C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

“What is it?” asked Gibson, watching him. “Company?”

“Actually, I think we may have competition.” Sebastian slipped the loaded double-barreled flintlock from his pocket. “I’ll take care of them. Just get Ross back where he belongs as quickly as you can.”

Moving soundlessly, he slipped between the tumbled tombstones, toward the mouth of the narrow passage, and flattened himself behind the coarse stone wall of the dead house.

“I tell ye,” he heard a man say in a harsh whisper, moving stealthily toward him along the passageway. “I don’t like the looks o’ that wagon sittin’ in the square. I tell ye, somebody’s poachin’ on our territ’ry, they are.”

“Yer always lookin’ t’ borrow trouble, Finch. That’s yer problem.”

Sebastian could see them now; two men, one small and gently rounded, the other bigger, burlier. They were loaded down with the burlap-wrapped shovels, the pry bar, the rope, the crumpled muddy sack of their trade. Sebastian stepped from behind the mortuary wall and said softly, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

The first body snatcher—the smaller, rounder one—let out a muffled shriek. “ ’Oly ’ell!” He staggered back, his eyes widening until the whites caught the gleam of light from the distant windows. “Ye near scared the shit out o’ me.”

His companion—older, bigger, tougher—took a belligerent step forward but drew up abruptly when Sebastian pulled back the right hammer on his pistol with an audible click .

“This is our territ’ry, ye hear?” said the man, his jaw jutting out mulishly. “Ours.”

“Actually,” said Sebastian, casually leaning one shoulder against the wall of the dead house, “if I’m not mistaken, this is Jumpin’ Jack’s lay.”

“Be that as it may, ev’rybody knows Jumpin’ Jack goes to Brighton at the end o’ July. And when he goes, we take over.”

Sebastian used the muzzle of his gun to tip back the brim of his hat. “Bad time of year for the resurrection trade, I hear. Bodies don’t last long in the heat. And then, with the medical schools closed, there can’t be much of a market.”

“The prices drop in summer; ain’t no doubt about it,” said the other resurrection man soulfully. “But a man’s got to eat.” He winked. “And support ’is other ’abits, if ye know what I mean.”

Sebastian glanced back toward Alexander Ross’s grave. Between them, Calhoun and Gibson had worked the ropes beneath the empty coffin and lifted it from the grave. Now Calhoun was busy clothing the corpse with his inimitable skill and arranging it in the casket. Bringing his gaze back to the resurrection men, Sebastian said, “The thing of it is, gentlemen, we’re not here to encroach upon your trade.”

“Get on wit’ ye,” said Finch. “What else would ye be doing here?” He squinted at Sebastian through the darkness. “Although ye must be a regular green ’un, dressin’ like that fer this kinda work.”

Sebastian could hear the scrape of ropes, the thump of the now laden casket being lowered back into its grave. “Actually, we’re looking for a skull.”

“A skull?”

The soft thud of quickly tossed shovelfuls of wet earth hitting the top of the casket drifted across the churchyard.

Sebastian said, “Just a skull. For Lady Lennox’s masquerade. You see, I rather fancy the notion of going as the angel of death.”

“The what?”

“The grim reaper. Death personified.”

The two resurrection men exchanged guarded glances. The elder one squinted at Sebastian through the misty rain. “Ye must be foxed—or mad. What are ye, then? Some kind o’ bloody lord?”

“Would a lord be robbing a burial ground?” asked Sebastian, pushing away from the wall as Calhoun and Gibson came up beside him. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we’ll be on our way.”

“Lord love us, I need a drink,” said Calhoun, looking faintly green around the gills as he paused on the flagway in front of the chapel to draw in a deep breath of fresh air. “I’ve dressed many a gentleman in my career—sober, drunk, and even dead. But I must say, this is the first time I’ve ever been called upon to dress one who was in bits .”

Monday, 27 July

By the next morning, the rain had settled into a steady downpour.

Arriving at the Mount Street burial ground just after eight, Sebastian found Sir Henry Lovejoy standing beside Alexander Ross’s half-opened grave. He had his hat pulled low, his shoulders hunched as he watched a sexton and his young helper struggle to shift the wet, heavy mud.

“Nasty day for it,” said Sebastian, coming up beside him.

“Nasty work, full stop,” said the magistrate.

They stood together in silence, watching the gravediggers. There was a loud scratching as the shovels scraped along wood. One of the men exclaimed, “It don’t look good, Sir ’Enry.”

Lovejoy peered through the pounding rain. “What does that mean?”

“The lid o’ the coffin’s all busted up.”

With a rare oath, Sir Henry ventured closer to the edge of the open grave. “Are you telling me the resurrection men got him?”

The sexton clambered down into the hole with his ropes. “That’s what I was thinkin’ when I first seen it, sir. ’Cept the coffin’s mighty heavy, for all that.”

The sexton’s face turned red as, between them, the two men slipped their ropes beneath the shattered casket and heaved. The coffin came up out of the ground with a sucking plop, the lid bouncing and clattering loosely as it hit the wet grass, hard.

Lovejoy held a thickly folded handkerchief to his nose. “Well?”

“Something’s in here,” said the sexton, cautiously sliding the lid to one side. “Course, it could jist be rocks. I’ve seen ’em do that.”

The lid fell away to reveal Alexander Ross lying nestled in the mud-streaked satin liner of his casket, his death-swollen face now turned a ghastly shade of reddish green, his body clothed with rare skill by one of London’s finest, who’d risen admirably to the occasion despite the considerable handicaps imposed by darkness, the need for speed, and the disjointed nature of the gentleman involved.

“Don’t understand it, sir. ’E’s ’ere, all right. But ’is shroud’s been cut off and left in a muddy wad at ’is feet.”

“Perhaps the sack-’em-up boys were interrupted at their work,” suggested Sir Henry.

“Could be, sir. ’Cept why then was the grave filled back in?”

Sir Henry nodded toward the shell borrowed from the nearby dead house. “The important thing is, he’s here. Move the body to the shell.”

“Why not simply transfer him in his own coffin?” suggested Sebastian.

“We use shells,” said Sir Henry. He turned to the sexton. “Get him out of there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sexton positioned himself at the body’s feet. He and his young helper had a minor argument over the best way to effect the transfer. Then the younger man grasped the body’s shoulders and the sexton seized his ankles.

Sebastian clasped his hands behind his back.

And waited.

On the count of three,” said the sexton. “One, two—”

The men heaved. The body’s limbs, held together by nothing more than Calhoun’s artistry, separated from the torso. The sexton, finding himself grasping two loose legs, landed on his backside in the mud. One of the corpse’s arms flopped back into the open grave; the other—formed of wadded cloth owing to Gibson’s inability to retrieve the original—dangled at a disjointed angle.

“What the bloody ’ell?” howled the sexton.

Sir Henry stood quite still. Around them, the rain poured. After a moment, he said quite calmly, “Collect what is left of Mr. Ross and convey the body to Paul Gibson on Tower Hill.” He turned a wooden countenance toward Sebastian. “Or should I perhaps say, convey the body back to Mr. Gibson?”