The Anatomy Inspector

by Roger Wood



  THE ANATOMY INSPECTOR

  A Twisted Tale

  By

  ROGER WOOD

  Copyright 2016 Roger Wood

  Table of Contents

  The Anatomy Inspector

  About Roger Wood

  Also by Roger Wood

  The Anatomy Inspector

  There was something about Mr Edward Stapleton. Something different. I was tempted to use the hackneyed phrase something not quite right but that would be unfair. There was nothing untoward about Mr Stapleton in terms of physiognomy or manner. He was always courteous, neat, proper in all things. He spoke to colleagues and acquaintances as he came across them. He did not avoid company, nor did he seek it out. He contributed generously to charitable causes but should you enquire about his personal wellbeing he would recoil, the patient smile twist into a wince, murmur “As ever, as ever” in that breathless way of his and scurry away with head down and shoulders hunched. Generally, he preferred to watch the world from the sidelines, looking on with a lopsided smile that was compassionate, wise, and yet at the same time remote, detached, and ever so slightly sad. It cannot be denied: Mr Edward Stapleton was – and always had been so far as I could discover – a man apart.

  I notice I have slipped into the imperfect tense. Again, that does Mr Stapleton a disservice. It implies that I speak from memory when the fact is I saw him only yesterday, strolling in the garden of the Inner Temple, as upright and as singular as ever. He tipped me his hat as I passed but we did not exchange pleasantries. I could not countenance chitchat given what I know about that distinguished gentleman. Don’t misunderstand me. I have not chanced upon some horrible secret. What I know, I know because Mr Stapleton told me. An honest, unembroidered answer to an innocent, much regretted enquiry on my part. What he told me is horrible – truly appalling – but it is and never was a secret. Mr Stapleton’s friends knew it at the time. A generation of legal professionals before me knew it either directly or at second hand. Indeed practitioners should know the case of Edward Stapleton because – though you will find no mention in the authorities – it changed the law of England.

  I remember the first time I saw him. It must have been forty years ago. I was newly called to the Bar and spent my days at Westminster Hall in hope of a brief. I was one of many such and realise now that patrolling the Hall is the last leg of the juristic education, a period of familiarization, of getting to recognise the seniors in their various robes and wigs as they parade in and out of the Court of Queen’s Bench, sweeping past the wet-behind-the-ears hoi polloi without so much as a sideways glance yet reveling in the knowledge that ribs are being nudged, names whispered, a place in the hierarchy established. It was on such a day that I first spotted Edward Stapleton gliding along the ill-lit passage at the rear of the Hall. He wore no robe, no wig, nothing to mark him out – save that robed judges, some of the most senior in the land, stepped aside to grant him passage, some ever offering a quick nodded bow as he passed.

  I asked my friend and fellow novice: “I say, Richards old son, who’s that singular old cove over yonder?” Even then – I remember it with certainty – I instinctively chose the adjective singular.

  “Oh lor’,” said Richards. “That’s His Nibs Stapleton, that is. Her Majesty’s Inspector of Anatomy for Westminster and the City of London.”

  “And that’s a job, is it?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “A senior post?”

  “I assume so.”

  “It must be, surely, for Their Honours to bow and scrape in his presence the way they do.”

  “You saw it with your own eyes, Tumbley old lad, and that’s the best evidence there is.”

  My friend knew no more. I felt neither need nor desire to delve further. The matter dropped, time passed, and it was not until I was established on the circuit, with pupils of my own trailing in my wake like new-hatched goslings, that I saw the singular Stapleton again.

  I was appearing for the defence in a manslaughter case at the Bailey. In those days Tommy Chambers was still Common Serjeant, though I believe he was already Sir Tommy. As you probably know, Tommy Chambers was the fount of all knowledge regarding the Bar and those called thereunto. He was less sound – I don’t believe I am letting cats out of any bag when I say this – concerning the law itself. In any event, my chap having rightly been found guilty and sentenced to fifteen years’ hard, His Lordship invited me to join him for dinner at the Middle Temple. I seized the opportunity – in those days I still hoped to take silk and a wink in the appropriate direction from Sir Tommy Chambers would do my chances no harm at all. So I decked myself in my best and toddled round to the Temple after dark. I expected to find the Great Man presiding in Great State in the Great Hall. Instead I was directed to his rooms overlooking Fountain Court. I found my way with difficulty – why is it that every edifice connected with the law seems to come with inbuilt gloom? – and was groping way along the second floor corridor when a door just a few feet further down opened and a figure stepped out. A figure of middle height, on the slender side, very straight of spine. In the lamplight escaping from within I saw a face clean-shaven, unlined, eyes pale and frank, a semblance of a smile tending downwards and to the left. His hair, worn short and clipped level with the tops of his ears, was largely devoid of colour, neither white nor grey, a ghost of gold perhaps. He havered, no doubt startled. I heard a short intake of breath. Then he tipped his hat, stood aside, and said in a voice no more than a murmur, yet a voice you knew would carry a mile, “You must be Sir Thomas’s guest. Do go in.” I did. He went. I found Tommy Chambers in his braces and shirt-front, two shop-bought pies steaming on the table. Then I realised---

  “That gentleman just now…”

  “Stapleton?”

  “Yes…”

  “You know him?”

  “Not as such but … evidently, Your Lordship, you…”

  “Oh yes. Known him for years. We were at Clare together.”

  This is where words failed me and I lost confidence in the ability of my legs to support me. I looked at Tommy Chambers in all his glory – portly, balding, what little hair he had snow white, fringing his great round skull the same way a ridiculous Dutch beard framed his hairless jowls. Sixty if he was a day. Yet his university chum looked no more than half that. And, come to think of it, that day years ago at Westminster Hall, when I had been a tender youth no more than twenty-two or –three, Edward Stapleton had seemed older than I but not by very much. Now I daresay I could have passed for his father.

  Tommy, the shrewd judge, said, “You’re doing the sums, aren’t you, Tumbley?”

  I confessed. “I’m struggling to make ‘em add up, sir.”

  “Yes,” Tommy said, “it’s a bad business to be sure.”

  “Sir?”

  Tommy pretended to have missed my meaning. “To the matter in hand, eh Tumbley? I invited you here to ask a favour. A friend of mine – a colleague – a member of my Party – has committed an indiscretion with a young fellow who works at the Post Office. Collars were felt. The Charleys insisted on prosecuting and I wondered if, possibly … I mean, you have expertise in these matters…”

  “Yes. Of course, sir. Happy to assist.”

  I’m doing him a favour, I thought. Surely that entitles me to push my luck? And I did, though not in the way I had planned earlier. Instead I blurted out, “Regarding Mr Stapleton, sir. There has to be a story. There’s obviously a story---”

  Tommy sighed. “Indeed, but it’s not mine to tell.” His eye fell on the bowls on the table. “Pie?” he offered.

  “No thank you sir.” I indicated my full dress rig-out. “I’m dining at the Savoy as it happens.”

  He knew this was a snub, or even a d
ownright lie. In other circumstances he would doubtless have hurled wrath down upon me until my ears bled. In these circumstances, however, in this place and given the nature of our discussions… He wiped his fingers on his absurd chin whiskers. “Ned Stapleton might be willing to tell you himself. He makes no secret of what happened. I could no doubt arrange an interview…”

  “I’d be most grateful, sir.” And I meant it.

  Tommy nodded. “You’re sure I can’t interest you in the pie?”

  “Steak and kidney, is it? Well, I daresay I could manage a forkful. Or two.”

  It is the first rule of cross-examination, a lesson learned at the pupil-master’s gartered knee. Never ask a question to which you do not already know the answer. I would modify that slightly in light of what I discovered pursuant to my supper with the Common Serjeant. Tumbley’s Tenet, if you will: Never ask a question to which you would rather not know the answer.

  To return, meanwhile, to the supper itself. Tommy unwound as we ate. A bottle of port was produced and emptied. Given his certainty that Stapleton would agree to meet me, His Lordship felt entitled to tell me what little he knew from his own experience at the time.

  That time, it transpired, was 1831, the year my parents married, three years before I was born.

  “We had known each other at school, in that offhand sort of way that boys do when they are a year apart. And yes, before you ask, Tumbley, it was Stapleton who was a year ahead of me. Likewise at University. We attended the same college and roomed on the same staircase but again Ned was ahead. He preferred Ned in those days because, believe it or not, our august Anatomy Inspector was something of a lad. Indeed it was his wildness that enabled me to catch up somewhat, and in due course we found ourselves pounding the paving stones of Westminster Hall together, both adrift in the same beginners’ boat. His people were richer than mine but I had not squandered my limited funds on my pleasures. I could just about afford to wait for the decent briefs to come whereas Ned had to take what he could get. Three years of indulgence were his saviour in one sense, his very real downfall in another. Several of his erstwhile roisterers found themselves unable to meet their obligations and, hearing that Ned had been called to the Bar, called upon him for advice. Debt factoring is scarcely what you might call an honourable business but there’s money in it and Ned, having a personal insight into temperament of his clients, soon made a name for himself. His services were in demand. Significant debtors sought him out, debauched wastrels with significant connections were sent his way. It was one of the latter who did for poor Ned.

  “A bastard son of a bastard son of a very important person indeed found himself lodged in the Debtors’ Quad at Newgate. Consultations were held in the very highest circles. The name of Stapleton was suggested. A carriage of impressive dimensions drew up in the street below Ned’s rooms. A liveried servant who carried himself like an Austrian archduke descended from the carriage and ascended Ned’s rather rickety staircase. Instructions were given, a warrant handed over – a warrant from which hung a seal we would all recognise. The following morning the carriage returned to convey Ned to his client in Newgate.

  “The carriage and Ned’s commission were, as you can imagine, the talk of the Temple. We all knew Ned and were pleased for him. Though the name and title of the carriage-owner were never spoken, we all had an idea who it was. If we were even half-right our friend’s success was assured. A Mastership in Chancery at the very least. But then…” Sir Tommy’s jowls quivered. He ran the tip of his tongue over dry lips. “Then news came that our friend was ill. Gaol fever. Some of us wanted to visit. His mother, who was over from India, would not allow it. I confess I was glad. Glad that she refused visitors, that is, not that… Gaol fever, Tumbley. In those days it was a death sentence…”

  His voice trailed off. He clearly could not finish his account. So I stepped in. “Are you telling me, sir, that Stapleton died?”

  He inclined his great bald dome. I saw the spots of age on his pate.

  “But clearly, sir---” I persisted.

  “I went to his funeral, Tumbley. We all did.”

  “Even so, with all due respect, the fact remains---”

  “He came back to us. Three months or so after the funeral he was back on the circuit. Ned Stapleton, as large as life. We all hurried round to see for ourselves. There could be no mistake. In appearance, manner, temperament, the same old Ned. But not the same. Not the same at all. Oh no, not by a long chalk.”

  We sat there, in the pool of sallow gaslight, amid the debris of our pies, and neither of us spoke for a considerable time. Finally Sir Tommy recovered his voice. “You’re sure you want to hear the rest, Tumbley? From the horse’s mouth? It has to be from him, you understand, because he is the one who experienced it firsthand. From anyone else … well, there would be no credibility. So, what do you say, Tumbley? Yea or Nay?”

  I admitted, “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’ll speak to Stapleton. He’ll send round his card. If you choose not to follow through, I assure you he won’t be offended. As for me, my most earnest recommendation is that you don’t.”

  I did, of course. Who wouldn’t? I dealt with Sir Tommy’s friend and colleague. Palms were greased, favours called in and obligations incurred. The debased fool admitted public indecency, paid his fine, and took a long rehabilitative sea-cruise. A week or so thereafter a card floated onto my doormat. E S Stapleton, Her Majesty’s Inspector of Anatomy (District of Westminster) would be pleased to receive me – should I wish to call – any weekday evening after eight. The address followed, a highly respectable address, not far from the church of St Clement Danes. I took an early supper – Stapleton did not strike me as a trencherman – at Cavalino’s on the Strand, and presented myself at the Inspector’s door at eight-fifteen one bright summer evening in August. The weather, it struck me later, could not have been less suited to the account I was about to hear.

  The house was substantial, the household less so. Mr Stapleton kept only a maid, evidently because his needs were so few. The room I was shown into was lined floor to ceiling with books. Mr Stapleton had not accepted gas into his home and it would seem did his reading by candlelight only. He sat with his back to the window – curtains closed, despite the fact that it was still light outside – in a high-backed green leather armchair. A small three-legged table sat by his right elbow. The only other furniture in the room was a second chair, without arms and upholstered in needlework that had long since faded. I assumed this was for me and seated myself upon it whether or not. There was no clock to be seen, no ticking to be heard. Unusual, I thought, but then again – if what Sir Tommy had told me was true – understandable, I supposed.

  He spoke, his voice the rustle of leaves. “Refreshment, Mr Tumbley?”

  “Good of you, sir. I’ll have---”

  I would have a small glass of sherry, apparently, and three Garibaldi biscuits on a plain white side plate, for that is what the maid deposited in my lap. Mr Stapleton favoured water biscuits and what I could only assume was plain water. The liquid in his glass was clear and colourless, and Mr Stapleton did not strike me as a gin-bibber.

  He moistened his lips and began. “What do you know of the Anatomy Act, Mr Tumbley?”

  “I know it exists. I assume it is the act under which you hold office. Other than that…”

  “Quite so. Why should you know more? A young fellow like you…” I remind my reader that at the time of this interview I was nearer fifty than forty. Mr Stapleton meanwhile waxed nostalgic. “It was bitterly fought at the time. A matter of principle for the bishops, a matter of science for the surgeons. Parliament threw it out altogether the first time round. But then… You realise, I suppose, that I was the original appointee under the act?”

  I admitted I hadn’t realised. At the same time I was working my recollection, trying to decide when the Anatomy Act had come into force. Before my time, obviously, well before. What had Tommy Chambers said about his and Stapleton�
��s age when … when what happened to Stapleton … well, happened?

  While I was recollecting, the Inspector lighted a candle. In its glow I saw that he was smiling, that sad lopsided smile. Perhaps it was the way the light happened to fall on his face, but it reminded me of my father’s face, after his seizure. Hanging loose, as if the muscles had lost connection or snapped. My father had never recovered his speech, however, whereas the voice of Edward Stapleton was as clear as freshly melted snow.

  “Sir Thomas informs me that you wish to hear the story of my---” The smile broadened. I saw a fleeting flash of the roistering lad that Sir Tommy recalled. “I was going to say the story of life. Hah! There is nothing less interesting on God’s earth than the story of my life. What you want to hear, Mr Tumbley, is the story of my death!”

  He chuckled drily, the wheeze of bellows with perished leather. He leant his head against the antimacassar on the back of his chair and started to talk. Here, to the best of my remembrance, is the tale he told me. For the sake of the pedants among you, I am confident that my recollection is well nigh perfect. Try as you might, the story of Edward Stapleton is not easily forgotten.

  My father was in the Indian Service (he began), my mother the daughter of an Ayrshire Presbyterian importer of calico. I was their only child. You can imagine, therefore, that I was not accustomed to the society of people my own age or race until I came to England to prepare myself for university. Those were high times to be young, Mr Tumbley, and to be à le Indien was all the rage. London had just opened its first curry parlour and the Prince Regent was popularizing the use of shampoo. I found myself accepted with open arms, swept up in a social whirl, welcome at any salon, a coup for every hostess. My allowance was unequal to the demands I made upon it. I begged my parents for more and they sent as much as they could. I prevailed upon my Scottish grandfather, who grudgingly undertook to support me on the proviso that I passed every examination in my chosen career of the law. They do such things differently in Scotland, I understand. Their way involves such things as exams. In England, as I daresay you know, Mr Tumbley, knowledge is an advantage in the law but by no means a prerequisite. Many young men are called to the Bar on the basis of their talent, but many more are called on the strength of their address book. Over a career, the theory goes, the talented are socialized, the ignorant educated. I like to think I was not entirely without ability, though I cannot deny that I prospered on the backs of my less fortunate friends.