When he knocked on the door to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, he found everyone engaged in fevered preparations for the Public Anatomy. Apprentices were sweeping paths and scrubbing windows with long-handled brooms, and an army of servants scurried around the kitchen block, obeying the frenzied shrieks of the French chef. Delicious smells wafted across the yard, making Chaloner think that he might attend the exhibition after all, even if only to avail himself of the feast afterwards. Reynell spotted him and offered to conduct him to the Anatomical Theatre, where Lisle was waiting.
‘He is going to remove my bandage in that dissecting room?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘In the basement,’ explained Reynell. ‘He is desperately busy, mixing coloured waxes and making sure all his implements are in order, and does not have time to traipse back to his rooms to deal with patients. It makes no difference: a hacksaw can be wielded anywhere, and he said you would not mind where he performed the operation, just as long as Wiseman’s splint comes off.’
‘Did you manage to secure Dillon’s corpse? I saw you leave Tyburn with a coffin, but it was impossible to tell what was in it.’
‘There were some problems.’ Reynell did not elaborate, and Chaloner did not really want to be regaled with a grisly story, so they walked to the theatre in silence. Reynell glanced around a little furtively as they reached the stairs, as if he did not want to be seen.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Chaloner, immediately wary.
‘We cannot let Wiseman know what we are doing. This is not the first time Lisle has been obliged to rectify his mistakes, and he is apt to be nasty about it. Lisle cannot afford a confrontation – not today, of all days – but no one is looking, so we are all right.’
Chaloner followed him down the stairs to the gloomy vault. This time, only four bodies were present. One did not have a sheet, and Chaloner recognised the thin, wan features of Sarsfeild. Shirt laces still bit into the confectioner’s throat, because Wiseman’s dissection had focused on the abdomen, and the head and neck had so far been left alone.
‘There you are, Heyden,’ said Lisle, smiling genially. ‘Come in, come in. I hope you do not mind me tending you in here, but I am terribly busy today, and this will save time.’
Chaloner was about to sit in the chair Lisle indicated, when the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and all his instincts warned him that he was being watched. He hesitated, and the covert glance passed between Lisle and his clerk confirmed that something was amiss. He began to back away, aiming for the door. He did not get far before Reynell produced the gun he had kept hidden under his coat, pointing it at Chaloner with a hand that was far from steady. Then came the sound of the door being closed, and Chaloner glanced around to see Johnson. He carried a sword, and the fact that its blade was stained red with blood suggested it was not the first time he had used it that day.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Lisle unhappily. ‘I was hoping there would be no need for histrionics. Please sit down, Heyden. We will make this as fast and painless as possible.’
Johnson gripped his rapier in both hands, muttering something about the unruly mob he had been obliged to fend off at Tyburn. Meanwhile, Lisle held an implement that might have had a surgical application, but that he brandished like a cudgel, and Reynell cocked his weapon; it trembled in a way that was dangerous. Deftly, Lisle removed the sword and daggers from Chaloner’s belt. He found the one in his sleeve, too, while the one from his boot had been confiscated at White Hall. Chaloner was weaponless, although not, he hoped, defenceless.
‘There is no point in yelling for help,’ said Lisle, smiling again. ‘No one will hear you. The theatre will not be occupied for at least another two hours, and the walls to this basement are very thick. They were built that way to keep it cool for specimens, but they also serve to dampen sounds.’
Chaloner had no intention of wasting energy with howls for assistance. He assessed his chances of dodging around Johnson and reaching the door, and decided they were fair; the man did not look agile, although he was probably strong. The problem lay with Reynell and his shaking dag.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, speaking to give himself time to consider his options.
‘You,’ said Lisle simply. ‘We want you.’
Chaloner was mystified, but then he understood. ‘For your Private Anatomies?’
Lisle nodded, and suddenly his grin did not seem so genial. ‘There is a great demand for them these days. The prisons cannot supply our needs, because we require decent corpses, not ones that are emaciated and covered in scabs. So, we are obliged to go elsewhere for material. You will be perfect.’
‘And we shall have the reward from the Dutch,’ added Johnson. ‘You murdered an upholsterer, and the Netherlanders have offered a thousand pounds for your head.’
‘Is this why you wanted me to come today and not earlier?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You need me fresh?’
‘Yes,’ replied Lisle. ‘I hope you did as I asked, and told no one else about our appointment.’
‘I mentioned it to several friends,’ countered Chaloner immediately. ‘Men who are used to unravelling mysteries. They will certainly learn what you have done.’
Lisle shrugged. ‘You would say that, but it is immaterial anyway. Johnson and Reynell will support me in saying that you went home after I removed the splint. I have also taken the precaution of giving you reason to despair – by telling everyone that your hand will never mend and that your viol-playing days are over. I will swear you left in low spirits, and you will not be the first to hurl yourself in the river, never to be seen again.’
Johnson addressed Lisle. ‘You do realise that my friend will not be very pleased about his death? It will spoil his plans, and Reynell and I went to some trouble with … well, you know.’
‘With what?’ demanded Chaloner.
Lisle ignored him. ‘What he wants is irrelevant. He asked for the favour to which you have just alluded, and he wanted documents signed and sealed. We have done all that, so our obligations to him are complete.’
‘True, but he is in an excellent position to procure us corpses,’ argued Johnson. ‘I do not want to incur his displeasure when he might prove useful to us in the future. I dislike being forced to kill people, just because we are short of a good body, and he might provide us with an alternative source of material.’
Chaloner regarded him in distaste. ‘You just go out and pick someone when you need a corpse?’
‘We have no choice,’ snapped Johnson. ‘We tried using those of our patients who died from natural causes, but their families kept declining to let us have them, even when we offered to pay. We cannot disappoint powerful courtiers, so we have no alternative but to hasten the end of a few nobodies.’
Lisle rolled his eyes. ‘We can hardly oblige your friend by letting Heyden live now you have told him all that, Johnson! Hurry up and make an end of this – there is a lot to do before the dissection this afternoon, and we cannot afford to waste time.’
Chaloner’s mind was working fast. ‘Did you arrange for Fitz-Simons to be killed, because you wanted his body?’
‘Of course not!’ cried Reynell, shocked. ‘What do you think we are? He was a friend – a barber-surgeon.’
‘Then why is there a different body in your charnel house, marked with his name?’
‘We have already told you,’ replied Reynell impatiently. ‘Wiseman realised Fitz-Simons was the so-called “assassin” shot by May, and we could not allow his misguided actions to bring our Company into disrepute, so we were obliged to snatch him from White Hall before anyone could identify him.’
‘I put another corpse in the charnel house, to deflect any awkward enquiries,’ added Johnson, pleased with himself for considering all eventualities. ‘But my precautions were unnecessary, because no one has come. And, before you ask, he really did bequeath us his corpse, to be used for the edification of our apprentices.’
‘And what about Webb? Was he murdered to provide you with a specimen?’
‘You exchanged his fat body for a waif from the prisons, though,’ surmised Chaloner, not sure whether to believe him. ‘I imagine you made the swap in St Paul’s, while Webb was waiting to be jammed into the tiny space allotted to him.’
‘The vergers we bribed were relieved when we offered a solution to their predicament,’ gloated Johnson. ‘Little Martin Webster slipped into Bishop Stratford’s tomb a lot more easily than the portly Webb would have done. Everyone was a winner in that bargain.’
‘Except Webb. Does Silence know?’
‘Goodness me, no!’ exclaimed Lisle. ‘She would be furious – and might even demand a share of our profits. You will die today, Heyden, so you may as well go quietly. Come and sit down, and let Johnson bring an end to this unsavoury business. He is a surgeon and knows how to do it quickly. There will be very little pain, I promise.’
Chaloner made a sudden lunge for Reynell’s gun. The clerk shrieked in alarm, and the weapon discharged, making everyone duck. Chaloner emerged the victor, but the dag had been fired, so was useless until it could be reloaded. He lobbed it hard at Lisle, but the man flinched away, and it cracked harmlessly into the wall behind him. Johnson advanced with his sword, but Reynell, desperate to arm himself, got in his way as he dived towards Lisle’s tray of surgical implements. Their momentary tangle allowed Chaloner to grab a broom.
Lisle sighed. ‘There is no point bucking against the inevitable, so just let us do our business. You will not be missed. You have no family in the city, and when you disappear, your colleagues will assume you could not bear the thought of a life without music. So be reasonable, Heyden. Do not make this harder for all of us.’
‘How many people have you killed?’ asked Chaloner, backing away quickly when Reynell laid hold of a long knife. He managed to reach the tables on which the bodies lay, using them as a barrier between him and the relentless advance of his three assailants.
‘Do not tell him,’ advised Reynell, feeling his knife’s blade and wincing when he cut himself. ‘It is none of his business, and he is only trying to distract us.’
But Johnson was of a mind to be garrulous, presumably because it was not often that he had the opportunity to brag about his achievements. ‘I cannot recall, precisely. It has been about six months since we started, but we avoid slaughter when we can. I have put it about that we receive corpses with no questions asked, and people have been very obliging.’
‘We anatomise them, then give them a decent burial in St Olave’s Church,’ elaborated Lisle. ‘It is only right that the subject gets something out of the arrangement.’
‘Very noble,’ said Chaloner. ‘Then tell me how many people you have killed this week, if you cannot recall all the poor souls you have dispatched over the last half year.’
‘You will be our fourth,’ said Johnson. He glanced up at the ceiling, counting on his fingers. ‘Yes, just three others this week.’
‘Fanning and Sarsfeild,’ said Chaloner in disgust. ‘Men in prison, unable to defend themselves.’
‘Fanning, yes, Sarsfeild no,’ said Johnson. ‘May let slip that he was going to help Fanning escape from Newgate, you see. We could not afford to lose such a good, strong specimen, so I bribed a warden to let me at him first. Then I bribed him a second time to record a verdict of gaol-fever.’
‘Was it the same warden who later had an “accident”? He was hit by a cart?’
Johnson was defensive. ‘He took our money, then started telling everyone that Fanning had a cord around his neck. He could not be trusted, so I dispatched him. We would have added him to our collection, too, but he was too badly mangled.’
‘So, Fanning and the warden are two,’ said Chaloner. ‘Who is your third victim?’
‘We plan to dissect him this afternoon,’ said Lisle comfortably. ‘For the Public Anatomy.’
‘I thought Dillon was—’
‘Dillon is too fresh, and will bleed,’ said Lisle impatiently. ‘Our guests do not want to see that sort of thing, so we procured another fellow yesterday.’
Chaloner ripped the sheet from one of the cadavers, evading a wild blow from Johnson’s sword at the same time. A squat man lay there, with an old scar on his neck. Blood had pooled on the table beneath him; the fatal injury had been to his back. Chaloner’s thoughts tumbled in confusion. He matched the description of the man Scot had seen visiting Behn after dark, and whose corpse Eaffrey had discovered in Behn’s office. Now Chaloner knew what had happened to it. The surgeons had evidently been pleased to get it, because the limbs had already been detached, probably for students.
Chaloner jerked away from Johnson’s blade a second time, and tore the cover from the next subject. Willys’s waxen face stared at him. ‘How did you get—?’
‘Holles was kind enough to ask me to deliver him to his own parish,’ said Johnson, pleased with himself. ‘A scrofulous beggar is now in Willys’s grave, and we have a fine, disease-free subject to dissect for Brodrick, although we shall have to keep his face covered, as they knew each other.’
Chaloner dragged the sheet away from the last body, expecting to see Dillon, but what he saw made his stomach lurch in horror. William Scot lay there, peaceful and relaxed in death. Chaloner felt the walls closing in around him, and for a moment was aware of nothing but the pounding of his own heart.
‘Dear God, no!’ he whispered.
‘It is the scientific gentleman from Ireland,’ explained Lisle. ‘Peter Terrell. For some inexplicable reason, he came here last night, so Johnson dispatched him with a blow to the head. It is a good way to kill, because it does not damage anything we need for our dissections.’
Shock had allowed Chaloner’s guard to slip, and Johnson managed to grab his arm before he came to his senses and repelled him with a punch to the jaw. The surgeon reeled away, while Chaloner’s numbed mind worked feverishly to analyse the information. He had told Scot that Lisle planned to remove his splint, and somehow Scot had learned Lisle was not the kindly healer he appeared to be and had come to investigate. They had killed him, and intended to use him for their grotesque dissection that afternoon. Chaloner gazed at his friend’s still face, and made up his mind that it would not happen, no matter what the cost.
‘Is your entire Company complicit in this monstrous plot?’ he demanded, stepping briskly around the table to avoid Reynell’s knife. His wits were suddenly sharp and clear, as they always were in desperate situations. He removed his hat – the one he had used to steal Prynne’s gunpowder – and hurled it, ostensibly at Lisle, but it landed on the lamp. Flames licked towards it. ‘Or just you three?’
‘The “entire Company” does not bear the responsibility of securing its future,’ replied Lisle tartly. ‘Arrogant fellows like Wiseman sit back and enjoy the benefits of belonging to a licensed guild, but it does not run on air. It is my duty, as Master, to ensure we are solvent. These Private Anatomies are an excellent way to achieve our aim, and I salute Reynell’s ingenuity in devising such a plan.’
‘You keep some of the profit for yourselves, though,’ said Chaloner. ‘Wiseman has noticed your sudden upturns in fortune – your generosity in donating implements to the hospitals, Johnson moving in expensive Court circles, and Reynell’s suspiciously fine clothes.’
Reynell was becoming unsettled by the amount of time that was passing. ‘We should hurry. I keep thinking Wiseman might come, wanting to know whether this afternoon’s corpse is ready.’
‘He will not stop us,’ said Lisle. ‘He is poor, because Webb’s scurrilous lies have destroyed his medical practice – his silence can be bought.’
‘And if he proves awkward, then there are always uses for a large cadaver like this,’ added Johnson, a little longingly.
‘Where is Dillon?’ asked Chaloner. Smoke was curling from his hat. ‘Did he escape after all?’
‘Do not answer – just dispatch him,’ begged Reynell. ‘P
eople will start to arrive for the Public Anatomy soon – they always come early, to get good seats – and it would be awkward if someone came down here by mistake and saw us chatting to a future subject.’
‘We shall dissect you for Lady Castlemaine,’ said Lisle with his pleasant smile. ‘It will be the first time a woman has requisitioned a performance, and you are sure to please her.’
‘Then she is going to be disappointed,’ said Chaloner, launching himself forward and bowling Reynell from his feet. When the clerk tried to stand, Chaloner hit him under the chin with his knee, forcing his head back against a wooden table with a dull thump.
Johnson clutched his sword in both hands and came at Chaloner with a howl of fury, so the spy was obliged to jump hastily behind the table. At that moment, the flame reached the remnants of the gunpowder in his hat, and it puffed like a firework. It was not much of a display, but it made Johnson spin around in alarm, allowing Chaloner to throw the broom at him while he was distracted. It struck his jaw hard, and he stumbled into Scot’s body, snatching at it desperately in a effort maintain his balance. Then he and the corpse crashed to the floor together, and the surgeon gave a yelp of disgust as he tried to free himself from the cold, flopping limbs.
Meanwhile, Lisle raced towards Chaloner, brandishing his surgical cudgel. He swung it with all his might. Chaloner raised his hand to protect his head, and there was a sharp crack as the splint broke. Lisle lunged again, while Reynell moved groggily to grab Chaloner’s foot, making him fall. The spy became aware of gagging sounds behind him, and wondered what was wrong with Johnson. He glanced around, and Lisle used his momentary inattention to strike again. The dressing took another monstrous blow that sent waves of shock up Chaloner’s arm.
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 35
