve had so far. The Doctor even wants some drawings made!”
Jackson did not reply; he was concentrating on his notes. Davey went out again. For a few moments, Jackson continued writing. From time to time he paused and glanced absent-mindedly at the trolley. It was a customary sight in the lecture room; he saw it at every class he attended. But the more he looked at the corpse the more he was attracted to it. That outline under the sheet was vaguely familiar, though he could not think why.
After a while, the trolley became such a distraction that he was compelled to put down his pen. He got up and walked slowly towards the trolley, premonition filling him with dread. When he reached the end w
here the corpse’s head lay, he grasped a corner of the sheet and hesitated.
With a sudden movement he pulled the sheet aside, exposing Mary’s face and bust.
“Oh, God! It can’t be!”
His face twitched convulsively. He put his hands to his eyes, praying that it wasn’t true.
Numb with grief and shock, he ran out into the corridor. Mitchell had just come into the lecture room and was standing at the door. He called: “Jackson!” but the student ran straight past him and into the hall. Davey was putting some glass-jarred exhibits back on their shelves when he heard Jackson coming and looked round.
“Who brought that last subject in?” Jackson almost shouted.
“Who?” said Davey.
Jackson clutched him by the shoulders and shook him violently. “Tell me, quickly!”
“Why,” said Davey, “it was the two Irish gentlemen … Burke and Hare.”
“Where do they live?”
“In Tanner’s Close, it’s said. But Mr. Jackson, what … ?”
Jackson was already flinging open the front door. As Knox came into the hall, followed by Mitchell from the lecture room, the student ran out into the Square.
“What’s the matter with Jackson, Davey?” asked Knox.
“He was goin’ on about somethin’, sir, but I dinna know what.”
“I can tell you,” said Mitchell.
“Well?”
“Burke and Hare have brought in the body of a woman. I recognized her as Mary Paterson.”
“What of it?”
“She was Jackson’s girl.”
“A most unfortunate coincidence,” said Knox drily, and went up to his study.
Jackson reached Tanner’s Close. By asking a woman who was cleaning her doorstep he soon found out where Burke lived. Burke was alone in the living room, sitting on a chair and hunched over the table with a mug in his hand. He looked up in surprise as Jackson burst in and shut the door behind him.
“Wha’ do ye want?” Burke asked.
Jackson advanced on him in a fury. “You killed Mary Paterson,” he said.
The Flesh and the Fiends Page 10
