The Flesh and the Fiends

by Allan Norwood

  Burke whispered to his partner: “Ye go home yerself. I’ll split another couple o’ cans wi’ her and do the job on me own. Then I’ll bring the trunk round to your place before leavin’.”

  Hare had sufficient gin inside him to believe this possible. Burke, of course, failed in his intention. When dawn came Helen was, if anything, more sober than her husband.

  The Burkes therefore went on holiday entirely as announced, their trunk packed with lawful luggage.

  They took a room at an inn in Falkirk, and Helen went out in search of her husband. He, however, wasn’t keen to renewing the relationship. Helen was an old acquaintance best forgot; her running away with Burke gave him a fresh lease of life and he was living most happily with the young daughter of a local farmer. The innkeeper warned him of Helen’s return and he left the town temporarily with all speed.

  Helen was able to meet her two children and various members of her family, but it was hardly a prodigal’s homecoming. To the children she was an unpleasant, distant memory, and her family, while not particularly moral or law-abiding itself, indicated by means of meagre hospitality that it drew the line at gallivanting off to the capital with a strange Irishman.

  Burke inspected some ponds, a river and a quarry to see what scope they offered for a fatal accident, but Helen didn’t care for long walks. She preferred the bar-room at the inn. So after ten days of country life the Burkes returned to the brick and stone jungle of the Edinburgh slums, both of them depressed and disappointed, though for different reasons.

  When Burke met Hare in the Merry Duke and offered apologies for failure, Hare made fun of him. “It’s a fine one that you are!” he said. “Ye canna even do away wi’ yer own wife!”

  He went on in this vein until Burke became annoyed. Hare waved a fist at him—and Burke noticed that on one of Hare’s fingers was a gold ring.

  “How long have ye had that?” he asked.

  “Only a few days.”

  “How did ye get it?”

  “A lodger gave it me instead of rent.”

  “I dinna believe ye! Ye didn’ae, I suppose, get it off a subject by any chance?” Burke rose and grabbed Hare by the lapels of his coat. “Ye haven’ae been sellin’ subjects on yer own while I’ve been away?”

  “O’ course not!” retorted Hare indignantly. “We’re partners; ye know that.”

  “Do ye promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Burke sensed a deliberate lie and determined to find Hare out. The next evening he went round to Surgeons’ Square, knocked and asked for Davey.

  “I’ve come to collect the last tea chest ye had from us,” he said.

  Davey scratched his chin. “That’s odd,” he said. “When Mr. Hare came he particularly asked for the chest and I’m sure I gave it him.”

  “When was that?”

  “About four days ago. The subject was a woman; I expect Mr. Hare told ye about her. She’s still in the brine bath in the cellar if ye want to have a look. The Doctor paid eight pounds.”

  Burke didn’t wait to hear any more. He went storming round to Hare’s house and accused him of being a liar, cheat, blackguard, thief, murderer and swindler. At the end of the quarrel both of them called the partnership off and vowed never to have anything more to do with each other.

  They tried to work, independently, but failed to achieve anything. No suitable victim could be found, and their respective lodging houses were crowded with harvest workers; quiet spots for murders didn’t seem to be available any more. Both of them continued to patronize the Merry Duke, and for a week or two they glared at each other across the bar-room.

  But when their luck continued to be out, and their wives started to nag them for money, they shook hands and agreed to team up once more.

  The first client of the partnership on its new basis was Ann M’Dougal, a cousin of Helen’s legal husband. She was a short, fair-haired girl of twenty-two who had invited Burke and his wife to an evening meal when they were up in Falkirk. Burke, in return, asked her to visit them in Edinburgh and she arrived without warning one morning shortly after breakfast.

  There wasn’t a spare bed for her, but this problem was solved when Burke brought out a bottle of whisky and made the girl sufficiently drunk for her to want to do nothing but lie on the floor. Burke summoned Hare, and was about to stifle her when he thought better of it.

  “She’s been a friend to me,” he said nobly. “I dinna wan’ to be the first to begin on her.”

  Hare obliged by doing the actual killing, and Burke’s finer feelings did not prevent him from helping to strip the corpse naked, pack it in a chest and deliver it to Knox.

  Ann, being in first-class, country-fresh condition, fetched £10.

  The next client was Mrs. Hostler, whom Helen engaged as a charwoman. Burke and Hare came in just as she had finished doing the washing and been paid 9½d. for it.

  “Will ye no’ be havin’ a dram to help ye on yer way home?” Burke invited.

  Employers who offered drinks were rare, and the woman gladly took the mug which was handed to her; and another, and another.

  Before delivering her to Knox, who paid £8, the partners had difficulty extracting the 9½d. from her hand. She grasped it so tightly that they could hardly prise the coins from her fingers.

  A few days later Hare was looking out for more victims and happened to be in the Grassmarket when he heard a voice call: “Do ye no’ remember me?”

  It was Mrs. Mary Haldane. Mary was a veteran prostitute, considerably worn by the rigours of her job, and alcohol. At sixty-one, she was well past her professional zenith. She had only one tooth in her mouth—a large one at the front of her upper jaw—and the “Mrs.” was a courtesy title; she had never been married, though one of her daughters had done so and made a respectable match. Mary’s second daughter, Peggy, had followed in mother’s footsteps; the third had been transported to Australia for fourteen years.

  Mary used to be one of Hare’s lodgers before the beginning of the partnership and was well known to him.

  “How are ye, me dear?” he enquired.

  “Sober,” said Mary miserably, “an’ fed up because o’ it.” Trade had been bad in recent nights, there being a full moon. Some of her men changed their minds on seeing her at close quarters.

  “We can do something about ye bein’ sober!” said Hare. “Come back wi’ me to Tanner’s Close. I’m sure we can find ye a bottle o’ whisky. It’ll be just like old times!”

  On the way, urchins started teasing Mary, catcalling after her and throwing bits of orange peel, but Burke chanced to come up and he drove them off. Mrs. Hare greeted the ex-lodger effusively. The whisky was produced, and the bottle was only half-empty when Mary said that, having been up all night, she was sleepy.

  “Me landlady threw me out, she did, because I canna pay the rent,” she said. “I’ve nowhere to go.”

  “We canna gi’ ye a bed in this house,” Hare replied. “We’re full.” Then an idea struck him. “But me stable’s empty. I’ve sold the horse. Would ye mind makin’ do wi’ that for a couple o’ days until we can think o’ somethin’ better?”

  “Anythin’ will do,” said Mary thankfully. “Anythin’.”

  She thereupon went to the stable with Hare, lay down on the straw and closed her eyes for the last time. By 11 p.m. she was in the cellar at No. 10 Surgeons’ Square and the partners were £8 richer.

  Two days passed before her daughter Peggy noticed that she was missing from her usual haunts and began to make enquiries. A trader in the Grassmarket told her that he had seen Mary go off with Hare, and it wasn’t long before Peggy got to Tanner’s Close. Mr. Rymer, who owned a grocer’s shop at one end of the Close, said: “Has yer mother a blue dress?”

  “Aye.”

  “Wi’ a red shawl?”

  “Aye, that’s her.”

  “Then I saw Mr. Hare takin’ her into his house only the other day.”

  When Peggy knocked on the Hares’ door it was ope
ned by Mrs. Hare, who looked at her haughtily.

  “An’ what might ye be wantin’?” she demanded.

  “I’ve come to see my mother,” said Peggy.

  “Mother? Yer mother isn’ae wi’ us!”

  “Mr. Rymer says he saw her come in here.”

  “That Mr. Rymer is a gossipin’ busy-body who makes up half what he says! Anyway, I’m surprised at ye havin’ the cheek to come knockin’ at our house like this. Ha’ ye no shame? We’re respectable folk!”

  Peggy was on the point of retreating when Hare shouted from the living room upstairs: “Wha’s the matter?”

  “It’s Peggy Haldane,” Mrs. Hare shouted back. “Says she’s lookin’ for her mother.”

  “Tell her to come up!”

  Peggy was duly invited in and Hare received her most politely. “Sorry ye’ve been worryin’,” he said, “but yer mother came in here without me wife knowin’. She didn’ae stay long, anyway. She was off almost at once, sayin’ she was goin’ to Mid-Calder.”

  “She’s got friends out there,” said Peggy.

  “I know,” said Hare. He picked a bottle from the table. “Now surely ye’d do me the honour of joinin’ me in a wee drink?”

  To his wife, Hare said: “Send someone over and ask Mr. Burke to be sociable and ha’ one too!”

  Burke appeared, the whisky had the intended effect, and before the day was out Peggy Haldane was converted into eight of Knox’s very welcome pounds.

  Mitchell watched the horrific procession of corpses arriving at Surgeons’ Square with increasing agony of mind. The conflict of his loyalties to his chief, and to the law of the land, made him moody and touchy. Martha found him one evening in Knox’s study, pacing up and down. She kissed him, then stood away, surveying him gravely.

  “I have a confession to make, Geoffrey,” Martha said.

  “Yes?”

  “Today I overheard some of the students talking about the doctor.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “They were saying,” Martha said, “that the doctor is not particular where or how he procures bodies for dissection. This isn’t true is it, Geoffrey?”

  Geoffrey paused for a long moment, wondering how he could possibly tell her all he knew. The awkward situation was saved by Knox’s footsteps in the passageway outside. As the door swung open, Geoffrey said: “No, Martha. It isn’t true.”

  “Am I intruding?” Knox asked.

  “No, sir,” said Mitchell. “Excuse me.”

  He hurried out. As he went, Knox stared curiously after him; then at Martha.

  It was now October, 1828, and the partners had nearly a year’s prosperous trading behind them. They were confident that this rewarding state of affairs could go on indefinitely. There now seemed to be an ample supply of people who wouldn’t be missed if they disappeared, and Knox was always asking for more subjects. In fact, when Hare arrived at Surgeons’ Square with Peggy Haldane he had a talk with the Doctor and entered into a verbal contract with him which guaranteed £10 for each subject in summer, and £8 in winter.

  “I’ll pay those prices, however many you care to get,” said Knox.

  Thus encouraged, the murderers became more ambitious. They decided to expand. Davey would be invited to become a new partner, and Burke would hire an assistant and open a “branch office” in Ireland or Glasgow. Victims killed there would be sent to Hare, who would forward them to Davey at Dr. Knox’s.

  Burke and Hare were out for a walk one afternoon, talking things over and settling details, when Daft Jamie appeared out of an alley behind them and tugged Hare’s sleeve. Hare jumped with fright.

  “Wha’ are ye doin’ skulkin’ there for, ye daft loon?” he asked.

  “We haven’ae seen ye for months,” Burke said. “Wha’ have ye been up to?”

  “Och, just lookin’ around, an’ thinkin’,” said Jamie. “The last time I saw ye was when ye were pullin’ that poor drunk along. Did ye get him home all right?”

  The sly way in which he put the question made Burke and Hare exchange glances. “Aye,” said Hare coolly, “we got him home.”

  “I was just askin’. Ye see, I done a terrible sin. It was wicked …”

  “Did ye now?” said Hare.

  “Aye. I found a man in an alley. He looked to me like Mr. Jackson. An’ he was dead.”

  Burke was shocked. Hare remained inscrutable and calm as he said: “Yes, we heard tha’ a dead man had been found. Wha’ was the wicked thing you done, Jamie?”

  The boy looked up and down the street furtively before replying: “I stole a ring off his finger. An’ then, do ye know, I went to confession an’ the priest said I was to take it to the police. Wha’ do ye think o’ that?”

  “Did ye take it to the police?” asked Burke anxiously.

  Jamie shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “But this must ha’ happened a long time ago—in June.”

  “I know. But there’s been so much to do …”

  Hare became very friendly. “It’s a wise boy that ye are, Jamie!” he exclaimed.

  “Wise?”

  “Ha’ ye got the ring on ye?”

  “No.”

  “Where is it?” asked Burke.

  “I left it somewhere. I know where I can find it when I want it.”

  “If ye’ll take my advice, Jamie,” said Hare, “ye’ll sell it. Ye see, the police might think it was ye who killed that man. Me an’ Mister Burke, we might be interested in buyin’ it from ye, us bein’ in the tradin’ business …”

  Jamie was relieved. He smiled. “Would ye really?”

  “O’ course—wouldn’t we, Burke?”

  “Aye,” Burke assured him.

  “So ye run along an’ get it,” said Hare.

  “Do ye want me to bring it here?”

  “No. Bring it to Mr. Burke’s house tonight and we can ha’ a wee drink, just to celebrate the transaction. There’s no time like the night for talkin’ business.”

  Hare clapped a hand on Burke’s shoulder and walked away with him. When they were out of Jamie’s earshot, Burke said: “Willy, wha’ do ye think o’ him?”

  “I think,” said Hare softly, “he isn’ae half as daft as we thought he was …”

  Jamie was about to run and fetch Jackson’s ring from a crack in a brick wall where he had hidden it for safe keeping when Mary Paterson’s colleague, Maggie O’Hara, came up.

  “Still no news of Mary, I suppose?” she said.

  “No, Maggie.”

  “Well, I canna think where she’s got to. She must ha’ left Edinburgh. But ye’d think she’d ha’ left word; written a letter, or somethin’. It’s awfu’ odd for her to ha’ gone like that. It’s so unlike her. By the way, were ye talkin’ to that man Hare just now?”

  “Aye.”

  “Wha’ were ye talkin’ about?”

  Jamie put a forefinger to his nose and winked. “It’s a secret, Maggie,” he said.

  “I wonder …” said Maggie thoughtfully, looking in the direction where Burke and Hare had gone.

  “Wha’ do ye wonder?”

  “Nothin’, Jamie,” said Maggie. But at that moment she felt she knew the secret of Mary’s fate. The activities of Burke, Hare and Dr. Knox were already becoming famous in the city’s underworld, and Maggie O’Hara put two and two together.

  A clock was chiming eleven when Jamie arrived at Tanner’s Close with the ring in his pocket. It was dark in the yard at the back of the building, and he had to pick his way carefully round a dustbin that had spilled over. He muttered to himself: “There’s creepies an’ crawlies, an’ crawlies an’ creepies …” Being a kindly soul, he paused at the pig-sty and raised a grunt of delight from one of the occupants by scratching its back. He stopped when he remembered that he was calling on Burke, and went in by the rear entrance.

  He opened Burke’s door gingerly. “Mr. Burke!” he called. Yet there was no answer. The room was in darkness and apparently deserted.

  The door groaned
on its hinges. Jamie pushed it open even further.

  “Mr. Burke!”

  Silence.

  Jamie stepped into the room. Suddenly Burke’s powerful arm shot out from behind the door and locked Jamie’s neck in a vicelike grip. Jamie half-succumbed to the swiftness of the attack; then he rallied and struggled furiously. He was big-boned, and strong. Hare, who had been standing behind the door too, lent a hand in trying to overpower him.

  Helen appeared at the door. “Is it all clear?” Hare asked her, gasping at the effort of trying to suppress the vigorous Jamie.

  “Aye,” said Helen. “But get it over quick before someone comes.”

  Jamie managed to twist from Burke’s grip and send him hurtling against a wall. Hare leapt forward, flinging his arms round Jamie’s waist and hoisting the boy off the ground.

  The gang imagined themselves to be alone, but the street door of the building was opening slowly. Maggie O’Hara stepped into the passageway, and at the next crash from the living room darted into the dormitory. It was empty and dark.

  Then she heard from the living room the sound of a chair falling and a muffled cry from Jamie. Maggie stood petrified.

  Jamie put up a tremendous fight. He grabbed and threw the chair, splintering it over Burke’s head. Burke reeled back, semi-stunned. Jamie dived for the door, but Hare tackled him round his legs and brought him down. Burke, in recovering, stumbled over Jamie.

  “I’ve got ye now!” said Burke, getting an arm round Jamie’s throat again. His free hand he put over Jamie’s mouth. Jamie writhed on the bare boards, with Hare holding his legs.

  “Watch for anyone comin’!” Hare said hoarsely to Helen.

  Helen went out into the passage, and to Maggie’s utter horror walked into the dormitory. Maggie ran and crouched in the farthest corner, beside the pile of straw. Helen didn’t notice her; she returned to the passage and peered out of the front door.