"How remiss of me." There was a large drinks cabinet beside the door, and Syme opened it. "Brandy?"
Knox nodded, and sat in one of the vast armchairs after his host gestured to it with a limp wave. He said nothing as the brandy was poured from a cut glass decanter, accepting his drink as Syme sat opposite him.
"You are still at Newington Close, are you not?"
"It suits me well enough."
"We all have different needs. Close to your school, though. I miss that. The walk to Brown Square can be an evil endurance on a cold winter morning." Knox did not imagine for a second that Syme really did walk to his own school every day. A complexion so pallid did not speak of a fondness for the outdoors. "But enough pleasantries. What brings you to me with such urgency that it cannot wait until business hours?"
He cleared his throat. Until that moment, he had not yet fully decided what he would do. To share his work with another grated, but he was no fool. He was trapped inside his own head on the matter of the revenants, and without fresh perspective, his work could drag on for years. As consistent though his supply was at the current time, he knew from experience that it was not wise to become complacent. For all his faults as a human being, Syme knew the body. His interest in anatomy was practical in nature, for the man was a surgeon first and foremost, and one of the better of the breed. Four years ago he had pioneered an amputation of the leg at the hip, the first operation of its kind in Scotland. As Knox had partnered John Barclay and then taken over at Surgeon's Square, so Syme had partnered with the eminent Robert Liston and then taken over the Brown Square school of medicine. They had much in common, including time spent in Paris at the feet of greater men, and a fervent belief that a professorial chair at the university was theirs by right. No wonder they spent so much time locked in rivalry. As allies, perhaps, they could forge greater paths still.
"I have been thinking a great deal, James." He paused, and sipped his brandy.
"I can highly recommend the practice."
"I have been thinking about revenants. That is why I am here."
The impact of his statement could not have been more profound, and it stopped him saying more. Syme's mouth opened, astonished, and what little colour his parentage and dispositions had left him drained from his face. The hand holding his brandy glass trembled, and he gripped it so tightly to compensate that Knox was sure it was gong to smash.
"James?"
Syme downed his brandy in a gulp, and set the glass on the arm of the chair as he slumped back against the cushions with a hand on his chest. "How came you to know?"
Knox said nothing. Although he had no idea what Syme was talking about, he suddenly wanted to find out.
"I suppose it was obvious, when you looked at it. Our worlds are too similar. When you realised that they had not come from your own supplies, it was merely a matter of elimination. What are you going to do?"
"I have not decided. I thought I would speak with you first."
"Then I owe you a debt." His nose wrinkled, as though the words had a foul stench attached to them. "You must know it was an accident. I had no idea, even at the heart of it. It was only after the riots that I checked, and found subjects missing from my delivery."
Knox began to understand. The Cadaver Riots. "They were from overseas?"
"There was barely a corpse to be had here." 1826 had been a bad summer. The relatives of the dead had taken to guarding the fresh graves of their loved ones, taking pot shots at anybody who came close until the bodies were no use for dissecting purposes. Were it not for his own suppliers in Ireland, he would not have been able to open his lectures on time that year for want of practical materials. Lizars might be content with teaching from a picture book, but Knox would not sink so low.
"So you sought supplies from ... Germany?"
"They haven't had a rising since the first one. 1824, Robert. I did not think it possible that one could be shipped across with ordinary cadavers. Can you in all seriousness pretend that such precautions were on your mind, either?"
"No." It was a harmless admission. Before the Cadaver Riots, it had been inconceivable that the Berlin Rising could somehow occur again. Two years had made the world complacent.
"And neither had I. Six bodies. Six, missing from the inventory. They were only in the Old Town a few hours. I was to take delivery after the sun went down."
"And in that time, they broke free. It is to your fortune."
"I have often thought it. Had they risen here, I do not know that we would be having this conversation."
They fell into silence, looking at each other. Syme sighed. "What are your intentions?"
"I could go to the authorities."
Syme nodded. "It would destroy me. Have I really been such trouble to you, Robert, that you would instigate my annihilation?"
"Yes. You irritate me." That was sufficient.
Syme leaned forward, urgent, and his glass toppled from the chair. It bounced once, then shattered. They both stared at the scattered fragments of glass. "That." Syme said at last. "That is what you would do to us. Can you even begin to imagine the backlash, were it known that the revenants were brought to this city, this country, for the pursuance of science?"
Knox tried, but it was too much. Investigations. Laws. Closures. They would be forced to proceed, if allowed to at all, under such intense scrutiny that all their hands would be tied.
"There are deaths at your door, James. You would be strung up."
"We all would. It was a misfortune, Robert. One that could have befallen any of us."
He rose, and Syme jumped to his feet, too. "I will keep your secret, Syme." He buttoned his coat, and collected the still-wrapped jar. "For as long as it is convenient for me to do so."
Chapter 23
William Hare
Thursday, July 10th, 1828
Bill Burke had come back from Falkirk changed, and it wasn't at all to William's liking. They were out celebrating his return, strolling from one bar to the next through the long, light night, but something was different. Something in the older man's eyes made his fingers keep straying to his pocket to finger his blade. He wondered whether he would have to kill his friend soon.
They'd worked the Grassmarket holes before deciding to climb up to the Mile and take a jar in the World's End. The atmosphere was lively, but Bill wasn't, and they trooped out after just one drink. On any other night, William would have been content with the silence between them, but there was something behind this that left him uncomfortable. He struggled to make conversation. "Know why it's the World's End?"
Bill shrugged, the alcohol having taken him into a deep gloom.
"Gates of the city used to be here. End of the city, end of the world." They crossed into Cockburn Street, the cobbles curving down and away from the ridge of the Mile. "You're quiet Bill. I don't like quiet."
Bill stopped. "It's the boy. I keep thinking about the boy."
William tensed. Conscience was the enemy. He knew it wasn't the same for Bill, who had no gift to share with their victims, and had wondered for some time whether that small difference would be what shattered their alliance. His fingers gripped the knife as he glanced up and down the street. There was nobody about. Between the buildings a few doors along was the narrow entrance to Fleshmarket Close, a precipitous set of steps that dropped down between the buildings. It was always dark in Fleshmarket Close. If the thing needed done, he'd do it there. "Bad business. Best forgot."
Bill gave him a look. "You can do that, can't you? Forget?"
"Just faces, Bill. Nobody who matters."
Bill closed his eyes. "You can let go of the knife. I'm still in it."
William jerked his hand from his pocket, a rare stab of guilt pricking him. "You sure?"
"I'm no good for much else. It's not forever though, William. It can't be forever. Me and Nelly have talked."
He sighed, and well he might. His fragile, precious Nelly wasn't right in the head, and maybe never had been. The weeks aw
ay with family had done nothing to dissuade her that Bill was some valiant warrior of Christ, rooting out demons. Maybe she needed to believe that, because she couldn't face the other possibilities."The money's good.
I'll say that much. That's not why you do it though, is it? Money's no matter to you."
"It matters."
"But you'd do it anyway."
William nodded. "I'm something now, Bill. Something different. Never been something before."
Bill turned on him. They were face to face now, William's back to the opening of Fleshmarket Close. "You're doing it. You're making them. I don't know how. Something to do with the drinks. You put ... something ... in the drinks." William said nothing. He didn't think he had to. He hadn't tried to hide it, not really, not from Bill. A thing left unspoken wasn't the same as a deceit. "Sure you do." Bill nodded, talking for his own benefit now. "Don't know why you're so shy about it. Last man to raise the dead was Jesus Christ."
"Didn't work out too well for him."
Bill barked laughter. "True enough!"
"Doesn't matter why I do it. It gets done. You get your money." He didn't relish the idea of going it alone, not yet. He wasn't ready. For all his doubts and self-destruction, Bill was important. He could talk. He found the shots, reeled them in. He worked the assistants at that school, pushing up the price, somehow knowing where to stop so they'd be welcome back.
"Speaking of which, how was business in my absence?"
He froze again.
"Don't be shy, lad. You've been buying all evening, and a nice welcome home it is too, but you've more coin to toss around than I do." There had been one, a drunk street girl nobody would miss. It had been awkward. The sullen suggestion that he was in the mood for business, trying to get her back to the lodging house when she would have preferred a fumble in a dark alley. Struggling to remember how Bill was with the assistants. He wouldn't admit it, but he'd missed the help. It would be simpler just to release the things and see what they did, but he needed the money, too. Life would be so much simpler, without responsibilities.
"What of it? World doesn't stop because Bill Burke leaves town."
"No reason it should."
They stood, facing one another, neither speaking. Gulls wheeled above them, cawing their own dissent to the city. Somehow, Bill had found some backbone while he was away. Perhaps it was time alone with simple Nelly. She'd been working her man, and he thought back to what Maggie had suggested just a few nights ago. "It's all sham, William. She's got a long game, that one. Nobody flies into Christ's arms so surely or so fast. Watch her. Mebbe even lose her." He'd snapped at that, warning her off. He didn't like Nelly, and saw no practical use for her, but she was Bill's. Now, maybe, he should accept that Maggie was reasoning better than he was. If Nelly were gone, Bill could be shaped. Whisky and words, that was all it took. There was something inside him that wanted to be led, and William was all too happy to do the leading. "These your thoughts, or hers?"
"What do you mean?" Bill's reply was low and mean, and that should have been warning enough, but he was in it now.
"Something's got your head mixed up, Bill. Might be a confusion you could be rid of. Might even turn a profit from it." It was too blunt, and he saw it in Bill's eyes, a spark lit that would not easily be doused. He sensed the entrance to Fleshmarket Close behind him, wondered whether he should drag Bill in and end the business messy ...
The older man took the moment from him with a shoulder charge, a faster and more decisive move than William would have credited him capable of. He was knocked off his feet and the two of them had nowhere to go but down. For a long moment they were in the air, falling into the shadows, and then the sharp edges of the steps hit them, breaking them apart as they slid and rolled. William whacked his head, feeling fire and ice explode there. Something clattered on stone, the knife falling from his pocket along with a fistful of coin, and then he slid to a halt between two steps.
He tried to rise, putting a hand to the back of his head and feeling sticky wetness. Before he could gather his scattered senses, Bill's fists were in his coat and he was being dragged limply up. His feet slid on a step flagstones as he tried to take his own weight, find purchase, but the bigger man was shaking him and he couldn't find the ground. It was not how he had imagined this moment would be, if it ever had to happen. He was faster, more dangerous, better at this than Bill. All he'd ever seen the man do in a fight was push and shove, throw clumsy punches. With true rage behind him though, Bill was a beast. "You'll keep your filthy hands off her, you bastard. Touch her and I'll tear your fucking eyes out!"
William was panicking, his fists banging ineffectually against Bill's shoulders when he should have been seeking out the soft, sharp places and jabbing. The toes of his left foot found purchase on a wall and he shoved it in desperation, hoping to throw Bill off balance and take back the advantage that should have been his from the start. He'd made men twice Bill's size weep and bleed.
His shove worked, making Bill stumble and lose balance, tumbling them. Another still moment in the air, almost a relief after the shaking, then the steps cracked them apart again. Bill rolled all the way to the shallow slope of flagstones that marked the halfway point down Fleshmarket Close. William slid to a halt a couple of steps above him. The doors of the Halfway House pub, a tiny room with a bar, were open to the night. Half a dozen faces crowded in the door to watch the scrap in the shadows of the close.
He'd stopped upside down, and dragged himself round to a sitting position. Bill had fared less well this time, and was on his hands and knees with his head down, trying to get his bearings. William stood and gave a snarl at the doorway that made their brief audience jerk back inside. Bill was dragging himself up to his feet, hands on his knees with his head still down. William ran at him and seized the back of his coat, dragging him along the slope. Old and new blood stained the stones from the meat traders that set up in the close during the day to make a truth of its name. Scraps of fat and rank flesh clung to the gutter running down the centre of the path. They reached the second flight of steps, and William released his grip.
Bill landed on his side, then rolled the rest of the way down. He was moaning, and each step added new grunts and yelps to his one-man show. William followed as the moan became a pitiful whine, a puppy being kicked over and over again, and he no longer cared how much harder it would be to kill himself a living without Bill's help. When they reached the bottom, Bill would be a dead man. He wouldn't even turn him to sell to the doctors, for they'd recognise their new revenant. Safer just to cut the bastard up and toss him in the river.
Bill slid the bottom few stairs on his back and flopped onto Market Street at the bottom. William jumped down, missing his knife but ready for murder.
He almost smacked straight into the two night watchmen who had stopped as Bill rolled out at their feet. They were holding a drunk lady up between them, a vagrant or just some old dear separated from her party.
They stared at him, then at Bill, who was groaning at their feet. William didn't know whether to run or bluff.
One of the watchmen, and older man with sharp stubble and a mean cast to his eyes, helped Bill to his feet. There was blood on Bill's face, and he clutched his sides. William glanced back up the steps. It was a long way to the top. That Bill could stand at all was a miracle.
"You all right there?" The watchman growled, as his younger colleague took the full weight of the drunk woman. She clung to him like a child, her head on his skinny shoulder, barely aware of what was going on.
"Think I'll live sir, though it's good of you to ask." He glared at William, who was a ball of wary tension. "Slipped on something coming down."
The officer looked at him, then squinted at William. "You're bleeding, son." He could feel blood trickling down his neck.
"I slipped, too," he said, daring the man to contradict him.
"Aye. These dry, light nights. Terrible for slippage." William nodded, and the watchman turned back to Bill. "
You're Bill Burke, aren't you? Seen you about the Grassmarket."
"That I am, sir. You'll forgive me, but I can't place your face. Knock on the noggin can't have helped."
"Campbell. Like as not you wouldn't remember, state you were in. I was out with the lads. You bought us a round. Month back?"
Bill shrugged, smiling apologetically.
"Can we get a move on?" The younger officer was trying to hold the woman up, but she just wanted to fold to the ground.
"Well, if you're sure there's nothing amiss, Mr Burke," Campbell looked at William again, and there was a warning there. "We'll be on our way. Found this old lady on a doorstep she's got no claim to. Need to get her in a cell for the night."
Bill looked at William with an eyebrow raised, then at the woman. "Why don't you just take her home?"
A roll of the eyes. "Can't even get her name out of her, let alone an address."
"For shame, sir. How could you not know her? That's Old Clare, that is. Her daughters will be worried sick."
"Old Clare?"
"To be sure, it is. I've a pair of her boots at home, overdue a mending. We could pass word to her daughters, if you like?"
"That'd be a kindness. They can collect her, if they keep her off the street."
"Or ..." he looked at Hare again. "If you like, we can take her home ourselves. She's not far from us."
Campbell's face brightened. "Well, we've better things to be doing than hauling old drunks off the street." William could imagine. It probably involved a dram of something warming in them.
"Honestly, it's no trouble. The tumble's knocked my drinking head for six, so I'm heading home anyway. William?"
"I think we're done for the night."
Bill nodded at that, brokering a peace between them without saying a word. How long it would last, William couldn't guess. While he might be master of all things dead and dying, he struggled yet with the living. Perhaps he always would. Instead of rejecting that, perhaps it was time to embrace it. It could be that he would not need Bill Burke for very much longer after all. "Come on Clare, love. Time to get you home." They took her weight, relieving the younger watchman of the burden.
The Flesh Market Page 20
