Sawbones (5 page)

“I want my wits about me, thank you very much.” She glared at him.

Ezra had to tell her ten times to keep still, then, as quickly as he could, made four tiny stitches. Miss Finch bit her lip and looked away at first, but Ezra caught her watching and her face seemed to have changed from outrage to interest.

“There.” He stood back. “If you hadn’t wriggled so, I might have got in five smaller, but that will do.”

“Pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” she said. “I bet my stitches would be neater than yours.”

He smiled. “I’d like to see that.”

“I would say a human is no different from a smocked shirt. And I do the best smocked shirts – my pa said so…” Her voice tailed off.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” he ventured into the silence that followed.

“No matter,” Miss Finch said briskly, and got up to walk.

“No.” Ezra put a hand out to stop her. “No pressure on it. Not for a few days. Not at all!”

“So I mightn’t walk now?” She sounded worried.

“I’ll bandage it up, but you will need to use a stick or a crutch,” he told her. “Look, lean on me and we’ll see if we can find the stores – there is bound to be one there.” He stopped, seeing the shocked look on her face. “Just for a few days,” he added hastily, “until the skin knits back together.”

Miss Finch leant her shoulder against his and hobbled down the corridor past the medical wards. The lamps were all lit now, but it was a gloomy place, Ezra thought. There was crying and moaning, and perhaps the remembrance of hundreds of years of crying too.

“So many people have died here,” Miss Finch said, as if reading his thoughts.

It wasn’t long before they came to a cupboard full of sticks and trolleys and crutches. Ezra found her one of a suitable size and they left the hospital via the north gate.

“So you have no further opportunity to stir up the drinkers at the Fortune of War,” he said.

“Those men are not ordinary drinkers.”

“I know.”

“And I know I have accomplished nothing with my vigil.” She sighed. “I had hoped to make them feel something. Guilt, perhaps.”

“The resurrectionists are not known for their tender feelings,” Ezra said and she almost laughed.

“I have been an idiot. But since Pa died…”

“I am sorry. For your loss,” Ezra said, thoughtful. “But in my line of work death is common; everyday. Sometimes I think it is more ordinary than life.”

“Then I pity you. A life amongst the dead! No wonder you speak like an old man, though I swear you cannot be more than seventeen.”

Ezra said nothing, he was pleased she thought him slightly older than his years.

“I know I said some terrible things to you, but you should know my reasons.” She took a deep breath. “My father sickened and died within three days. It was so sudden. He was quite well until we returned home, the performance had been a complete success—”

“Performance?”

“We work as magicians. Falcon and Finch,” she said. “My father is – was – Mr Charles Finch.”

“Falcon and Finch!” Ezra smiled. “I saw you at Vauxhall last summer. Of course – and you are the Spirit of Truth! You could tell when men lied or spoke true. You and Mr Finch were a marvellous turn. Now I think of it, I even recall the hair. Anna thought you were quite splendid.” Ezra paused, made a face. “Mr Falcon and his Italian cards, less so. I should so like to know how it all works.”

“I cannot tell.” Miss Finch’s eyes sparkled with something like mischief. “Not on my life. Conjuror’s honour. But thank you,” she added. “I quite enjoyed being the Spirit of Truth. We haven’t done that turn since last summer, we were thinking of ways to better it, improve on it.” She sighed. “That will not happen now. I suppose my life will change more than I can know.” She stared into the distance and Ezra thought she might cry. They walked on in silence. Ezra looked sideways at her. A performer. No wonder she had not fit into any of the categories he could think of. A magician’s assistant! He had always wondered how those deceptions worked. Still, she looked sad now, and Ezra decided he preferred to see her fierce than sad. He should say something.

“So will you not continue to work with Mr Falcon?”

“Perhaps. He has been good to us. To me. He was a friend of my father’s since before I was born. He has many contacts. I might go abroad, or work up my own act. But without father…”

“Tell me what happened to your father,” Ezra said.

“He woke up poorly last Thursday, pale as…” She paused. “He was sick, vomiting all morning. I took him to the hospital. I should have stayed with him but I left him there – here. He told me he would be all right. And then he wasn’t. I knew it was not natural, I would swear on all God’s creatures above and below. But not a soul would listen. The final straw was that someone else came and claimed the body for burial! A woman, who said she was his sister. My father has no sister! Mrs Gurney, my landlady, said I should leave things be, but I cannot!” She was getting agitated again. Ezra thought of his stitches and sat her down on a bench in the courtyard.

“Oh, I know a thing or two about resurrectionists,” Miss Finch went on. “I have heard what they do. I would give two guineas to prove that my father was murdered, and that he lies in the cellar of the Fortune of War.”

“Two guineas?” Ezra’s mind was racing. That would be more than enough to travel. His own funds. He could get a boat to Holland and back with that! He began to map out a plan of action. Why, he could walk across the road this minute and check to see if her pa was there, in the cellar.

“I have the money,” the girl continued. “Well, I have Father’s clothes and props. He will not need them now. The mad thing is,” she said, looking at Ezra, “if they’d have asked me – once he was dead, that is – if your lot had come and said nicely, ‘Look, Loveday, we can help you, we can tell you why your Pa died,’ I’d have said, ‘You know what? The man’s dead, so, yes, why not?’” She took a breath. “Pa loved science, he wouldn’t have minded being sat next to the Irish Giant, up in your man’s museum, with a little sign round his neck saying Skeleton of the World’s Greatest Magician.”

“Your name is Loveday?”

“What of it?”

“Nothing. Unusual.” Like its owner, Ezra thought. He turned to her and declared, “I will take the job. I will find your father’s corpse, and I will find the cause of his death.”

“You could do that?” She smiled – properly this time, her eyes alight with new hope. Ezra looked at her. He remembered her all in white, almost like a Grecian, on stage as the Spirit of Truth in Vauxhall Gardens.

He smiled back at her. “Yes,” he said. “I think I could.”

The Fortune of War Public House
Giltspur Street
London
November 1792

E
zra called a cab for Miss Loveday Finch, and as it turned out of sight he thought on his next actions. Already the notion that he might earn some decent cash, do a lady a favour and solve a riddle all at once was opening up an exciting range of possibilities.

He had often thought that the anatomist’s skills were especially useful in post-mortem examinations – better than those of a doctor, who was, after all, no more than an apothecary who treated only surface and appearance. A cadaver was always a puzzle, but usually the reasons for death were mundane and clear: poverty, old age, drowning, cold, malnutrition. If Miss Finch was telling the truth about her father – and of course there was the possibility her mind was moved to imaginings by grief – then this might be a very interesting way to pocket some rhino.

Ezra had told her to go home, not to disturb her father’s room – he would go over there tomorrow, after work, and take a close look – and to live her life as entirely without remark as possible. If there had been a murder, and it was not the random assault and robbery kind, then Ezra was sure the murderer would be known to both Miss Finch and her father. On the few occasions he had discussed murder with Mr McAdam, the master had said he was of the opinion that most who died in a violent and sudden way did so at the hands of someone close to them: the wronged wife, the vicious husband, the unwanted child.

As he stood in the street he heard the church at St Sepulchre chime for eight o’clock. He needed to be back at the house for Mr Allen and his company to pick up the things, ready and waiting in the anatomy room. But perhaps Allen would be sitting in the Fortune of War now, drinking before his evening’s work? It would be simple enough to find out.

Ezra had never before set foot inside such a low dive. The place was known to be dangerous. It was said that in the cellar there was a room set out with shelves all around the walls. Not bookshelves, but shelves for cadavers ready to be sent all over London to this or that anatomy or medical school. Ezra counted them off inside his head. He knew of ten private schools like the master’s, and then there were the hospital schools, Bart’s and Guy’s and St Thomas’s, Middlesex and St George’s. They all needed corpses to learn from, to practise on, yet the trade – and it was definitely a trade – was entirely corrupt. The world, Ezra thought, was a very contrary place.

He looked up at the tavern again. How should he play it – breeze in, asking to see their wares? Was that what one did? One thing was sure: Ezra was far more afraid of the living than the dead. He walked past once, twice, then pushed in through the door before he could change his mind.

Inside, the tavern was a fug of tobacco smoke. That and the yellow candlelight made it hard to see anything at first. He had worried all eyes would swivel to look at him as he entered, but that was practicably impossible. The place was too busy, too noisy: a violin scraped out a tune, a choir of drunken voices caterwauled along. A couple of boys danced out a rhythm in wooden shoes.

The air was thick with smells: ale, spirits, hot pies, but mostly unwashed men and damp. A hard place to have a good time, Ezra would have thought. He made it to the bar, where a legend painted in gold and black read: W
E
K
NOW
N
OT THE
D
AY
N
OR THE
H
OUR
.

The drinkers were a mix of medical students that Ezra recognized from St Bart’s, Smithfield market workers, a few snotter-haulers and second-hand clothes traders, and the resurrection men. He spotted a couple of Allen’s cronies and, in the corner at the back, the man who’d chased Miss Finch, glaring ten kinds of holy death at him.

Ezra took a deep breath. The only way he could see was to ask outright if the thing was here and then do whatever it was Mr McAdam did: enquire about the purchase of the thing and persuade them to deliver it to Great Windmill Street on the master’s account. If any of the resurrectionists did him any real harm, he told himself, the master would hear of it. That fact alone was his protection. What he would tell the master if and when an extra delivery was made – well, he would have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

The man in the corner was still staring at him, so Ezra bought him a drink at the bar and walked over. He had no option but to cut directly to the chase and see what followed.

“Good evening,” Ezra said, setting down the pot tankard in front of him.

“And to you, young McAdam.” The man paused, sniffed, took a drink. “Mr Allen says you’re a straight cove, is it true?”

“I’d like to think so, yes.” Ezra sat down across the table from him.

“So how’s your lady friend?’

“She’s not so much of a friend. It’s simply business.”

“Ah,” said the man, “business. My favourite.” He sat back, inviting Ezra to speak.

“I’m looking for something. Some
thing
in particular. But I’ll need to check it over first.”

“Some … thing?” the man answered. “Where I’m from, south of the river,” he said quietly, “we like to think of them as cold meat. Fresher the better, of course. Sometimes they’re parcels. Packets. Special deliveries.”

Ezra had heard those terms too. He nodded.

“Well, I’m sure we can provide what you need, young sir. Even in such times as these when the world and his wife are looking for …
things
.” The man leant close, and Ezra could smell the stench of his breath. “We have your address, delivery tomorrow morning?”

“No.” Ezra coughed. “It’s a particular thing I need. I have to see them.” He lowered his voice. “I need to see their faces.”

The man scowled. “And play them a tune while you’re at it!” His voice was low and threatening. He swore. “Know this: if you weren’t McAdam’s boy I’d have you thrown out in the street on your arse.” He finished his drink and stood up, motioning Ezra to follow, and they left the bar and stepped behind a curtain through a door. He picked up and lit a candle stub, and Ezra followed him down some steep stone steps. The smell and the cold hit him on the second step. The familiar, summer-sweet, sick-sour smell of death. It was so heavy that Ezra felt the vomit rise up from his stomach.

The man grinned. “Not used to it, are you, lad?”

Ezra would have liked to dispute the fact and say, yes, he was completely used to the human body, most especially when it was deceased. But this was different: the smell was turned here into something almost solid. He had to put his hand out to the wall to steady himself; it felt wet and cold as ice and shocked the sickness out of him.

The room was low-ceilinged, but contrary to the rumour there were no shelves for the bodies to lie prone and stately in their sacks. Here the sacks were higgledy-piggledy, against every wall. Ezra counted eight – they’d be worth a small fortune. One or two had obviously been here longer than others; even in the candlelight he could make out the damp patches, large and spreading. He tried to stop himself imagining how far the decomposition must have gone.

“I think this is the one you want,” the man said, and opened a sack nearest the door. “Freshest. Like he’s just fell asleep.” Ezra could see the corpse’s grey hair, and he shook his head quickly.

The man shrugged and opened another. A woman. Ezra shook his head again.

“Well, the others all have takers. This is Mr Lashley’s.” The man tugged the sacking down over the cadaver’s face. “He’s special, in a way – found abandoned, he was, like luggage.”