James McGee - Resurrectionist

Sal had done the legwork on this one. There were several tried-and-tested means of tracking down fresh corpses, but most of the gangs relied on informers — gravediggers, sextons, corrupt local officials and the like — to tell them about impending deaths or recent burials. On this occasion, the information had come courtesy of the undertaker. Sal had been cultivating the ninny for months, leading him on, letting him think he was God’s gift. Never underestimate the power of a pretty girl and the information she could extract with the proffer of a quick feel. Sal’s flirtatious grin and silken promises of carnal delights had paid dividends. The burial ground of St Anne’s was one of a dozen sources, visited in rotation, which had proved profitable due to this particular moonstruck fool’s loose tongue.

On this occasion, they’d been lucky. They needed the body in a hurry.

The two female corpses had proved unsatisfactory. Dodd had informed Sawney of that fact when he had taken delivery, viewing the remains in silence before finally shaking his head. “Regrettably, they’re not as fresh as you implied. The decomposition is too advanced for my purposes.” Dodd had looked up and fixed Sawney with a penetrating stare. “Which makes me suspect they’ve been in circulation for some time and surplus to your requirements. Am I right?”

Sawney flushed. The attempt to palm the women’s corpses off on to the doctor had been worth a try. It just hadn’t worked, that was all. Sawney waited for the sky to fall, but to his immense relief Dodd appeared unexpectedly philosophical, accepting the condition of the cadavers with calm equanimity and what might have passed for a slight smile.

“Come now, Sawney, no need for the long face. The spontaneous nature of your offer showed initiative, not to mention a head for business, even if the gesture was, shall we say, misguided? On this occasion I’m disposed to overlook the matter. I trust, however, you’ll make restitution with your next delivery.”

Sawney wasn’t too sure what that meant exactly, but he nodded nonetheless because he did not want to appear slow-witted. He presumed that Dodd felt he had not fulfilled his side of the bargain. The silver cross was still burning a hole in his pocket and so far Dodd had nothing to show for it, save two unwanted cadavers that were rapidly going off.

“You want me to take ’em off your hands?” Sawney had asked. Might as well show willing, he thought, and maybe make a bit on the side by selling them to someone who wasn’t so fussy about their less-than-pristine condition.

Dodd, however, after contemplating the corpses at length, pursed his lips and said, “That will not be necessary, at least for the time being. While there is, as I have said, a substantial amount of deterioration, further examination may reveal one or two organs that are still suitable for harvest.”

Sawney wasn’t too sure what the doctor meant by “harvest”, so all he could do was look knowledgeable while confirming that he would honour the first part of their arrangement the following night. The next delivery, Sawney promised, would be far superior in quality. Dr Dodd could count on it.

“Oh, I’m sure I can,” Dodd said softly. “I know it would not occur to you to make the same mistake twice.”

Sawney had known exactly what the doctor meant that time. There was no mistaking the emphasis and, by its nature, the implication.

Which was why he was in the middle of a burial ground, freezing his rear end off, while trying to get his accomplice to keep the bloody light still.

Sawney stiffened. He’d almost missed it. Would have too, if Maggett hadn’t stopped buggering about. But there it was, plain as day, caught at the edge of the lantern beam. The snare.

By themselves, the acorns wouldn’t have looked out of place, three inconsequential little pods lying on top of the soil, no different to the thousands of others that lay scattered around the graveyard, as common as rabbit droppings. Except these ones were in a straight line, each of them two fingers’ width apart, an arm’s length from the small wooden cross that marked the head of the grave. Sawney knew it was two fingers and an arm’s length because he measured it out. Nice try, he thought, but some people never learnt.

It needn’t have been acorns; it could just as easily have been shells, a strategically placed stone, a couple of twigs, or perhaps a flower, placed on the grave in such a way as to detect if any interference had taken place. Many anxious relatives had adopted the practice of late.

An amateur might not have noticed, but Sawney, with his experience, had known what to look out for and he knew how to get around it.

Carefully, Sawney lifted the acorns from the soil with his fingertips, placed them in his pocket, and got to his feet. “All right, let’s do it. Sharply now, we ain’t got all bleedin’ night!”

Maggett set the lantern on the ground and immediately the two men standing beside him stepped forward. Both carried short-handled wooden shovels, the oval blades bearing closer resemblance to a paddle than a digging tool. From a sack across his shoulder, Maggett drew out a roll of canvas and laid it alongside the grave, at the same time removing from its inner folds some loose sacking and two butcher’s hooks.

Sawney, blowing on his hands in a vain attempt to generate warmth, took a look around. The burial ground was hemmed in on all sides; to the east by the church and to the north and south by the backs of houses. To the west was the rest of the graveyard, which was separated from the road beyond by a shoulder-high wall.

“Shift yourself, Maggsie,” Sawney hissed. “Let the dogs see the bleedin’ bone.”

Lemuel Ragg rested the shovel against his right knee and spat on his hands. His brother Samuel did the same. Then, trading knowing grins, they picked up their tools and began to transfer the soil from the grave to the canvas sheet.

The Ragg brothers were similar in looks and physique and had often been mistaken for twins, which they were not. Lemuel was the older by two years. Dark-haired and sallow-skinned, they were neither tall nor brawny, being both shorter and smaller in stature than Sawney, but what they lacked in height and breadth they made up for in raw cunning. Insult one Ragg boy and you insulted his brother by default; anyone foolish enough to do so risked dire, usually fatal, consequences.

The brothers worked fast. The undertaker had advised that the coffin was buried deeper than normal, supposedly as a deterrent to disinterment, which meant that there was, potentially, a larger than average amount of soil to remove. The Raggs, however, took this as a personal challenge, with the result that the excavation became a contest between them.

The grave had only been filled that morning and, despite the rime-glazed surface, the earth immediately below the topsoil was still loose and not yet compacted, which made the removal of the soil relatively easy.

The Raggs dug like men possessed. Shovels dipped. Earth flew. The hole deepened and the mound of soil on top of the canvas grew steadily higher. Occasionally, the edge of a shovel would strike a stone, but the wooden blade ensured the sound was no louder than a dull thud. It was the reason body stealers favoured wooden shovels over metal ones. Sawney checked his pocket watch by the lantern light. They’d been on site for ten minutes. They were making good progress.

The sound of wood striking wood came suddenly, accompanied by an excited hiss from Samuel, his shovel having been the one that had made contact. The brothers moved back. Sawney lifted the lantern and held it over the excavation, grunting with satisfaction when he saw that the head of the coffin had been exposed. He signalled to the waiting Maggett. Grabbing the sacking and the hooks, the big man stepped into the grave.