James McGee - Resurrectionist

Bugger, Sawney thought. “Not a problem. Maggsie?”

“Leave the basket,” Dodd instructed.

Sawney picked up the empty sack from the bench and stood by as Maggett lifted the basket lid.

The stench seemed to erupt out of the hamper. Sawney jerked his head away quickly. Beside him he heard what sounded like a gag reflex deep in Maggett’s throat and saw the big man’s eyes widen.

“Jesus!” Maggett breathed. He threw Sawney a look. “We’ll need another sack, Rufus.”

Sawney looked around. There were some empty straw sacks lying next to one of the stalls. He went and picked one up.

Dodd appeared to be taking no notice. He had turned away and was re-examining the newly delivered cadaver.

Maggett was standing with his lips clamped closed. It looked to Sawney as if the big man was trying to hold his breath. Quickly, Sawney placed the open end of the sack over the top of the basket. Then, tipping the basket on its side, the two men transferred the first part of the load. It was smoothly done, due to Maggett’s strength and Sawney’s ability to keep the head of the sack over the basket all the way through the switch. Sawney tied off the head of the sack and the two men repeated the process with the basket’s remaining contents. Sawney caught Dodd’s attention, nodded towards the workbench, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Dodd nodded and watched as Sawney dragged the empty basket to the bench and tipped the newly arrived corpse into it. He had to bend the knees and press down on the top of the head to get the thing to fit before he was able to close the lid.

“All yours,” Sawney said, when the task was done. He wiped his hands on his jacket. “You sure you can manage?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

“Right,” Sawney said. “We’ll be off then.”

He nodded to Maggett, who swung one of the sacks on to his shoulder. Sawney hoisted the other one.

“You may let yourselves out, gentlemen,” Dodd said. “I will be along directly to secure the door.”

Sawney paused.

“Was there anything else?” Dodd said. His head turned.

“I was thinking,” Sawney said. “About the next one. When would you be wantin’ to take delivery?”

“I’m not certain. I’ll know after I’ve examined tonight’s consignment. Return in twenty-four hours. I will advise you then.”

“Right you are.” Sawney tapped Maggett on the arm and the two of them headed up the ramp.

Back on the street, Maggett took a nervous look around. He nudged the sack over his shoulder. “What the bleedin’ ’ell are we goin’ to do with these? I thought we’d got shot of them.” He stared anxiously at his companion. “Rufus?”

“Chris’sakes, shut up and let me think!” Sawney snapped. He bit his lip. He should never have offered to take the bloody things back. If he hadn’t made the offer, it was possible that Dodd would have hung on to them. It was his own fault for putting the idea into the man’s head, giving the doctor the impression that the deal had been on a sale-or-return basis, which was a damned stupid way to conduct trade in dead bodies; so much for the doctor’s comment about him showing shrewd business acumen. In reality, it had been a poor transaction, with the doctor taking the choicest morsels and leaving the rest for them to dispose of; like a chewy piece of gristle left on the side of the plate. Too late to do anything about it now. Alongside him, Maggett was shuffling his feet, anxious to be on the move.

“We can take them to Bartholomew’s,” Sawney said eventually. “It’s on the way.”

“It’s a fair bloody walk,” Maggett said doubtfully. “You sure?”

“I know it’s a fair bloody walk, Maggsie, but ’ave you got a better idea?”

“What about Chapel Street? It was them as made the first offer.”

“Yeah, but that was when they were in good nick. Don’t think they’ll be interested in seconds.”

“We could dump ’em,” Maggett suggested.

“I’m not bloody dumping them. Not when we might still make a bob or two. No, we’ll try Bartholomew’s. You never know. Now, you comin’ or not?”

Maggett sighed and nodded. “Whatever you say, Rufus.”

“Right then, that’s what we’ll do.”

Cursing under his breath, Sawney turned up his collar and, with the sack draped over his shoulder, he led his companion down the deserted street. This, he thought, was all he bloody needed.

Five minutes later it began to snow.

“Well, well.” Surgeon Quill looked up. “Officer Hawkwood. Back so soon? This is indeed an honour.”

The surgeon was standing over one of the examination tables, scalpel in hand, paused in mid slice. Laid out before him was the body of a man. Quill had already begun his dissection. A Y-shaped incision had been carved into the corpse’s chest from each shoulder to the base of the sternum and on down to the pubic bone. The skin had been peeled back to reveal the ribcage, muscles and soft tissue that lay beneath. Each of the surgeon’s brawny forearms was streaked red to the elbow.

“You’ve got a couple of bodies,” Hawkwood said. He was in no mood for preamble. He tried not to look at the bloody mess on the table and suspected that Quill was probably grinning inwardly at his discomfort.

“I do indeed. In fact, I have several.” The surgeon extended an arm to encompass the examination room. The movement shook a gobbet of blood from the scalpel blade on to the floor. Quill appeared not to notice the splatter. He paused only to wipe the blade on his filthy apron and raise an eyebrow. “I take it you have specific ones in mind?”

“They were delivered this morning?”

“Ah, yes, indeed.” The surgeon nodded.

“I’d like to see them,” Hawkwood said.

The surgeon showed his teeth. “I thought you might. This way.”

Hawkwood followed the surgeon to a table in the centre of one of the vault’s dimly lit alcoves. Retrieving a candle from a nearby niche, Quill held it aloft. A sheet covered the table and its contents. It was almost as filthy as the surgeon’s apron. Quill drew it back.

“Behold,” he said.

Hawkwood sucked in his breath, and stared down. A chill moved through him that had nothing to do with the temperature in the vault.

The discovery had been made in the early hours, by two Night Patrol constables. The officers had been making their rounds, protecting the capital from rogues, vagabonds, creatures of the night and assorted mischief-makers, when the snow began to fall. Already cold and miserable, the pair had decided to seek temporary shelter inside the archway at the entrance of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, with the intention of fortifying themselves for the rest of the patrol with a pipe of tobacco and a warming sip of grog from the small flask each of them carried.

It was as they were scurrying towards the hospital entrance that sharp-eyed Constable John Boggs alerted his companion, Constable Patrick Hilley, to the two figures skulking inside the hospital gates. Neither of the patrolmen was particularly inquisitive by nature, despite their office, and in the normal scheme of things would probably have hesitated before proceeding. But both men were aching from the cold and did not relish seeking alternative shelter by venturing further than they had to in the snow flurries that were beginning to swirl around them. Also, the quick snifter of grog had served to imbue them with a sense of confidence they might not otherwise have enjoyed.

Somewhat inevitably, it was Boggs, the younger of the two, who broke into a trot first, holding his lantern aloft, announcing his identity and calling for the shadowy figures to show themselves.

The two figures appeared to be male. One was of average height, his companion was taller, a lot taller, and big with it. Each bore a load of some kind, but as the underside of the archway lay in deep shadow it was hard to make out details. Boggs saw the ease with which the bigger man moved with the object on his back, unlike his companion, who seemed to be struggling with his burden. Both had shown an impressive fleetness of foot, though with two constables in pursuit, it was hardly surprising.