The Resurrection Fireplace

by Hiroko Minagawa

  How long had he lain unconscious?

  Waking now, Nathan found himself lying on a bed.

  “Don’t be afraid. This is our room.”

  Someone was holding a candle over him and peering closely at his face. Edward and Nigel.

  They smelt subtly of drink. The scent of face-powder was in there too. Edward explained that, returning from a night out, they had heard a noise in the students’ dissection room.

  “You were in trouble there.”

  Nathan felt some pain in his left arm. Glancing down, he saw that it was heavily bandaged.

  “You are all right,” Edward said. His voice was a great comfort to Nathan. “The blade did not reach the artery. If that had been opened, you would have died in a minute, but he ran off before he could finish when he saw us looking in.”

  “We found this on the floor.” Nigel held up a razor.

  “It is mine—well, Mr. Harrington’s,” said Nathan. “Evans took it from me. How did it…?”

  “The difference from a scalpel must have hindered his efforts.”

  “Not to mention that he was interrupted.”

  “We staunched the flow and sewed you up. There should be no more bleeding.”

  “But why was Robert trying to kill you?”

  “I have no idea,” said Nathan. “Who is Robert?”

  “Do you recall that fellow who was drenched by the fountain outside Matthew’s?”

  “Why should he have any interest in me? Evans is the one I should fear.”

  Seeing the puzzlement on their faces, he told them everything. His confinement, and his imprisonment before that. The forgery. His time with Elaine. His longing to see his two friends. Even the razor. Everything.

  “Guy Evans? I know the name,” said Edward. “The banker Hume told me that Robert Barton was firmly in Evans’s clutches. And now a razor confiscated by Evans has ended up in Robert’s hand… . Evidence of collusion, quite possibly?… Evans thought this razor was yours. He might have had Robert use it in the hope that people would think that you slit your own wrist.”

  “But how could Robert have been waiting for Nathan?” asked Nigel.

  “Perhaps…” Nathan told them about the dog that had taken the same route as him from Evans’s residence. “All the way to this building,” he ended.

  “Bess!” cried Edward. “Robert’s wife was looking for her.”

  “But not looking over here,” said Nigel. “She hates dissection rooms.”

  In a cheerless voice, Edward said, “I doubt Evans and Robert would be found guilty if we brought a formal complaint against them.”

  “This was only attempted murder, after all,” Nigel agreed. “As for the confinement, they could come up with some excuse.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “We have to do something to get rid of them. Otherwise, Nathan will never know the end of it.”

  “Get rid of them?” repeated Nathan, frowning.

  “This is not their only crime,” said Nigel. “We shall think of something. You must remain in hiding for a while.”

  At Edward’s request, Nelly allowed Nathan to hide in her attic bedroom. The room was tiny, but far more tolerable than his quarters at the Barretts’ had been. Nelly herself was sympathetic to his plight.

  Three days later, on the ninth of July, Edward and Nigel came up late at night to announce that they had found a substitute body. Their standing order with some grave-robbers of their acquaintance for any male cadavers around the same age as Nathan had finally been filled. To pay for the body, Edward pawned his watch; the anatomy school’s books were kept by Al Wood, so that source of funds was closed to them.

  The cadaver Gobbin brought in was that of an orphan who had died of malnourishment. After saying a prayer for the boy, since no one was going to give him a proper funeral, they cut deeply into his left wrist. The scars on Nathan’s ankles from his shackles could not be easily reproduced; but leaving the legs unmarked was not an option, so their solution was to amputate them. Then, deciding that this would be too suspicious, they removed the arms as well, keeping the latter safe in order to show the magistrate the wounded wrist later. After implicating Robert in the murder with the ink, they wrapped the body in cloth and hung it from the winch in the fireplace, concealing it in the triangular space behind the fire door.

  Early in the morning, the cadaver of Elaine Roughhead was brought in for Barton’s research.

  To hasten the discovery of the dead boy, Edward paid one of the street urchins to deliver an anonymous tip to the magistrate’s office. Hales and Bray had arrived just as the pupils gathered to begin dissecting Elaine. Hide it! Clarence had said. Since Nathan’s replacement was already attached to the hook, Edward and Nigel pretended to hang up the bundle containing Elaine’s body, but in fact concealed it at the bottom of the flue. They did not realize at the time that Harrington’s body had already been placed there by Dr. Barton.

  Moore and Abbott arrived next, followed by Sir John. Events unfolded apace, of which Nathan, hiding in the attic, remained ignorant. He began to regain his strength. One day, when he descended the rear staircase to receive his meal from Nelly, a fat young man appeared and asked her if they had caught any rats. Nelly gestured with her chin towards the rat-catcher’s cage.

  “Sir John has asked to see you, Nelly,” the chubby fellow added.

  “What does the magistrate want with me?” she said, anxiety showing in her face.

  Nathan was shaken too. The magistrate! Magistrates were people who sent offenders to Newgate. His forgery…

  “You have nothing to worry about,” the young man told her offhandedly, taking the cage and leaving, with Nelly following behind.

  Nathan listened closely to the voices he could hear in the dissection room.

  “Professor.” That was the fat young one. “It seems that Nelly is now keeping urchins as well as rats.”

  “I don’t keep rats. They keep themselves. The rat-catcher can’t keep up. As for the boy, well, he came to the door lookin’ fit to drop from hunger, so I gave him some broth and a crust of bread and let him rest a while.”

  “Is the boy very weak?” That was Nigel. He was doing a good job of dissembling.

  “Well, he is one of those as eke out a livin’ from beggin’ and mudlarkin’. But please don’t confine him, m’lord. He’ll have his strength back after a sit-down and a bite to eat, and then he’ll surely find proper work. Give him a chance.”

  “Rest assured, Nelly, I am not cruel.”

  “Aye, I know it, m’lord. Everyone does. Sir John Fieldin’, friend to the poor, scourge of the wicked. A man who’ll give you a fair trial.”

  Having skilfully talked her way out of trouble, Nelly returned.

  Later, she told him more about the magistrate.

  “They say he can tell truth from lies just by listenin’. I was all on edge there. I suppose that since it wasn’t an interrogation, he wasn’t listenin’ very hard. I thought my hair would go white in front of him.”

  Early the following morning, Edward came to take Nathan out of the house. “We have found somewhere safe for you,” he said.

  That somewhere was the third floor of the Temple Bank, where the Humes lived. Edward introduced Nathan to them, explained the circumstances, and asked for their help protecting him.

  “Leave it to us, Edward,” said Mr. Hume.

  His wife lent Nathan a maid’s uniform “so that it will not matter if anyone sees you.” She snipped off some of her own long locks from the back of her neck, attached them to the inner band of a mob-cap, and placed it on his head. “There. You look just like a girl now,” she said. “You can be Mary, our nursemaid.”

  To hide the new unevenness of her own hair, Mrs. Hume tied it up, her bare neck making her look a little slimmer.

  “Please, do not tell anyone about this,” Edwa
rd said to her. “Not even if the magistrate should ask. Or Professor Barton, of course. Any secrets he learns are plainly readable on his face.”

  “I am no master of deceit myself, but I shall do my best.”

  Edward kissed their sleeping infant and departed. A somewhat forlorn Nathan was treated kindly by the Humes and the baby took a liking to him, so before long he felt reasonably at ease.

  Late that night, Nigel arrived. He had a bruise on his forehead that he claimed was from running into a signboard or something on the dark streets.

  “Nathan,” he said. “I want you to write down all you told us in a letter. We have decided to say that we found a letter in your pocket that explained everything, but we need an actual document to show the magistrate.”

  “Before my escape, I did in fact begin a letter to you,” said Nathan. “But I crumpled it up, having no way to get it to you.”

  “Write it again. In detail. I should mention that your replacement died of malnourishment. He was skinny, and covered in bruises and worse. Write, therefore, that Evans was abusive, and virtually starved you.”

  Nathan wrote the letter straight away.

  “We should add a small ink-stain,” Edward suggested later. “We put your coat on the boy’s body while the ink on his chest was still damp, which made a stain near the inside pocket. If the letter was in there, it would be stained too.”

  Also later, Nathan learnt that Edward had paid someone to injure him in order to claim that Evans had arranged the attack. This, in turn, was to support the information that Evans intended to make a huge sum by passing off Nathan’s forgery as genuine. The infection of the wound, which was meant to be a mere scratch, was something else he did not learn about until it was all over.

  His days were spent peacefully with the Humes. They told him often how masterfully Edward and Barton had presided over the birth of Danny, and how good they were with the baby even now.

  Finally, the day before the trial arrived. A message came for Hume from Nigel:

  Please be in the public gallery at the Old Bailey tomorrow. Bring Mary.

  And that was how Nathan and his mother were reunited.

  Chapter 28

  The sky was uncharacteristically blue. The cypress gleamed in the light and cast a sharp-angled shadow over the two graves. The coffins had already been lowered out of sight.

  Nine people were gathered at the graveyard. There was Daniel Barton, along with three of his pupils, Al, Clarence, and Ben. The Humes were there, including Danny, as well as Nelly, her eyes so red and swollen from crying she could barely see. And, of course, Nathan Cullen.

  Nelly was the only one weeping, and even she knew as well as the others that the coffins were empty.

  The tears came just the same.

  A few yards away from the assembly, Edward and Nigel stood together quietly. They were dressed as sombrely as Quakers, in black broad-brimmed hats and frock coats. The silver chain from a buttonhole of Edward’s waistcoat was linked to the watch in his pocket. His fellow students had pooled their funds to get it out of hock.

  “Once Robert and Evans were dead, the need to conceal Nathan was gone. Why did you wait until that moment to reveal him?”

  Sir John had put this question to Edward reproachfully at the Old Bailey, after Lord Mansfield had found the two of them not guilty of Cullen’s murder without even waiting for the jury’s verdict. Not even the least experienced, most incompetent of lawyers could possibly have lost the case by then. In point of fact, Hooper had met Nathan in advance at the Humes’ and had the circumstances explained to him.

  “To humiliate and make an ass of both bench and bar,” Edward replied. “The courts are good for nothing.”

  Professor Barton now finally understood how deeply Edward loathed a legal system that had unjustly condemned his father. More than a desire to help Nathan, had not his true purpose been a desire to mock the law, he asked him.

  Edward exchanged a glance with Nigel.

  “Sir John is fair, and honest—a rarity among those of his profession. To deceive him did bother us somewhat. In any case, although no trial is to be held for the other murders, apparently, we intend to punish ourselves for it. By taking leave of this world. This was always our intention, from the moment we decided to get rid of Evans and Robert.”

  But there were times, he admitted, when they had wavered from this intention, even preparing an alibi for themselves by faking death by drowning for Robert.

  “If you are thinking of suicide, I shall not permit it!” Barton told them.

  They both smiled at him.

  “Not dying. Disappearing,” said Edward.

  Barton felt an unspecified dread about the future on their behalf. What sort of life did they intend to lead? Had they really performed that bizarre ritual at the Rose—even if the leg thrown into the fire had only been an imitation?

  For his sake, they had taken someone’s life. They had then conspired to mislead a magistrate, a representative of the law—and Edward had enjoyed it. Nigel, too. . . . What on earth did Nigel have against the law? Whatever it was, it was enough apparently to give him no qualms about dying if by so doing he could embarrass the authorities. There was so much Barton did not know about the boy. Had his apparent kind-heartedness been only for show? He had strangled a man, after all. Was the cynical, callous side of him his true nature?

  Barton remembered the night Edward had pressed him on his own feelings.

  —Suppose that Nigel injured his right hand and could no longer do his illustrations. Would you dismiss him?

  —I am not sure. I know what my answer should be. “Whatever may befall him, he matters to me.” Replying in this way would satisfy most people. But without being placed in that situation, I cannot say how I would respond. Whether my feelings for him would wax with pity—or the opposite.

  —The same, I suppose, would apply if I were to sustain some injury to my head and lose the power of reason, then.

  —I am sorry, but my answer is the same. I know it is cold-blooded, but I cannot say otherwise.

  —In other words, Professor, it is our talent that you value; without it, our lives have little worth.

  Should he have given model answers, like a child slyly reading the adults around him? Insisted that they would always matter to him, come what may?

  But Edward was surely observant enough to perceive the falsehood and empty piety in that reply, if he had made it. Barton honestly had not known at the time how losing Nigel or Edward would make him feel.

  His remaining three pupils, less discomposed, now began to sing to the empty coffins.

  A hymn would have rung hollow under the circumstances. Instead, they chose the Dissection Song.

  A was an Artery filled with injection;

  B was a Beldam of awful complexion.

  C was some Cartilage, that apple of Adam’s;

  D was the Diaphragm, prone to its spasms.

  Lol de rol . . .

  Nathan’s mother had hoped that he would accompany her back to their village, but Nathan had refused. When he was still grieving at the news of Elaine’s unnatural death, Hume had offered him financial support while he established himself as a writer in London. Tyndale, too, had finally read through his “ancient poem,” and recognized his unusual gifts. He had promised to publish the work, sure that it would be the talk of the book trade (and a profit-maker) if word got around about a boy of seventeen writing such accomplished old English that it could be mistaken for the real thing. His poems “in the language of tomorrow,” however, Tyndale called incomprehensible, and turned down. Undeterred, Nathan looked forward to pursuing that avenue further.

  Mrs. Cullen had had some harsh words for Edward and Nigel for convincing her that her boy was dead, imposing on her the greatest suffering a mother can have. Subsequently, however, she had thanked them so warmly
for saving his life that the two of them were embarrassed.

  Then, after embracing her son, who was determined to stay in London, she boarded the stage-coach alone.

  E was an Embryo in a glass case;

  F was a Fracture that marred a bone’s face.

  G was for Gaiety, all free to share it;

  H was a Headache from far too much claret.

  A little further away stood Sir John Fielding, Anne Moore, and Dennis Abbott in morning clothes. Anne had intervened on Abbott’s behalf to help him keep his job, insisting that her work would suffer without him.

  This was a funeral for two people who were still alive: their farewell to society.

  Sir John doffed his cocked hat and held it to his breast.

  Turning to see this, Barton suddenly wondered: had the magistrate seen through Edward’s scheme, however vaguely? Had this been why he had kept him in the holding cell rather than throw him in prison? Had he intentionally taken the road Edward had sought to lead him down—willingly accepted the humiliation of being wrong—all to help Edward find peace from the violent grudge he had borne since losing his father?

  Barton reflected on his own inability to believe that he had been innocent. When Edward had admitted to murder, Barton had only reeled. He should have fought for his pupil. Edward would not kill a friend who had come to him for help. He is not a monster. He felt deep regret for not affirming as much to Sir John. No wonder Edward had not trusted him enough to let him in on Nathan’s true whereabouts.

  Q were the Quacks, killing more than they heal;

  R was the Rag-and-Bone, ready to deal.

  S was a Scalpel, for stabbing precisely;

  T was a Tourniquet, for strangling him nicely.

  “Might not be the best song for the occasion, actually,” muttered Clarence during the refrain.

  U was an Ulcer, which hurt worse than sin;

  V was for Vict’ry, which Bartonites win.

  Next came the White Plague, contract it and weep;

  While X was unknown—some secrets we keep!

  Barton heard Edward and Nigel joining in quietly behind him.