Authors: Robin Blake

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BOOK: A Dark Anatomy

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I set the stool down and sat upon it to contemplate, for a few minutes, the unconsecrated burial place of poor simple Solomon. I guessed he had been put hurriedly in the ground without much ceremony. These people were not godly. His mother was not godly, certainly. She would not care that there had been no priest to recite words over her son, or that this was
not consecrated ground. No one else cared, or would care, what happened to these itinerant labourers as they migrated from place to place, and job to job. What had been the woman's simple idea of human life? A night waking. I wondered if that was all any of them believed.

Then I thought about Solomon himself. That this fool, fogged in his thought and confused in his speech, had been the solution to the disappearance of Dolores Brockletower's dead body, was in reality no solution at all. Soon we would be digging for knowledge in the half-buried mind of Dapperwick. But to do so here, to dig for knowledge of Solomon's motive, in a being born without reason into a life without purpose, would have been perverse and unprofitable.

All that could be said was that he was not only a fool, but a tool. But whose? Knowing what I now knew about Dolores Brockletower's peculiar nature, I would have said this must be the squire. The body's disappearance would have been very much convenient to him, if there was any likelihood of it being viewed naked by a jury, or medically examined for an inquest. In a man of his standing, to have it publicly revealed that his wife was not fully a woman would bring down a shame and notoriety that he could never outlive. But I found it hard to conceive that he dealt with Solomon directly. I supposed instead that he did so through the medium of Solomon's employer, Barnabus Woodley, and that Woodley had operated through his foreman, the ganger Piltdown.

Oh well. The ganger had gone and Woodley was dead. Perhaps we would never know the truth in detail. I rose and picked up the stool, which I carried back down the path to the yard of Garlick Hall. Once there I saw Fidelis and the boy coming towards me. They were now ready to bring George's drawings to Molyneux Square, to show to Jonathan
Dapperwick. How fast they had worked! Hurriedly I deposited the stool by the kitchen doorstep for the milkmaid to find it and bustled away to collect our horses.

âI must tell you,' said Fidelis, as we jogged along the road, with George mounted behind Fidelis. âObstacles were laid in my way before I could even begin my task this morning.'

âBy Mallender?'

âHe was behind it. Oswald Mallender came up to the Ice-house after you left us. He gave me a letter signed by Grimshaw over the bailiff's seal, forbidding the post-mortem. There was another communication for the soldiers, in which the bailiff instructed them to bar me from entering the Ice-house. He waved it at the soldiers and told them to let no one into the Ice-house. These papers must have been prepared before the inquest even began. The obstruction was premeditated.'

âThe Devil it was!'

It was the effrontery of this that surprised me, not the fact of it. Grimshaw stood for the interests of men like Brockletower. It was their plumage he borrowed to feather his own nest, while justice and truth could go to hell.

âThe squire must have put him up to it. With his feelings about me, you know, Grimshaw would be willing enough to conspire with him.'

âEphraim Grimshaw is a poltroon.'

âBut a powerful one. However, on this occasion, his letter has no more legal force than a page out of
Mother Goose
. You had my authority to proceed with the examination. That weighs heavier than all his seals.'

âBut that was the rub, Titus. I didn't have it, not at first. The soldiers barred the Ice-house door and refused to let us pass. Even when your note arrived, I couldn't persuade them
to let us begin work. The soldiers were illiterate. Only when Sergeant Sutch appeared and read my warrant did I gain access.'

âThe squire must have asked Grimshaw to intervene. Didn't I tell you he was all against your cutting his wife open?'

âYes. And now we know why.'

âBut now that you
have
cut her, what result?'

Fidelis shook his head.

âNone, Titus. It was necessarily a rapid survey. The anatomy was so strange and confused that I could make nothing of it. But I saw no disease in the principle organs. And there were no wounds, new or old, except the one we know about. The stomach was empty.'

âThe empty stomach doesn't signify. The servants told me she never broke her fast until after the morning ride. Now, let us pick up the pace. I am impatient to hear Dapperwick's opinion.'

Chapter Twenty-five

â
A
CAPITAL EXAMPLE of hermaphroditism, is that!' exclaimed the author of
De Genitalia Virilis Muliebrisque
.

Dapperwick's fingers were fluttering moth-like over the page of George's drawing-book, which lay open before him on his library's writing table, around which we all stood: the old anatomist, the young artist, Luke Fidelis and myself.

âAm I to understand,' Dapperwick continued, âthat the original of this subject is lying dead less than five miles from here?'

âYes, at Garlick Hall,' I told him.

Dapperwick's trembling fingers traced the outline of the naked corpse. Taking a downward viewpoint, George had drawn it with astonishing accuracy and truth, not only the outline, but the actual flesh of it, and with the complete illusion of three dimensions.

âI only wish I could look at this in the flesh,' Dapperwick went on. âI have never seen one, you know. They are exceedingly,
exceedingly
rare. But no. It is impossible for me to go to Garlick Hall, or anywhere outside this house. Quite impossible.'

His lips were pursed and faintly dribbling, but the eyes set in his masked, immobile face were on fire. They were like the eyes of a chained dog pulling at his tether for a piece of meat just out of reach.

âThat is a great pity,' I agreed.

A thought struck him and he raised his head, darting a bloodshot glance towards me.

âCan you not trundle it here to me, Mr Cragg? By cart, or litter, or â¦ somehow?'

I shook my head.

âI fear that is even more impossible, sir. It is against the law to move or remove a corpse that is under inquest.'

âOh, well. Fiddle-de-dee. Nothing to be done.'

Dapperwick returned his hungry gaze to the full-length drawing, then turned the page, where a detail of the genitals appeared, equally accurate and in considerably closer detail. He stabbed the image with his forefinger.

âOh, wonderful! It is exactly as described in the medical treatises. Exactly!'

âI only know of such things from Ovid's
Metamorphoses
,' I remarked.

Dapperwick nestled the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other and rubbed or screwed them into it. It seemed like a gesture of enthusiasm at my mention of the Latin poet.

âAh yes! Ovid, you know!' he squawked. âA far better natural philosopher than is generally recognized.'

I looked at Fidelis interrogatively. Was the old man being satirical? It appeared not. Without drawing breath and with his whole head vibrating from increasing excitement, Dapperwick enlarged on his admiration for Ovid.

âOvid celebrates change, transformation, you know. I regard that as a vital principle in nature. As you may therefore surmise I say “Foo!” to those who maintain all species were fixed unchangeably at the creation. Modern poets such as Mr Pope who spout about the ladder of creation being immutable. Pure stultiloquence, sir. Living things are not eternally separated into
impermeable envelopes marked “apple” and “pear”, “camel” and “leopard”, “male” and “female”. Under the right conditions, an apple may be grafted to a pear, a camel to a leopard, is it not so? Something of the same happens in cases like this.'

âPlease elucidate, Doctor,' I asked.

Dapperwick tapped George's drawing.

âWell, as Dr Fidelis will of course be aware, Dr Leeuwenhoek's microscope taught us a few years ago that the male
seminum
contains animalcules, like shoals of tiny tadpoles, swimming around it. The question then arose, are these in fact embryos? Their matter is disputed. Dr Burton of Wakefield, with whom I correspond, contends the woman's egg is the embryo-in-waiting and the animalcules are nothing but carriers of an electrical energy that, as he puts it, delivers a kick to the egg that propels it into life. Much as I respect Dr Burton as a man-midwife, I contradict him on this. In my opinion, the little tadpoles
are
veritable embryos. In the
seminum
they form a community of males and females â the males no doubt issuing from the right testicle and the females from the left, as Aristotle teaches â but once precipitated into the womb, they begin to contend with each other to get to the safety of the woman's egg, which is their nursery, in effect. The first one to establish itself there proceeds selfishly by locking the door, as one might say, to keep all its competitors off.'

âIn that case how do twins come about?' I asked.

The doctor smiled at me indulgently, as at a female pupil who asks a question cleverer than she knows.

âAh! Twins! In such cases, you know,
two
have burst through the egg's door simultaneously and are forced somehow to cooperate. And this is very germane to the subject under discussion.'

With his finger he rapped George's drawing again.

âI believe it is a variation of the process of twin-making that results in the hermaphrodite. Sometimes, very occasionally, these twins become engrafted one in the other and are born as conjoined monsters. But in a handful of such cases (which, you know, are already very rare) a male and a female become completely merged and a single hybrid individual, both masculine and feminine, results. A monster, but not necessarily a hideous one. Which is what we have in George's fine drawing here. There is no witchcraft about it. It may be very uncommon but it is natural, perfectly natural. And rather, um, beautiful, too, in its way.'

âDo these, er, hermaphrodites always appear the same? Anatomically, I mean.'

âOh no, they come in various arrangements. With or without
testes
, with or without the vagina.'

âAnd may such creatures become pregnant, and bear a child?'

âCurious you should ask. But, in answer, I think an analogy with the mule may be drawn. A mule is the intergrafting of a horse with a donkey, and it is utterly sterile, as everyone knows. So is the hermaphrodite. Tales of hermaphrodites marrying and impregnating each other are delightful, but I fear poetical.'

He turned to Luke.

âI hope you agree, young Fidelis.'

My friend answered diplomatically.

âI do not have a view, Doctor, as I have never until now had occasion to consider the matter. But I expect the Royal Society will give a ruling in due course.'

Dapperwick's preternaturally unlined face registered a trace of disappointment that Luke had not endorsed him.

âTrue â¦ the Royal Society â¦ true enough.'

We fell silent for a few moments, while Dr Dapperwick tapped his chin thoughtfully with his fingertips.

âIt is very strange,' he said at last, his voice audibly thinner, and rasping slightly as if a reed needed changing. âI seem to remember having such a conversation as this in a dream, a few days ago. I fancied I received a visitor whose conversation turned after a while to individuals of mixed sex. And I dreamed that he asked me the same question as you have: is it the general view that they cannot reproduce? And I admitted it is not.'

He shook his head sorrowfully.

âThe whole field of generation is greatly argued over, you know. But, yes, it was strange, my dream. You might say predictive, yes. You might say auspicious.'

âMay I ask who your visitor was, in your dream?'

âOh, just some young fellow. He was unknown to me. He wore a most remarkable wig, though. An unheard-of, monstrous thing, such as one often meets with in dreams and nightmares. '

We three walked across Molyneux Square a few minutes later. Fidelis broke the silence with a slight laugh, though a mournful one. I thought I could tell the reason.

âSense and senility,' I said. âHow is it possible for the two to be so thoroughly mixed in one man?'

âI find it no more incredible,' he replied, âthan the mixture of male and female in Dolores Brockletower. Rather less, I think.'

âBut there is one important question, Luke. Can the unfortunate Dapperwick reliably tell the difference between a dream and his memory? That dream-visitor of his, the one he mentioned, was perhaps no dream at all. He really had a caller, and I know his name. My wife saw Barnabus Woodley coming away from Molyneux Square on Friday last. You see the significance, Luke?'

âWoodley the architect was the visitor? Yes, that is striking.
Woodley asking about the fertility of hermaphrodites? Now that's surpassingly interesting. Shall we sit a few moments?'

We had reached the green in the centre of the square and Fidelis was indicating one of the curved marble benches that stood on scrolled feet at each of its corners. George plumped himself down at one end of the seat and opened his sketchbook. Taking chalk from his pocket, he began to draw. Fidelis and I sat down on the opposite extreme of the semicircle.

âIt cannot be a coincidence,' I said. âWoodley must have known Dolores Brockletower's secret.'

âYes, either from the squire or directly from her.'

âFrom the squire, I would think. The two men were close, while there was a strong dislike between Dolores and Woodley.'

âBut why would he, of all people, concern himself with her possible fertility?'

âThat's hard to guess. Not only did the squire and his â what shall we call it? â consort? â his consort then â not only was there in
fact
no prospect of a direct heir of the Brockletower blood coming from their union, but both of them
knew
it, beyond any doubt. And must have from the beginning.'

âSo they must,' said Luke, with another rather heartless laugh. âThe anatomy that George has drawn so prettily for us was well hidden under fine dresses and hunting clothes. But it could never have been concealed in the bedroom. I'm thinking Brockletower was not a dupe when he married his Dolores â or, at any rate, he could not have remained so for long after.'

But something else was on my mind.

âYes, Luke, but it also makes them unlike other couples that do not become parents, do you see? The latter continue almost into old age to hope, and pray, and perform superstitious rites, because they cannot explain their barrenness. The Brockletowers
could never have had any such hopes. Whatever form their intercourse tookâ'

âDid not the vicar of Yolland tell you something about that?' interrupted Fidelis.

âNot specifically, but he did strongly suggest certain,' I dropped my voice, âirregularities. And, as I say, whatever they did was not going to result in a child under any circumstances.'

âWhat did they do, sir?' asked George, still sketching industriously but all the while listening with long ears to every word.

I ignored him. He was too young.

âBut my point is that all this accounts for Dolores's interest in the Talboys girl, and her being with child.'

âWhich she actually promoted,' Fidelis said, âfrom what you told me.'

âExcellent! You think exactly as I do, Luke. Dolores Brockletower does appear to have encouraged the girl to put herself in the way of pregnancy.'

Luke rose and dusted his breeches.

âAnd my guess is,' he said, âthat Mrs Brockletower was premeditating the adoption of the child by herself and her husband. But I am afraid I must leave you now. I have a patient waiting.'

I held him back for a moment.

âThe truth about Mrs Brockletower must be kept a close secret, Luke. For the time being, anyway. Is that agreed?'

âAgreed,' he said.

I turned to George.

âAgreed, George? No telling of this, not even to your own shadow.'

George nodded his head and I turned back to Luke.

âLet's you and I meet later,' I said. âAt the Turk's Head coffee house in three hours' time.'

We three did not part finally until we had passed under the covered alley, or tunnel, that connects the square with Market Street. From there Fidelis hurried off to his consultation, while the boy and I turned the other way. The mention of Abigail Talboys had reminded me that I wanted to pay a visit to Talboys's shop. At the top of Friar Gate, George told me he too must leave me, to rejoin his master at Patten House.

âHe is finishing the portrait of Lord Derby. Well, the face.'

âI suppose he will return to Warrington to complete the figure, ' I remarked.

George made a sound that might have been interpreted as a scoff.

âNot him.'

âYou mean he will finish it here?'

George made the sound again.

âNo, he will cut out the face and send it to Mr Van Aken in London.'

BOOK: A Dark Anatomy

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