“The resurrectionists are not known for their tender feelings,” Ezra said and she almost laughed.
“I have been an idiot. But since Pa died…”
“I am sorry. For your loss,” Ezra said, thoughtful. “But in my line of work death is common; everyday. Sometimes I think it is more ordinary than life.”
“Then I pity you. A life amongst the dead! No wonder you speak like an old man, though I swear you cannot be more than seventeen.”
Ezra said nothing, he was pleased she thought him slightly older than his years.
“I know I said some terrible things to you, but you should know my reasons.” She took a deep breath. “My father sickened and died within three days. It was so sudden. He was quite well until we returned home, the performance had been a complete success—”
“Performance?”
“We work as magicians. Falcon and Finch,” she said. “My father is – was – Mr Charles Finch.”
“Falcon and Finch!” Ezra smiled. “I saw you at Vauxhall last summer. Of course – and you are the Spirit of Truth! You could tell when men lied or spoke true. You and Mr Finch were a marvellous turn. Now I think of it, I even recall the hair. Anna thought you were quite splendid.” Ezra paused, made a face. “Mr Falcon and his Italian cards, less so. I should so like to know how it all works.”
“I cannot tell.” Miss Finch’s eyes sparkled with something like mischief. “Not on my life. Conjuror’s honour. But thank you,” she added. “I quite enjoyed being the Spirit of Truth. We haven’t done that turn since last summer, we were thinking of ways to better it, improve on it.” She sighed. “That will not happen now. I suppose my life will change more than I can know.” She stared into the distance and Ezra thought she might cry. They walked on in silence. Ezra looked sideways at her. A performer. No wonder she had not fit into any of the categories he could think of. A magician’s assistant! He had always wondered how those deceptions worked. Still, she looked sad now, and Ezra decided he preferred to see her fierce than sad. He should say something.
“So will you not continue to work with Mr Falcon?”
“Perhaps. He has been good to us. To me. He was a friend of my father’s since before I was born. He has many contacts. I might go abroad, or work up my own act. But without father…”
“Tell me what happened to your father,” Ezra said.
“He woke up poorly last Thursday, pale as…” She paused. “He was sick, vomiting all morning. I took him to the hospital. I should have stayed with him but I left him there – here. He told me he would be all right. And then he wasn’t. I knew it was not natural, I would swear on all God’s creatures above and below. But not a soul would listen. The final straw was that someone else came and claimed the body for burial! A woman, who said she was his sister. My father has no sister! Mrs Gurney, my landlady, said I should leave things be, but I cannot!” She was getting agitated again. Ezra thought of his stitches and sat her down on a bench in the courtyard.
“Oh, I know a thing or two about resurrectionists,” Miss Finch went on. “I have heard what they do. I would give two guineas to prove that my father was murdered, and that he lies in the cellar of the Fortune of War.”
“Two guineas?” Ezra’s mind was racing. That would be more than enough to travel. His own funds. He could get a boat to Holland and back with that! He began to map out a plan of action. Why, he could walk across the road this minute and check to see if her pa was there, in the cellar.
“I have the money,” the girl continued. “Well, I have Father’s clothes and props. He will not need them now. The mad thing is,” she said, looking at Ezra, “if they’d have asked me – once he was dead, that is – if your lot had come and said nicely, ‘Look, Loveday, we can help you, we can tell you why your Pa died,’ I’d have said, ‘You know what? The man’s dead, so, yes, why not?’” She took a breath. “Pa loved science, he wouldn’t have minded being sat next to the Irish Giant, up in your man’s museum, with a little sign round his neck saying Skeleton of the World’s Greatest Magician.”
“Your name is Loveday?”
“What of it?”
“Nothing. Unusual.” Like its owner, Ezra thought. He turned to her and declared, “I will take the job. I will find your father’s corpse, and I will find the cause of his death.”
“You could do that?” She smiled – properly this time, her eyes alight with new hope. Ezra looked at her. He remembered her all in white, almost like a Grecian, on stage as the Spirit of Truth in Vauxhall Gardens.
He smiled back at her. “Yes,” he said. “I think I could.”
Chapter Three
The Fortune of War Public House
Giltspur Street
London
November 1792
Ezra called a cab for Miss Loveday Finch, and as it turned out of sight he thought on his next actions. Already the notion that he might earn some decent cash, do a lady a favour and solve a riddle all at once was opening up an exciting range of possibilities.
He had often thought that the anatomist’s skills were especially useful in post-mortem examinations – better than those of a doctor, who was, after all, no more than an apothecary who treated only surface and appearance. A cadaver was always a puzzle, but usually the reasons for death were mundane and clear: poverty, old age, drowning, cold, malnutrition. If Miss Finch was telling the truth about her father – and of course there was the possibility her mind was moved to imaginings by grief – then this might be a very interesting way to pocket some rhino.
Ezra had told her to go home, not to disturb her father’s room – he would go over there tomorrow, after work, and take a close look – and to live her life as entirely without remark as possible. If there had been a murder, and it was not the random assault and robbery kind, then Ezra was sure the murderer would be known to both Miss Finch and her father. On the few occasions he had discussed murder with Mr McAdam, the master had said he was of the opinion that most who died in a violent and sudden way did so at the hands of someone close to them: the wronged wife, the vicious husband, the unwanted child.
As he stood in the street he heard the church at St Sepulchre chime for eight o’clock. He needed to be back at the house for Mr Allen and his company to pick up the things, ready and waiting in the anatomy room. But perhaps Allen would be sitting in the Fortune of War now, drinking before his evening’s work? It would be simple enough to find out.
Ezra had never before set foot inside such a low dive. The place was known to be dangerous. It was said that in the cellar there was a room set out with shelves all around the walls. Not bookshelves, but shelves for cadavers ready to be sent all over London to this or that anatomy or medical school. Ezra counted them off inside his head. He knew of ten private schools like the master’s, and then there were the hospital schools, Bart’s and Guy’s and St Thomas’s, Middlesex and St George’s. They all needed corpses to learn from, to practise on, yet the trade – and it was definitely a trade – was entirely corrupt. The world, Ezra thought, was a very contrary place.
He looked up at the tavern again. How should he play it – breeze in, asking to see their wares? Was that what one did? One thing was sure: Ezra was far more afraid of the living than the dead. He walked past once, twice, then pushed in through the door before he could change his mind.
Inside, the tavern was a fug of tobacco smoke. That and the yellow candlelight made it hard to see anything at first. He had worried all eyes would swivel to look at him as he entered, but that was practicably impossible. The place was too busy, too noisy: a violin scraped out a tune, a choir of drunken voices caterwauled along. A couple of boys danced out a rhythm in wooden shoes.
The air was thick with smells: ale, spirits, hot pies, but mostly unwashed men and damp. A hard place to have a good time, Ezra would have thought. He made it to the bar, where a legend painted in gold and black read: WE KNOW NOT THE DAY NOR THE HOUR.
The drinkers were a mix of medical students that Ezra recognized fro
m St Bart’s, Smithfield market workers, a few snotter-haulers and second-hand clothes traders, and the resurrection men. He spotted a couple of Allen’s cronies and, in the corner at the back, the man who’d chased Miss Finch, glaring ten kinds of holy death at him.
Ezra took a deep breath. The only way he could see was to ask outright if the thing was here and then do whatever it was Mr McAdam did: enquire about the purchase of the thing and persuade them to deliver it to Great Windmill Street on the master’s account. If any of the resurrectionists did him any real harm, he told himself, the master would hear of it. That fact alone was his protection. What he would tell the master if and when an extra delivery was made – well, he would have to cross that bridge when he came to it.
The man in the corner was still staring at him, so Ezra bought him a drink at the bar and walked over. He had no option but to cut directly to the chase and see what followed.
“Good evening,” Ezra said, setting down the pot tankard in front of him.
“And to you, young McAdam.” The man paused, sniffed, took a drink. “Mr Allen says you’re a straight cove, is it true?”
“I’d like to think so, yes.” Ezra sat down across the table from him.
“So how’s your lady friend?’
“She’s not so much of a friend. It’s simply business.”
“Ah,” said the man, “business. My favourite.” He sat back, inviting Ezra to speak.
“I’m looking for something. Some thing in particular. But I’ll need to check it over first.”
“Some … thing?” the man answered. “Where I’m from, south of the river,” he said quietly, “we like to think of them as cold meat. Fresher the better, of course. Sometimes they’re parcels. Packets. Special deliveries.”
Ezra had heard those terms too. He nodded.
“Well, I’m sure we can provide what you need, young sir. Even in such times as these when the world and his wife are looking for … things.” The man leant close, and Ezra could smell the stench of his breath. “We have your address, delivery tomorrow morning?”
“No.” Ezra coughed. “It’s a particular thing I need. I have to see them.” He lowered his voice. “I need to see their faces.”
The man scowled. “And play them a tune while you’re at it!” His voice was low and threatening. He swore. “Know this: if you weren’t McAdam’s boy I’d have you thrown out in the street on your arse.” He finished his drink and stood up, motioning Ezra to follow, and they left the bar and stepped behind a curtain through a door. He picked up and lit a candle stub, and Ezra followed him down some steep stone steps. The smell and the cold hit him on the second step. The familiar, summer-sweet, sick-sour smell of death. It was so heavy that Ezra felt the vomit rise up from his stomach.
The man grinned. “Not used to it, are you, lad?”
Ezra would have liked to dispute the fact and say, yes, he was completely used to the human body, most especially when it was deceased. But this was different: the smell was turned here into something almost solid. He had to put his hand out to the wall to steady himself; it felt wet and cold as ice and shocked the sickness out of him.
The room was low-ceilinged, but contrary to the rumour there were no shelves for the bodies to lie prone and stately in their sacks. Here the sacks were higgledy-piggledy, against every wall. Ezra counted eight – they’d be worth a small fortune. One or two had obviously been here longer than others; even in the candlelight he could make out the damp patches, large and spreading. He tried to stop himself imagining how far the decomposition must have gone.
“I think this is the one you want,” the man said, and opened a sack nearest the door. “Freshest. Like he’s just fell asleep.” Ezra could see the corpse’s grey hair, and he shook his head quickly.
The man shrugged and opened another. A woman. Ezra shook his head again.
“Well, the others all have takers. This is Mr Lashley’s.” The man tugged the sacking down over the cadaver’s face. “He’s special, in a way – found abandoned, he was, like luggage.”
That was him, Mr Charles Finch. Ezra nodded. The hair was a giveaway, darker red than the girl’s but thick and curly; the nose long and straight and the chin sharp, just as she had described. But there was no way in hell he could tell whether the cove had suffered violence in any way, not down here in this dim light, with this stench.
“How’s that? I thought he was retrieved from the hospital? The old ‘dead sister’ trick,” Ezra said, and regretted speaking, for the smell was so tangible and solid, it was as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of the foul air.
“Would we do a thing like that?” The man smiled. “No, this poor lamb was left in the graveyard of St Sepulchre’s by the meat market, thrown over the wall.” He shrugged.
Ezra thought that very odd – but then, he told himself, resurrectionists were not known for their truth-telling.
“Could you get Mr Allen to deliver him to Great Windmill Street?” he asked, before remembering the stink.
“I told you, this’un’s Mr Lashley’s, and the man keeps us sweet and regular on a retainer,” the man said. “Of course if you were to offer a tidy sum and find me a suitable replacement double quick…”
Ezra’s heart sank. How would he square it with the master, paying double for a very ordinary cadaver? And where did the man expect him to find another body at such short notice? He had to find another way.
“When’s it going?” Ezra tried not to open his mouth too much.
“I ain’t telling you any more without an ounce in my hand, young sir.”
“Five shillings!” Ezra choked out. “I’ll give you two – it’s all I have.”
He handed over the coins and the man grinned. “It’s going tonight. Lecture’s in the morning, I expect.”
Ezra backed up the stairs two at a time. “And thank you for your time,” he called down after him. Then he dashed out into the street and gulped down the fresh air as if it were Mrs Boscaven’s finest lemon cordial. He ran all the way back to High Holborn and home, glad, even running through the dark, to be out of that place.
He would have to get himself into Lashley’s demonstration in the morning, he thought to himself as he ran. Before he sought out Miss Finch at her address in Bloomsbury. He’d need to see the body up close. He’d have to talk to Josiah – Lashley’s apprentice and, unlike his master, a decent sort – and see what he could do.
Poor Loveday. He resolved not to tell her. Even the dead deserved a better end than Lashley.
It was past nine when he reached Great Windmill Street, but Ezra thought he would wait up for Mr McAdam. If he was in a merry mood after the surgeon’s dinner there would be no better time to apologize for his outburst this morning. Mrs Boscaven made him ginger tea and Ezra took it into the anatomy room to wait for Mr Allen. He sat down on one of the student’s benches and as he sipped his tea his mind went to the fate of the two people now stowed in sacks – one on the table, the other, the smaller, on the trolley.
There were so many ways a human child could die. In fact, he thought, it was more of a miracle that anyone made it to adulthood.
As for the other one… Mr Finch’s death might be a puzzle, but this body surely posed the greater riddle. Ezra put down his teacup and went over to the sack. He untied it and looked one more time at the tattoo on the man’s inner forearm. He took out his notebook and pencil from his apron pocket and tried to copy the mark, but even in the last glimmerings of candlelight it was not easy. Allen would be here before it was done. On an impulse, Ezra put down his notebook, took a knife and cut an oblong of skin away around the mark. He put the skin flat between the last pages of his notebook. After all, it might mean something.
No member of Mr McAdam’s household ventured into the anatomy room if they could help it, so after Mr Allen had been and picked up the bodies, Ezra yawned and stretched out on one of the benches, looking up at the stars through the glass roof. It had been a long day. What was Anna doing, he wondered – preparing
to leave? Or perhaps she was looking at the stars too, and thinking of him. Perhaps he would find time to see her tomorrow…
Ezra didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until the full moon shining down through the glass roof woke him up. That and the sound of cats fighting in the yard. He sat up – his shoulder hurt from sleeping on the hard bench. He rubbed at it, swung his arm round trying to loosen up the joint. He was cold, too. He looked up at the house, all was dark. He must have missed the master arriving home and going up to bed.
That was when he heard another sound. Someone was trying to get in through the yard door, turning the handle, twisting it – softly at first, a light click, then, as it failed to give, rattling it harder. Ezra hadn’t yet drawn the bolts. If they picked the lock they’d be through in an instant.
He felt his heart racing, then he heard a voice outside the door. Someone cursed and dropped something metal, he heard it go bouncing over the stone cobbles of the yard. If it was just one man he could take him down, couldn’t he? But the master’s tools, the knives and the saws, were locked in the cupboard under the table. Ezra cursed silently; the key was on a hook in the master’s laboratory. All he had was the broom, propped up against the door leading into the house. He could use that. Ezra prayed that the cove outside trying his damnedest to break in didn’t have a blade. Or a pistol.
Slowly, Ezra slid off the bench and across the floor. Every sound seemed ten times louder. He could hear the leather in his shoes creak, and the silver moonlight lit his every move brighter than a hundred candles.
Another voice. Ezra froze, strained his ears to listen.
“Hurry it up, man.” The voice was clear. Whoever spoke did not sound like Ezra’s idea of a regular cracksman. Foreign, perhaps. “It’s not the dead that can hurt you! Come on, before the place wakes up.”
Ezra heard a grunted reply. There were at least two of them, then. He took another step towards the broom, slipped on a stray branch of bay and fell heavily to the floor, taking the empty trolley over with him. His fall made a crack and a thump loud enough, he thought, to shatter every pane of glass in the roof.
Sawbones Page 4
