Sawbones

by Catherine Johnson

  There was more cursing from the yard, and then footsteps – they were off. One of them had nails in his boots – Ezra heard them tattooing a rhythm out of the yard, into Great Windmill Street and away down to the Haymarket.

  Ezra lay there for a while, gritting his teeth against the pain he’d incurred falling awkwardly on his knee, grateful they’d gone. He got up, turned the trolley over and, cautiously, even though he was sure they had gone, opened the door to the yard. The cold hit the back of his throat and made the bare skin on his arms prickle. His breath formed clouds as he looked around. The yard was empty. Even Mrs Perino’s chickens were safe in their coop. He went back inside and drew all the bolts.

  The house hadn’t stirred. Mrs Boscaven, Ellen and the master had slept through it all. He hadn’t imagined it, had he? He took a candle into Mr McAdam’s office at the front of the house and opened the shutters a crack but the street was empty.

  Ezra made his way up the stairs, through the museum and into his room, hoping the house crackers weren’t about to return before the morning.

  As he lay in bed there were so many thoughts flying round his head it took a full hour before he dropped back to sleep. The Finch girl and her father, the scene in the cellar at the Fortune of War, Anna away to Holland within a week, Mr Lashley’s offer, the tongueless cadaver and those two cracksmen trying to break in. Ezra turned over, tried to get comfortable in his bed, to think of nothing.

  Those men could just be ken crackers or sky-larkers, filled up with one too many jars of ale, looking for an easy earner – or better still, simple bluey hunters looking to take the lead off the glazed roof. But if they were, they’d have had a ladder. And then they wouldn’t have known there might be bodies. They were here for a reason. Perhaps the Negro killed by gunshot was important? But if that was so, wouldn’t the fact be all over the papers? Whatever the cause Ezra knew he must talk with the master. First thing.

  The fire was lit in the grate when he woke up. Ellen had been and gone and he had slept through it all. Ezra jumped out of bed. He couldn’t see the clock on St Anne’s from his bedroom, but there was one in the museum – he had to hurry, ask the master for leave to attend Mr Lashley’s lecture. He pulled on his clothes and dashed through into the museum. It was eight thirty; he could still get to St Bartholomew’s in time.

  He knocked on Mr McAdam’s door and pushed it open. He could only see the man’s back and hear the sound of his pen scratching away. Another paper for the Company of Surgeons, Ezra supposed, or details of the unusual cadavers they’d dealt with yesterday. His master was a great one for records.

  “Excuse me, sir…”

  “Don’t disturb me now, Ezra!” Mr McAdam didn’t even turn around. “I have a busy day and must finish these notes before breakfast. And if you were wondering if I need you today, the answer is no. As long as the museum is in order and your work is too.”

  “Yes, sir, but…”

  “You are dismissed, then.”

  Ezra shut the door. He would tell Mrs Boscaven about the attempted break-in and perhaps she could get Toms to check the locks and fit some new ones. Although getting Toms to do anything was as easy as teaching cats to call in Latin. Ezra fetched his heavy worsted jacket. The clouds promised snow and plenty of it.

  By the time Ezra pushed his way into the crowded lecture theatre, the cadaver that had been Mr Charles Finch was flat on the table. There was a four-inch cut across his belly, but Mr Lashley was now slicing the right arm. The skin had been pulled back and the tendons and main arteries were displayed in a sort of asymmetrical fan; the bones of his forearm and hand, free of flesh, shone white.

  But Ezra could see Lashley had cut crudely, flesh and tendon were mixed in with the sawdust on the floor. A few of the keener students hung on Mr Lashley’s every word, and Ezra felt a little sorry for those of them who had never experienced Mr McAdam’s superior knifework.

  Mr Lashley had got his position, Ezra had heard, because his own father had been surgeon general at St Thomas’s on the south side of the river. Unfortunately, although Mr Lashley had followed in his brilliant father’s footsteps, it was clear he did not have the same talent or skill.

  Ezra craned forward as far as he could in order to study the veins and arteries; they had a healthy colour, no obvious sign of poison or anything else unnatural. But there were so many people in the crush of the lecture room, he wondered how he would get to have a really good look.

  He waited until the lecture was over and the students had departed. Ezra watched Mr Lashley take off his apron and nod towards Josiah.

  “Ezra McAdam, twice in as many days!” Mr Lashley said, putting on a very fine embroidered coat. “Another letter, perhaps, from your master?”

  “No, sir. I just heard you would be concentrating on the brachial and the profunda brachii arteries.” Ezra coughed. “A special interest of mine, sir.”

  “Indeed! I hope I filled any gaps in your knowledge left by Mr McAdam.”

  “Thank you, sir. And if you don’t mind, could I speak with Josiah for a minute?”

  “Of course – but no plotting, boys, no plotting.” Lashley smiled at his own joke. “And Josiah, clear this one away and then see me after luncheon in my office. You have a good deal of work you haven’t finished since Friday!”

  Josiah nodded. Mr Lashley swept out in his new coat.

  “I would give all the gold in Spain for that old sawbones to swap places with this here cadaver,” Josiah grumbled. “Old man Lashley would find fault with a fat goose.” He looked up from his work. “If I could, I would join the army, take the king’s shilling, like that.” He clicked his fingers. “Your old man hasn’t got a position going, has he? You’ve no plans to sail into the sunset?”

  “Oh, I am most definitely staying put,” Ezra said, smiling. He didn’t mention that yesterday he’d been foolish enough to consider leaving. Seeing Josiah here, he realized how lucky he was.

  “I could help you clean up if you like,” Ezra offered. He could see the gobbets of flesh and fat in the sawdust, and the dirty instruments. Josiah looked relieved.

  “So, what are you up to, Ez? Not that I couldn’t do with a hand or two to clean this lot up.” Josiah grinned and waved Mr Finch’s almost-severed hand.

  “Jos! Leave it out!” Ezra objected and Josiah put the hand down with a shrug. “If I help you,” Ezra went on, picking up the broom, “you can let me have a good look at your specimen.”

  “Friend of yours, is he?”

  “Never met the man. But I saw him escape from several pairs of knuckle dabs at Vauxhall Gardens last summer.”

  “A conjuror, then? A good one?”

  Ezra nodded.

  Jos smiled. “Didn’t escape death, though, did he.”

  “If he could do that he’d have earnt a lot more.” Ezra swept the sawdust up into a heap. “Tell me, Jos – you’ve had a good look at this one. Anything odd strike you? Anything rum about it?”

  Josiah shrugged. “It’s like any other – fresh, clean. One thing, though: some cove had opened the stomach cavity up already. Could be a professional from the cleanness of the cut, although, given as I’m used to old Lashley, it might not have been. See? Taken the stomach and most of the intestine, they have.”

  Ezra put the broom down and had a look. He thought it must have happened after death and before the body had been abandoned in the graveyard. “There’s a rum turn-up and no mistake.”

  Josiah nodded and flapped open the stomach. “My thoughts exactly. See, empty as a pauper’s pocket.”

  Ezra furrowed his brow. If it were poison, where was his proof now? Perhaps that’s why it had been taken, but who would care? Lashley wouldn’t. “Who would take a stomach?” Ezra said it aloud.

  “Search me,” Jos said. “First one I’ve ever seen cut out like that, and you and me, we’ve seen it all. Remember the man they cut open at St Thomas’s with the thing inside him, teeth an’ all? I had nightmares for a week after that.”

  �
�But this is no growth, Jos. Somebody took it out on purpose. Whoever did this was trying to hide something.”

  “Or maybe looking for something.” Jos smiled. “Last night’s dinner?”

  “So it was you, Jos! Mr Lashley keeping you hungry, is he?”

  “Your wit wants a deal of sharpening, Ez!” Jos fetched a bonesaw. “Oh, and Mr Lashley never opened his chest,” Josiah said, “so he won’t mind if I do it now and save him the trouble.”

  Mr Finch had been tall, six foot, Ezra guessed, although once a man was dead you never could tell how he had stood when living: stooped, hunched or proud and tall. He was broad, too, and not too far past his prime; Ezra guessed his age at forty. But his heart – or rather the poor, shrivelled thing that sat inside him – looked incapable of pumping blood around a man half his size. The two boys stared hard.

  “Heaven’s name! That is unnatural and no mistake!” Josiah said, shaking his head and whistling low. “I’ve never seen the like…”

  “Nor me,” Ezra agreed, looking closer. “Never in all my born days!”

  Chapter Four

  Mrs Gurney’s Lodging House

  Clerkenwell Green

  London

  November 1792

  Ezra promised Josiah a drink and a fish supper in return for what remained of Mr Charles Finch. Then he took the wizened little heart away in one of Mr Lashley’s specimen jars and put it into his cloth shoulder bag. Perhaps, he thought as he passed the shining white new museum in Bloomsbury, the condition had affected him for years; perhaps whatever had caused the damage was an illness. Or perhaps it was something else, something as yet undiscovered. Mr McAdam would be most interested to see this heart. All arguments would be forgotten, Ezra was certain.

  He called in at an undertaker’s and arranged for Mr Finch’s body to be taken in a sealed coffin to Loveday’s address. Her father would be delivered into the bosom of his family and she would have her funeral. He felt so pleased with himself at the outcome that he went to call on her straight away. She was bound to be glad he had made such progress, and perhaps even forward a half of the two guineas she had promised.

  Miss Finch’s lodgings were at Clerkenwell Green, just on the northern edge of the city, in a terrace, some of the houses so old they leant against one another like happy drunks. Ezra wondered if a girl who lived here could afford the two guineas she had promised him or if it were all some wild goose chase. It must be a strange life, he thought to himself, being a performer, a conjuror – moving from town to town, seeing the world but owing one’s existence to pretence and artifice rather than flesh and blood.

  There were a couple of newer houses in the row, and he was relieved to find that Number 52 was one of these, not entirely blackened by grime, and with fine oblong windows in the modern style. He looked up, and in the first-floor window he could see Miss Finch staring out. When she saw him she smiled, her sharp features softening. Ezra waved up at her, and saw the winter sunlight glance off what must be a blade in her hand: a rapier or duelling sword. She swished it to and fro and looked as if she could do real damage with the weapon. Ezra decided it would not be to his advantage to mention what he carried in his bag – the only blades he was any use with were the surgeons’ variety.

  The woman who answered the door was dressed in pale grey rather than mourning black, hair scraped back under a starched white bonnet. The landlady, Ezra decided, rather than family. Her expression was as sour as a bowl full of lemons.

  “I am Mrs Gurney.” She looked Ezra up and down most thoroughly. “And you, I assume, are Ezra McAdam. Miss Finch told me to expect you. Although I do not think it at all right a young lady should admit callers unchaperoned.” Her voice was clipped and cold.

  Loveday Finch stood at the top of the stairs, leaning on the banister rail. “Send him up, please, Mrs Gurney,” she called down. “This is none but my own business.”

  The landlady pursed her lips and stood back. “I will say nothing, then,” she answered tightly. “Though I do not like foreigners in my house.” And with that she swished away down the basement stairs. Ezra would have liked to tell her he was hardly foreign, having lived more than two-thirds of his life in this city, but he knew there was little point.

  “Take no notice,” Loveday Finch said as she led him into the drawing room. Although she wore mourning, Ezra thought she looked more determined than grieving.

  “Your leg is healing?” he asked.

  “But not my heart, Mr McAdam. I thought you might send word earlier. I have been waiting.”

  “It’s not yet noon, Miss Finch.” Ezra was about to tell her the good news but found himself staring at the acid yellow walls of the drawing room.

  “Mrs Gurney is fond of bright colours. I do not think a shade like this exists in nature.” Loveday laughed. “I know she is severe but she has been good to us – to me,” she said. “How is your blade hand? I have been practising. I have had nothing to do but think of ways I could have stopped Pa dying. I should have helped him! Done something, surely…” She swished her blade determinedly. Ezra could see she was about to cry. She was an odd girl, he thought: brave and bold on the surface but all tears and strange fancies underneath.

  “Miss Finch, please, do not worry so. I have found your father and he will be delivered to you tomorrow. You may proceed with the funeral.”

  “Oh! Thank heavens.” Her face relaxed.

  “And you should not be on your feet. Your wound needs to heal.” He could see the furniture had been pushed to either side of the room, leaving a considerable clear space in the centre – for her sword practice, Ezra supposed.

  “Such welcome news! Mr McAdam, if I offended you last night, forgive me. Oh, Pa is coming home!” She swished the sword again. “I will have to see the rector at St James’s and write to Pa’s friends.” She wiped her face and smiled.

  “Here.” She offered him a blade. “I think better when I am doing something.”

  Ezra’s hands tightened on his bag; he was loath to put it down just so that Loveday might swing a sword at him. She noticed his hesitation and tapped it with her blade. “What have you in there that you guard it so closely, the crown jewels?”

  “I didn’t come here to learn fencing, Miss,” Ezra replied stiffly. “I have been working for you, earning my fee, which I hope you can pay.”

  Loveday blanched. For a moment, against the black mourning and the yellow walls, her skin looked so pale as to be almost green, and Ezra regretted the mention of money.

  “Excuse me, Miss Finch. I ought not to have spoken so. Please sit down.”

  “No, I am quite well. You will have your money, but you may have to wait until his accounts are clear.” She straightened. “Now, a little sport.” She swished her blade and almost keeled over. Ezra steered her towards a seat.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I cannot stand this! Pa always said each of us must make our own future. Now it seems as if I am waiting for the future to decide what it will do with me. You will have to forgive me if I am not used to it.”

  She was so pale that Ezra took her hand and felt her pulse, which was racing under the skin at her wrist. She pulled away.

  “Miss Finch, I am not some Sunday suitor, I am a doctor.” Ezra pulled her hand back. “You need to rest. It is imperative.”

  “But I cannot! I think of nothing but Pa, I swear something happened to him – his death came from the blue. He was quite well; quite healthy. Have you discovered what caused his death? Did those men dispatch him?”

  Ezra hesitated for a second. He couldn’t tell her about the heart.

  “You think something is fishy about this too, don’t you?”

  “Miss Finch, I cannot say…”

  “You do! It is written all over your face that you think his death unnatural! You forget I was the Spirit of Truth and can read your thoughts right off your face. I should find those ressurectionists and they should swing for my father. Tell me their names!”

  “Miss Finch, stealing
a corpse is not an actual crime.”

  “Is that the law?” Loveday said, surprised.

  Ezra nodded. “And in any case, I have reason to believe it was not resurrectionists who took your father’s body from Bart’s.”

  “Who, then?” She made a face. “How did he die?”

  “I only saw the cadaver briefly,” he told her. “I could not tell how he died.”

  Miss Finch almost gasped. “You saw him! How did he look? Peaceful?”

  Ezra looked away in case she really could read his mind. “He was dead, Miss. All the dead are peaceful. I have many questions to ask.”

  “Then ask.”

  Ezra put the bag on his lap and took out his notebook carefully. “Your father’s heart. Did he complain of pains? Could he walk from here to, say, Covent Garden, without pain?”

  “Of course. He never complained of any pain. Ever.”

  “You are sure?”

  She nodded. “Certainly.”

  “Then could you please tell me the events that preceded his death.”

  “I told you, he was quite well…”

  Ezra shook his head. “No, I need details. I need everything from the day before, from when you first thought he might be ill—”

  “You do think he was murdered, don’t you!”

  “Perhaps, Miss Finch – I cannot commit to an opinion quite yet.”

  “Very well. Although nothing happened out of the ordinary. Nothing at all. And how far back should I go? The performance on Monday night? Mrs Gurney’s inexcusable fish paste sandwiches that afternoon? Our return from Constantinople barely a fortnight ago?”

  “You were in Turkey recently?” Ezra said, surprised.

  “Yes, we travel all about.”

  “The sandwiches, then – what was wrong with them? Did you eat them too?”

  “Of course. I was hungry. They were awful, though. Mrs Gurney keeps a clean house, but her cook!” Loveday looked at Ezra. “Do you think Pa was—”