The door to the examination room opened and two uniformed constables marched in, a covered stretcher between them as they made their way toward Ainsley. Slipping from his perch, Ainsley placed his hands in his pockets. His eagerness to look at the bodies of the fellow victims was tempered by the fact that they were children; to Ainsley, examining children had always been the most challenging on the soul.
“Two others are in the carriage,” one of the constables said. “Where’d you like us to put ’em?”
Ainsley gestured for the room off to the side, reasoning it was the only place where he could lock the door and ensure no other surgeons released the bodies without his knowledge.
One after another the constable brought in the three bodies, laying them where Ainsley asked. Only after their cargo was deposited did Simms walk through the doors, his arms overburdened with dossiers and assorted paperwork. The constables tipped their hats to Simms as they passed but were quick to leave, no doubt choking back the smell that had become so familiar to Ainsley that he barely registered it anymore.
“The police surgeon doesn’t know I have these,” Simms said, letting the pages and books drop from his grasp to the countertop with a thud.
“Does he know you’ve commandeered his specimens as well?” Ainsley asked, indicating the bodies of the other victims.
“He might catch on if he allowed himself to sober up enough,” Simms said.
Ainsley grimaced. His own penchant for drink had rendered him useless a time or two. Making such a condition a permanent fixture in his life was a recurring nightmare for Ainsley, who struggled, often in vain, to conquer his incessant need for the bottle.
“These are the sketches he had drawn up,” Simms explained, opening one of the files. He sifted through the loose-leaf pages.
A glossy corner caught Ainsley’s eye and he found himself reaching for it. “What is this?” he asked, slipping the shimmering paper from the pile. “A photograph?”
Simms nodded, and pulled a second photograph from the pile. “There’s only a few. Dr. Muller had them taken in his dead room at the Yard.”
Ainsley tilted the glossy paper to the light over the table. Never before had he seen a dead body in such a way, poised for the camera, as Dr. Muller, the Yard’s surgeon, and his apprentice stood on either end. Like some macabre family portrait, the image wrestled with Ainsley’s conscience.
“Faster than sketching,” Simms said.
“But not nearly as detailed,” Ainsley noted as he squinted over the photograph.
Simms shrugged. “I suppose years from now, when all is said and done, these photographs will stand as a testament to our investigation.”
Ainsley was hesitant to agree. How often were such files revisited?
“I doubt this new science could ever really replace a true-to-life sketch,” he said, returning the photograph to the pile so he could grab another one. “You have to stand so far back just to get the cadaver in focus,” he explained. “All the detail is lost.”
Simms placed the papers on the workbench behind Ainsley and reached to his inside pocket. “Something else for you,” he said, revealing the G. & J. Deane pistol that Ainsley recognized too easily.
In his mind, Ainsley had already refused to take it into his hands before Simms offered it to him. An integral part of a previous case, Ainsley hadn’t expected to ever see it again.
“We have no more need of it,” Simms explained, an apologetic look on his face. “I understand your hesitation.”
“Get it out of my morgue, Simms,” Ainsley said, reverting his attention to the papers Simms had just given him.
“It’s a beautiful piece,” Simms offered. “Must have taken the smith many hours to engrave.”
Ainsley could not bring himself to look. He knew the pistol. He had studied it closely, admiring its art, never expecting its owner would have any practical use for it. “Throw it in the Thames,” Ainsley snapped, turning from the detective.
Behind him, Ainsley could hear the pistol touch the wood of his workbench as Simms placed it down. “Why don’t I leave it for you to discard?” he said.
Ainsley drifted into the adjoining room, anything to avoid looking at the pistol.
He heard an audible sigh from Simms and turned to find the detective at the doorway to the room. “You have the bodies now. Tell me what you see and we can catch our man.” He placed his hand on the doorframe and turned as if to leave.
“I think I will speak with Lady Brant. Perhaps someone has approached her with some of the organs,” Ainsley said, remembering a family friend who was well-versed in the science of anatomy. “For her work, of course.”
“Is there a market for bits and pieces?” Simms asked, halting his departure. “I should think the price is better for the entirety of the specimen.”
“A market? Yes.” Ainsley knew the demand for such parts, amputated legs, aborted foetuses, and the like was high. Lady Gemma Brant, in particular, used her surgical knowledge to create works of anatomical art while other anatomists conducted experiments for their many budding theories. “There are many unscrupulous fellows who see profit in such a trade.”
“But why not take the whole of the body?” Simms asked. “Why only a heart and half a lung?”
Ainsley shrugged. “Trying to reason out the thoughts of a madman is enough to send anyone to the asylum.”
“You ask Lady Brant,” Simms said, “Perhaps she has a friend who has suddenly come into some organs of questionable origins.”
“And you keep Muller heavily supplied with drink. I can’t risk him barging in here, demanding his notes back. I’m in enough hot water with Dr. Crawford as it is.”
Simms snorted. “I don’t think he will be a problem.”
It was late and the examination room windows were pitch-black by the time Ainsley decided to call it a day. His eyes grew tired as he tried to see in the failing light, the gas lamps above his head a pathetic excuse for luminance. Eventually, he was forced to stop. With the Scotch long gone and his fingers tight, Ainsley would only cause damage if he pressed on.
With only a slight reassurance that his victim would not be disturbed, Ainsley begrudgingly covered the corpse and turned to wash his hands and tools. Given the hour, he knew no porters would be about to do it for him and he would not risk rusting his implements by leaving them soiled overnight.
With the tools making their common racket in the sink, Ainsley did not hear the door to the examination room open. Ainsley heard the approaching footsteps first but did not suspend his work in the sink. Instead, he listened, visualizing the movement of the intruder, knowing each creak of the floorboards. With the water still running, Ainsley gripped one of the saws in his hand and waited until whoever it was stood directly behind him.
His hands raised and pinched into fists, Ainsley felt a fool when he realized it was Sidney.
“You risk your life scaring a man in such a way,” Ainsley said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. Ainsley turned back to his tools, ensuring each one was placed in its spot. The surgeon’s methodical nature did not just apply to his procedures but to anything relating to his work.
“I heard the Yard brought you the others,” Sidney said. “I thought I could help.”
“Are you a surgeon?” Ainsley asked over his shoulder. He caught Sidney lifting the sheet Ainsley had placed over Jonathon’s body. “Don’t touch that!”
At the sound of Ainsley’s voice the young man dropped the sheet, which fell back into place. “My apologies,” Sidney said, with a near chuckle. “I hadn’t realized surgeons were so guarded with their duties.”
Ainsley could not rationalize the protectiveness he felt for the bodies he worked on but it grated him immensely to have anyone second-guessing his work and findings. “I am.”
Sidney nodded but Ainsley refused to turn his back once more.
“I’m not a surgeon yet,” Sidney explained. “I’m completing my final courses at King’s College. Doctor Crawford said he
would hire me once I have passed. Said he needs a surgeon like me.”
Ainsley cocked an eyebrow at the boy’s arrogance. “He has plans to replace me then,” Ainsley said, trying not to laugh.
“Well, not straightaway, of course,” Sidney said. “Though he was not impressed by your absence.”
“And what do you know of my absence?” Ainsley asked incredulously. He would still be absent were it not for the children. It was for them that he came back.
“Only that you have been away for some time,” Sidney explained as he rounded the examination table. His eyes glanced over Ainsley’s cache of tools. “And no one knows why exactly.” He lifted the empty bottle of Scotch. “Perhaps you have been… preoccupied.”
“My mother died,” Ainsley said unapologetically.
“Why did you not tell anyone?” Sidney pressed, replacing the bottle to the counter.
“Because I didn’t think it was anyone’s damn business, that’s why!” Ainsley snapped. “If you aren’t a surgeon get out of my morgue!” Ainsley stepped toward Sidney, raising a fist as if he meant to hit the man.
Without flinching, Sidney raised his hands with open palms and nearly laughed at Ainsley’s overreaction. “All right,” he said, backing away. “I only intended to help.”
“Get out,” Ainsley growled.
Sidney bowed slightly and retraced his steps to the hallway. Ainsley fought down the undeniable urge to hit something. He cared little for the position he held, especially since his mother, his most ardent supporter, was no longer alive to urge him on. He returned for the children, nothing more. The love he once had for medicine had almost all but vanished.
Ainsley walked down a narrow set of stairs, where the air became markedly staler. At the end of dim hall, he opened a solid wooden door, the rusty iron hinges groaning against the movement. The room was a large gymnasium of sorts, buried under a nondescript building and far from the leering eyes of anyone who would rather they follow the Queensberry Rules. The two men in the boxing ring, shirtless and bare-knuckled, were nearing the end of their bout, their bloodied faces, puffy eyes, and sweaty torsos betraying their status.
No gloves, confines the hands, Ainsley remembered a coach telling him once years ago when he had started training. Reactively, Ainsley flexed his own fingers at his side as if to firmly grasp the memory. The Queensberry Rules, the new regulated way to box, had come into effect the year before, but the questionable legalities only pushed Ainsley to the ring even more.
Nothing angered his well-bred father more than his returning home with a black eye and facial contusion or two. That, coupled with his medical training, only served to complete his rebellious nature. Despite having reached a gentleman’s agreement regarding his work as a surgeon, they did not speak of his time in the ring. Perhaps his father had forgotten Ainsley’s penchant for self-inflicted suffering.
The air was thick with cigar and cigarette smoke, circling the suspended gas lamps in a whirling dervish of conflicting wind currents. The room, though vast, was suffocating and tight, with most men gathered near the ring, fists raised in encouragement of their desired victor. The sound was loud and steady, with conversations carried out at the highest volume.
During daylight hours the room was available to train and spar. Between dusk and dawn, however, the little known corner of London came alive with wide punches and rambunctious betting. Watching the bout made Ainsley stir with anticipation, wishing it were himself in the ring. A well-placed punch in the ring hit him with a soft spray of sweat where he stood.
“Who would volunteer for such a thing?” Margaret had once asked while cleaning a rather ugly wound.
“Who wouldn’t?” was Ainsley’s reply.
Scanning the room, Ainsley recognized many regulars, men he had squared against, men he had bet against and, at the opposite side of the ring, he saw his school chum, Jonas. Drink in hand, Jonas was standing not far from the ring, his jacket removed and sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Above the heads of the shouting spectators, his eyes met Ainsley’s but before he could walk over to his friend a familiar face stepped into view.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Specialist.” Theodore Fenton smiled wide enough for Ainsley to notice a gap in his teeth where an eyetooth would have once been. “I must apologize for the rudeness of my brother-in-law. He never mentioned your name.”
Ainsley swallowed. It had been a long, tiring day and all he really wanted was a drink and perhaps a turn in the ring. The man in front of him prevented him from achieving both. “Dr. Peter Ainsley.”
Theodore’s eyebrow popped up. “Doctor, is it? Oh my. You must come in handy at the Yard.”
Ainsley looked past Theodore and saw Jonas looking on with amusement.
“Mind if I call upon your expertise a time or two?” Theodore asked. “This Surgeon fellow has my readership in a right tizzy.”
“Thanks to some speculative surmising on your part, no doubt,” Ainsley charged, his voice raised against the bout raging in the ring.
“You wound me, sir,” Theodore said betraying a smile. “We journalists write nothing but the facts.”
“I have never met a newspaper man who was above scandal or creative angling to make a story more enticing. Your entire trade is based on the gossipmongers and storytellers of old.” Ainsley did not hide a sneer as he pushed passed Theodore.
“And what of your profession, Doctor?” Theodore called after him. “Are you known to always operate aboveboard?”
Ainsley kept his fists at his side and turned a shoulder to pass Theodore. Ainsley had no doubt the man would make sure any ill-conceived reaction on Ainsley’s part was recounted on a broadsheet by morning.
“Who’s your admirer?” Jonas asked as Ainsley approached.
“Theodore Fenton,” Ainsley yelled over the rise in the crowd. “Daily Telegraph and Courier.”
“What business does he have with you?”
Ainsley snorted. “He doesn’t. He’s Simms’s brother-in-law and we happened into each other at a crime scene.”
Jonas gestured to Sidney, who stood smugly beside him. “Sidney says you’re working the Surgeon case.”
Up until that moment Ainsley had not realized Sydney had been standing there. “Chums are you then?” Ainsley asked.
“I met him while working at the university,” Jonas explained, leaning in to be sure Ainsley heard him.
“How fortunate for you,” Ainsley answered, purposely reverting his eyes on the ring.
The bell sounded, signalling the end of the bout. The victor raised his arms in triumph. The defeated fighter remained on the ground, bloodied and dazed. The noise swelled with unanimous excitement and groans as the crowd rushed in, surrounding the bookmakers with outstretched hands, searching for their winnings. Jonas pinched his slender cigar between his teeth and clapped.
A whistle and whoop came from Sidney and suddenly Ainsley felt himself becoming incensed. His sanctuary had been violated not only by the upstart surgeon, but also the man responsible for running his profession through the mud. Sidney’s eager cheers and active participation only deepened Ainsley’s resentment.
Ainsley slid his arms from the sleeves of his jacket and then loosened his collar, pulling his silk tie from his neck before thrusting it to Jonas.
Jonas groaned as Ainsley pulled his shirttails from his trousers. Unbuttoning his shirt, Ainsley just smiled at Sidney.
“Peter, you haven’t trained in months!” Jonas called out to him, but Ainsley was already through the ropes. The crowd cheered as Ainsley turned in the ring, smiling broadly. He was not the best fighter, Ainsley knew that, but whenever he entered the ring people seemed to love him.
Peter. Peter. Peter. A steady roar came from men who pounded the floor of the ring with their open palms as they chanted his familiar name.
When he turned he saw his opponent, the shock of it causing him to stop suddenly. Sidney was opposite him, pulling at his shoes.
Ainsley shook his head. “No
,” he said, sternly. “This is a man’s sport. Go home to Mother.” Ainsley waved him off and looked to Jonas indignantly. Jonas laughed, his cigar pinched between his teeth, and pulled out a bank note from his inside pocket and handed it to the bookmaker nearest him. Ainsley could not see who he was betting on and, for the first time, Ainsley worried it might not be him.
“Can I have a real challenger?” Ainsley shouted into the crowd. Men in the front laughed but when Ainsley turned to Sidney he saw the man was serious. The arrogance frustrated Ainsley all the more and by the time the starting bell rang Ainsley had decided he would offer no mercy. The kid should have known better than get into a bare-knuckle fight with him.
Ainsley found Sidney’s face first, and rushed him into the ropes, stepping firmly and driving his opponent back with the determination of his steps. Three, four, five punches hit Sidney in the face and then he fell back on the ropes.
Ainsley felt the skin on his knuckles burn, and thought he had split one open before Sidney swung wide. It was luck and Ainsley’s distraction that helped the punch land on Ainsley’s shoulder but the blow did not faze him. The bout continued like this for some time, Sidney only making contact once for every five or more of Ainsley’s blows.
“Lay off him, Peter,” Jonas yelled from ringside, hanging over the coarse rope that made up the square ring and trying to get Ainsley’s attention. “He’s never done this before.”
A punch landed on Ainsley’s eye and immediately he could feel it run warm with blood. Angered at both Jonas and Sidney, Ainsley threw two concise fists into Sidney’s face, sending him backward into the ropes.
Taking a minute to observe his opponent, Ainsley backed off, and saw Sidney had a cut on his brow above his eye and already his cheek was swelling.
“Should have listened to me,” Ainsley said, when Sidney opened his eyes.
“Why?” Sidney asked as he pulled himself from the ropes.
The Dead Among Us Page 4
