S. Parris - The Secret Dead

“You’re back with us, are you? Come and look at this.” Heprodded with the tip of his knife. He was indicating a swollen organ about thesize of a small grapefruit, mottled crimson. “The greatest anatomy theaters inEurope would pay dearly to get their hands on this. It is an opportunitygranted to very few anatomists. Providence has smiled on us tonight. Do youknow what it is?”

I considered replying that Providence had been less kind tothe girl, but I merely shook my head.

“This is the womb, Bruno. The cradle of life. Locus of themystery of generation. The source, it is believed, of all female irrationality.”He reached in with bloody fingers and tugged, frowning. “Hippocrates said ithad the power to detach itself and wander about the body, but I do not see howthat could occur. This one seems firmly attached to the birth canal.”

He parted the girl’s legs and quite perfunctorily insertedtwo fingers into her vagina, pushing up until he could feel the pressure withhis other hand. “Interesting,” he murmured. “It seems to me that Vesalius’sdrawing of the female reproductive organs is seriously flawed …”

“And now,” he continued, lifting the girl’s womb toward himas if he were a street conjurer about to reveal his greatest trick, “watchclosely and learn. For if my guess is correct, you are about to witness asecret that some of the most renowned anatomists in Leiden or Paris have yet tosee in the flesh.”

He took a smaller knife and made a precise cut in the outerskin. As it ruptured, a clear, viscous fluid spilled out over his hands along withthe blood. Gennaro peeled back the skin and extracted from within the womb atiny homunculus, no bigger than the span of my hand, but already recognizablyhuman. He laid it in his palm, his eyes bright with wonder.

“Is it alive?” I breathed.

“Not now. You see this?” He nudged with the knifepoint tothe twisted white tube that still connected its abdomen with the interior ofthe womb. “It can’t live without the mother. This is very early gestation, see?A matter of weeks, I would say. But note how you can already make out thefingers and toes.”

The creature had the translucent sheen of an amphibiousanimal, its half-formed limbs and curved spine so delicate as to seeminsubstantial. Perhaps it was his casual use of the word “mother,” but I felt asudden terrible emptiness, a hollowing-out, as if it were my insides that had beentorn away. This homunculus would have grown into a child, if the girl’s lifehad not been cut short by those hands around her throat. I wished ferventlythat I had never followed Gennaro. I began to fear I lacked the detachment tomake a man of science.

Fra Gennaro carefully excised the womb and the tiny fetus,severed the cord that bound them, and placed each into a large glass jar he hadbrought in his bag. “But where does it come from?” he muttered, as hesealed the jars.

“From the man’s seed.” I was unsure if he was addressingthe question to me, nor even if my answer was correct, but I needed thedistraction.

“Ah, but does it?” He looked at me, seemingly pleased. Hischeek was streaked with blood where he had touched it. “Opinion is divided.There are those who say the womb is merely the field of Nature in which theseed is planted, and others who think there is some additional elementcontributed by the woman, without which the seed cannot germinate. What thinkyou?”

“I imagine these elements are so small as to be invisible.So that we can only study the effects and must work backward to infer thecause.”

He nodded and wiped his hands on his apron. “It may be thatwe will never unravel the mystery of conception. But that does not mean weshould not try, eh? I shall study this further.” He patted the sealed lid ofthe jar containing the fetus. I had to look away.

From somewhere beyond the thick stone walls of ourunderground mortuary came the distant tolling of a bell. My head snapped round,and I met Fra Gennaro’s eye. Neither of us had noticed how long ago the sandhad run through the hourglass. I glanced down at myself; my habit was daubed withthe girl’s blood and God knows what else.

Gennaro pulled his apron over his head. “I need fresh waterand new candles,” he said, decisive. “I will tell the prior you are taken sickand unable to attend Matins. Close the hatch and draw the bolt after me and donot open the door to anyone until I return. I will give three sharp knocks.”

Before I could object, he was gone. I climbed the stairs andslid the bolt across, shutting myself in with the girl. She lay splayed outlike a carcass at the butcher’s, yellow fat and livid red organs bright againsther pale skin. I drew closer to the table, torn between fascination and fear.In Gennaro’s absence, I felt emboldened to test the theory of the killer’simage by looking into her eyes, but all I saw was naked terror and my ownreflection. It seemed apt, in a twisted way; I could not escape the feelingthat we were as guilty of her destruction as the man whose fingers wereimprinted around her slender neck. I backed away, chilled by an irrational fearthat she might suddenly turn her head and fix me with those eyes. I tried tointone the psalms, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I turned over thehourglass and watched the sand drain through in a fine dust. The minutes thatpassed until I heard Gennaro’s knock were some of the longest of my life.

“We need to dispose of her before first light,” he said,brisk again. “I will need your help.”

“How?”

“We must take her to Fontanelle.”

“But the city gates will be locked until dawn.”

He slid me a sidelong look. “They can be opened.”

He crossed to the far side of the room and unlocked awooden door in the back wall. I had been so intent on the girl I had notnoticed it before. A breath of cleaner air filtered through, and I saw that thedoor opened on to an underground passageway.

“Part of the network of tunnels and cisterns belonging tothe old Roman aqueduct,” Gennaro explained. “It links to another tunnel beyondthe boundary wall and comes out on the other side of Via Toledo. Here — help mewith this.”

From the passageway Gennaro dragged a cheap wooden casketinto the room. I grabbed the other end and helped him position it alongside thetable. When he opened the lid, I saw that it was lined in oilcloth, and theinside was already bloodstained. He drew out a coarsely woven cloak frombeneath the lining, such as the poorest wear in winter. It smelled thickly ofdecay.

“There is one thing I need to do before we transport her,”he said, draping the cloak over the casket and turning to face me with a sternlook. “You may prefer not to watch this, Bruno. I have to skin her.” He turnedback to the table and selected a knife with a thin, cruel blade.

Again, that strange lurch in my gut, as if I had missed astair. “Why?”

“So that she cannot be recognized. People may be lookingfor her.”

“You said there was no one to mourn her.” I heard theaccusation in my voice.

“Mourn her, no. But if she was a whore in this neighborhood,her face will be known. The remains we send to Fontanelle must not beidentifiable.”

“It’s barbaric.”

He made an impatient noise with his tongue. “Perhaps. Butit is also prudent. What we have done here tonight would be hard to explain tothe city authorities. I think you see that.”

I bowed my head. “Then no one will ever be brought tojustice for her murder.”

He laid down his knife and looked at me with an air ofincomprehension. “You think they would otherwise? A street whore?” He shook hishead. “I admire your fervor for justice on behalf of the weak. It is, afterall, part of our Christian duty,” he added, as if he had only just remembered. “Butit is not our concern here, Bruno. There will be no justice for her in thislife. Pray God grant her mercy, and retribution to those who wronged her in thenext.”