Now I was on fire. I went quickly over all of the parts. Then I looked at the slides that had been prepared for the microscope. After ten minutes, there was no need for further examination.
“These are not from the same body. There must be three young women’s bodies and three of young men. The skins, at first, appear similar, but skin has a signature. None are exactly alike. These are different from each other in very subtle ways, but they are different. This is madness.”
I could not imagine that a single madman had abducted at least six young people and was torturing them all. It made no sense whatsoever.
“Ah, thank you, Doctor,” said Holmes. “It is what we thought but could not be sure. Thank you, my dear doctor.”
“Can we really be dealing with someone so vile as to dismember six young people? Is that possible?” I was at a complete loss.
Holmes and Lestrade looked at each other and gave a respected nod one to the other.
“No doctor, I think not. Let us propose an alternative hypothesis. Are there any resurrectionists still active around London?”
The question set me back. In the earlier years of the nineteenth century, a trade had developed that called itself resurrectionists. They were more commonly known as body snatchers. Medical schools had been opening across the country and there was a constant need of fresh cadavers for dissection and instruction in anatomy. For a number of years all sorts of graves had been violated, but then the Anatomy Act had been passed, requiring licensing of medical schools, and that was supposed to have put an end to the trade.
“That is a good question,” I said as I pondered an answer. “From time to time we in the medical profession hear rumors of the sale of bodies and body parts but no one has ever been arrested for it for years. No respectable, licensed medical school would be caught dead receiving cadavers from criminal sources.”
“And,” asked Lestrade, raising his eyebrows, “are all medical schools respectable and licensed?”
Most were, but of late, several privately owned businesses had opened their doors and called themselves Medical Instruction Centers. They had been advertising heavily across the Empire and had accepted many students from Africa, India, and the Caribbean colonies. Whatever certificate they offered was not worth the paper it was printed on in Great Britain, Europe, or America. But it was deemed to be legitimate and indeed valued in many of our more primitive colonies.
“There are,” I replied, “several independent operations that are not governed by the medical councils. Yes. There are a few around London.”
“How big are they?” asked Holmes. “How many students might be enrolled?”
“I only know from hearsay,” I said, unsure of myself. “There is one operating down in Croydon that is said to have over 500 students: the Santo Christobel School of Medical Care. They charge every one of their students upwards of £500 a year. Seems to be quite a profitable going concern.”
“Are they licensed to receive cadavers from the hospitals or the prisons?” asked Lestrade.
“I would think not,” I said. “That entire area is quite tightly controlled. It did not used to be but now it is a felony to desecrate a corpse. Only approved institutions can receive cadavers for the teaching of anatomy.”
“Well now, Holmes? Fancy a short trip down to Croydon?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes did not immediately reply, and then responded. “Yes, Inspector, but perhaps not in the daylight hours. If coffins and corpses are being transported around London, I presume it would be done after dark. Would you agree?”
“Right, that makes good sense, Holmes. So, what do you say? Meet up at dusk and pay a visit. Might not catch a delivery tonight, but I would wager we will snag one right soon. They must get them on a regular basis. I say we give it a try. Meet me at Victoria at seven this evening. I’ll bring a couple of my bobbies along, just in case things get dicey.”
“A capital idea,” replied Holmes.
“And Holmes,” continued Lestrade, “between now and then I am going home and having a jolly good nap. I suggest you do the same.”
“The best idea you have had in years,” replied Holmes and, to the relief of both of them, they laughed.
In the cab on the way home, Holmes was more reflective. “I have disciplined myself not to jump to optimistic conclusions. It is always a dreadful temptation in this line of work. But my mind is suggesting quite strongly that the appendages that were delivered to the Cushing’s home were not those of their children. There is a good chance that the youngsters are still alive and whole.”
“Where?” I asked. It seemed to me to be inevitable next question.
“I have no idea,” he replied. “But one step at a time might lead us to them.”
Chapter Nine
Resurrection Night
FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY, I returned to my medical practice. My patients not only forgave me for making them wait for so long—many doctors do exactly the same thing all the time without offering any excuse at all, let alone being called for a command performance by Scotland Yard—they were all ears as soon as I returned, hoping for some juicy tidbit about the story that had so recently exploded on the public. I played coy and told them they would just have to wait.
At dusk, we reassembled at Victoria and boarded the LB&SCR south to the East Croydon station. Lestrade had organized a police carriage and a couple of bobbies who were prepared to spend the night with us, watching the back door of a questionable medical education institution.
The school was located on Cross Street, which was, quite fortunately, just a block from the station. With time to spare, we took a few minutes for a bite in the Dog and Bull. A plaque on the wall informed us that King Henry VIII had dined here, but with which of his wives beside him, it did not say. Once darkness had fallen, we walked across the tracks and found a couple of benches that gave us a good view of the back entrance to the school. The publican had sent along a sack with some meats, fruits, and rolls and we chatted and nibbled for the next two hours. It was a warm late summer night and the company was pleasant. Holmes and Lestrade were both now much more relaxed than they had been just yesterday, and the two young bobbies, Carl and Freddie, were jovial chaps who found any excuse possible for a round of laughter.
It was going on to eleven o’clock when Holmes laid his hand on my forearm and bid us all keep our voices down. In the dim light from the moon and a solitary gas lamp we observed a livery wagon pulling up to the back door of the school. Lestrade rose and gestured to the rest of us.
“Follow me, please, gentlemen. Our plot appears to be unfolding.”
From a vantage place alongside a hedgerow, we observed the back door of the school opening and three men emerging. Together with the liveryman, they lifted what were obviously coffins and carried four of them, one at a time, pallbearer style, into the building.
“Whatever the school is up to is not our concern this evening,” whispered Holmes. “We need to learn the origin of the cadavers that have arrived here.”
“Well now, sir,” offered Freddie, “I think we can find that out right fast for you, sir. With your permission, Inspector, we’ll just take a bit of a walk up to the driver and ask him, won’t we Carl?”
Lestrade nodded his approval and the two bobbies walked along the dark wall unseen until they were only a few feet from the wagon. One of the chaps from the school signed off on the delivery manifest and closed the door of the school. Carl and Freddie, doing what I assumed they had done many times before, were able to place themselves directly behind the driver and the moment he turned around he found himself staring right at them. Carl had his torch in hand and shone it directly in the poor fellow’s face while Freddie barked commands at him. The driver staggered back and fell to the pavement, quite obviously scared out of his wits.
“Right,” muttered Lestrade, “yet again I get a couple of comedians. But let’s go and chat with the man before he fills his boots.”
“I were not doin’ anythin
’ wrong, I weren’t,” he was sputtering to the bobbies. “This is a right legal and all delivery, I weren’t disobeyin’ any law.”
“We will decide that, sir,” said Lestrade in a firm voice. “Scotland Yard, here.”
The look of panic on the chap’s face was pitiable, but a bit funny all the same.
“All we need to know,” said the inspector, “is who sent these coffins down here. It looks right suspicious coming in the middle of the night like this.”
“They always sends them at night, they do, sir. A wagon with a pile of coffins goin’ by gets all sorts of folks upset, especial when they can see that the wagon is loaded down so the coffins mustna be empty. I would a hae me a whole crowd of followers had I come in the daylight. This is just our common practice, sir.”
“Is it now?” continued Lestrade. “Well now, I do not find it common at all, so you might start by telling me where these came from. Getting rid of dead people in the middle of the night better have a good explanation.”
“I come down from the river, sir. From the Thames, sir. To be specific, sir, from the Grosvenor Canal by the Chelsea Bridge, sir. Right beside the ’ospital, sir. Here sir, look at the manifest. It’s right here, sir.”
Freddie held his torch on the paper that was shaking in the fellow’s hand. The sender was clearly identified. It read:
Grosvenor Marine Embalmers and Undertakers, Gatliff Road, Chelsea.
Lestrade and Holmes conferred for a few moments and then told the fellow to be on his way. He was much relieved.
“He will,” said Holmes, “no doubt report his being accosted by Scotland Yard to the senders when he sees them tomorrow. If it is not too inconvenient to you, gentlemen, and as it is a pleasant evening, I suggest we continue our quest back along the Thames. We should be able to catch the late train back to Victoria. From there is a very short distance to the canal.”
We returned to the station, boarded the 11:45 pm train back into London, and were on the platform of Victoria a half hour later. It was a short few blocks south to the Grosvenor Canal, one of the many waterways that had been dug during the canal era and now was used primarily as a convenient place to load and unload barges from the Thames. It was lined by warehouse buildings, none of which looked like an undertaker’s establishment. But, as the driver had told us, we found what we were looking for—a substantial brick building a half block from the Lister Institute.
I had, as a medical man, been in the Institute on several occasions in the past to listen to lectures by the renowned scientist, Sir Joseph Lister. Thanks to him, the practice of antiseptics had spread across the globe, saving untold thousands of lives. I had not, however, been aware of an undertaker’s service adjacent to the famous institution.
It was now past midnight and all of the doors were locked and the building closed for the night. It would not likely open much before seven in the morning if it was working on the same hours as the hospital. But that still meant we were faced with a wait of more hours than we wanted to spare. Holmes gave me a poke in the ribs and whispered in my ear.
“Isn’t it time for your lunar lecture?” whispered Holmes.
I winked back at him.
“Now gentlemen,” I said in a voice reserved for a public lecture, “do come with me and allow me to point out something that you have never, I assure you, seen before. Come this way. Now take a look up at the moon, nearly a full moon, is it not? Can you see the shaded spot on the upper left quadrant? That is not a crater, that is the eyeball of the man in the moon.”
Lestrade and the bobbies had been following me out of curiosity up to that point. Now they looked at me as if I had gone completely barmy. The look did not last more than a second before Holmes called out to us.
“Oh, Look. The door is open after all. They must still be doing business. How fortunate. Let us go in and find them.”
Lestrade gave me a sharp look and strode up to Holmes, he was attempting to be officious but his smile betrayed him.
“One of these days, Holmes, one of these days you are going to get yourself in deep trouble doing things like that.”
“What? Me? In trouble? Never, I am the most law-abiding consulting detective in London, I’ll have you know.”
“Right,” muttered Lestrade, “and since you are the only consulting detective in London that makes you also the least law-abiding.”
He marched past Holmes and into the building. It did not take long for the bobbies to locate the light switches and soon the hallways were fully illuminated. We followed Holmes down a stairwell to the basement, where he opened the door marked Mortuary Cold Chambers. A light switch was located just beside the door frame and we found ourselves looking at a large sterile room where three walls were lined with the metal panels of morgue drawers. The room itself was chilly and I could tell by looking at them that the glistening drawers were refrigerated. A few had frost on them, where bodies were completely frozen in order to prevent all decomposition. The remainder, and there were well over a hundred of them, were kept at a temperature just above freezing so that a corpse could be held for up to a month without any significant decomposition. A portion of the far wall consisted of much smaller morgue drawers than would be required for an adult man or woman. These, I realized, were for children.
“Crikey, what is this place?” whispered Freddie. “It’s downright a bit creepy.”
“Spooky, I’ll say,” added Carl. “Do all those drawers have dead folks in them?”
“Most of them, yes,” said Holmes. “This is the establishment to which the bodies of those who die at seas are brought. Tens of thousands of children, men, and women, of all ages, board ships in Liverpool, Southampton, Portsmouth, or London on their way to the new world. Not all of them make it. Some invariably die on route. The shipping lines used to bury them at sea but now they are brought back to England and, if there is family that can be contacted, they are returned for a decent burial. Those who cannot be placed are made available to our hospitals and medical schools so that their cadavers may be used in the teaching of anatomy.”
“Right,” said Lestrade. “Rather a sort of central cadaver supply depot.”
“I suppose you could call it that, yes.”
“Right then, Holmes. What are we looking for? Some young bodies that could pass for the Cushing children?”
“Exactly. There should be six or seven. Young adults. Fair skin. All minus an appendage or two. Most likely they are grouped together, but that cannot be for certain. I suggest that we divide ourselves up and start pulling out morgue drawers.”
We set ourselves to the task at hand. As a doctor, I had viewed countless corpses in the past and looking at them was routine. Holmes, with his interest in forensics, had made many trips to the morgue, as had Lestrade in his years of service to the Yard. I suspected though that our two young bobbies had not likely been given an assignment like this before. I confess knowing that they should be warned that bumping the morgue drawers as you pulled them out occasionally released some tension in the chilled corpses, and they were known to move as the drawer was opened. But it was the middle of the night and a fine time for gallows humor, so I said nothing.
Carl and Freddie worked together at the far end of the room. They kept up a constant chatter between them, interspersed with nervous laughter. They were moving quickly, opening and closing drawers quite vigorously in their haste to finish the job. It was not long before one of them let out a scream of terror. I looked over and could see that a blue, naked body of an elderly man had sat up several inches and one of his arms had sprung forward. Freddie had run back to the door of the room and was looking as if he had seen a ghost. I could not help laughing as I walked over to the opened drawer, put my hand on the old fellow’s chest, pushed him back down, and closed up the drawer.
“You have to be gentle with these old folks, boys. They do not take kindly to being wakened up.”
After some muttered oaths, the young bobbies went back to work. Some ten minutes late
r, they were laughing uproariously.
“What’s the joke?” barked Lestrade. “You are expected to show respect for the dead. Now cut it out.”
“Sorry, Inspector,” said Carl. “It’s just that we’re assumin’ that the fellows who run this place are dealin’ some of the corpses out under the table, right? So Freddie here had a good idea as to how to let them know that doing so wasn’t on the up an’ up. He could just lie down in one of these drawers and have a nap until the proprietors show up and them when they pulls out his drawer he would sit right up and shout at them and say ‘I told you never to wake me up before ten. Now put me back!’ Don’t you think that would teach ’em a lesson, Inspector, sir?”
We all laughed and we were still chuckling when Lestrade called out to us.
“Holmes, Watson, look here. There they are. I’ve just found three and …” he continued to pull drawers open and leave them open as he spoke, “Yes. There’s the fourth … and the fifth … and six.”
We gathered around the six morgue drawers that were all exposed. In them were the bodies of three young men and three young women. The missing appendages all corresponded with the body parts that were stored in the police morgue at the Scotland Yard headquarters.
“Mark my words, Holmes,” said Lestrade, “this is the first time in my thirty years with the Yard that I have been happy to see six dismembered corpses.”
We stood briefly looking at the bodies of young men and women who had, not so long ago, boldly left their homes somewhere in old Europe and made their way to a new life across the ocean, only to succumb to accident, sickness, or possibly murder while at sea. Their remains were now destined to be dissected in the interests of medical education. I slowly closed up the morgue drawers and the group of us turned out the lights prepared to depart the building.
“Constables,” said Lestrade, “you remain here, and when the owners arrive, arrest them.”
Freddie turned to Lestrade with a distraught look on his face. “Oh, Inspector, sir, you’re not going to make us stay here all night, are you? Sir, you can send me after bank robbers who are holdin’ a Gatlin gun, sir, but this place, sir, it’s just unnatural, sir. I’m goin’ to be seein’ that blue grandpa sittin’ up and lookin’ at me every time I close my eyes, sir. Do we have to spend the night here?”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 21
