A Matter of Grave Concern (23 page)

“It’s true! You’re back!” Mrs. Fitzgerald exclaimed.

Bran looked her up and down, then nodded as if he was satisfied to see she wasn’t any worse for her adventure. Of course, they couldn’t see all the things that had changed—and so quickly—on the inside. Perhaps she had been on the brink of establishing her independence before she left. She had taken to it easily enough.

Her father said nothing. He waited for her to greet the servants. Then he told the others they should get back to their duties, came in and shut the door.

Abby drew a deep breath. “Hello, Father,” she said. “I’m sorry if I . . . if I frightened you.”

Edwin Hale frowned as he pulled the letter she had sent him out of his pocket. “You
did
frighten me, which is why I was so grateful to receive your letter. Thanks for sending that, at least.”

She clasped her hands in front of her. “Of course.”

He walked over and sat on the chair to her boudoir. “So . . . are you going to tell me why you left and just where you have been? I have nearly driven myself crazy trying to figure out why you would suddenly disappear, especially to go with a band of resurrection men. Men like Jack Hurtsill can’t be trusted. He—” Suddenly at a loss for words, he glanced at the letter and lifted it to her attention yet again. “And to think you
wanted
to be there with him. I admit I can’t quite fathom it.”

Where did she start? So much had occurred. And so much of it wasn’t the type of thing she could tell her father. She doubted he would want to hear that she had lost her virginity to a man who could never marry her, even if he was a duke. She could only hope—and pray—that she wasn’t pregnant.

“It’s not what you think,” she said.

“I’m certainly glad to hear
that
.”

“Are you familiar with the Duke of Rowenberry?”

She had succeeded in surprising him. “Did you say
duke
?”

“Yes.”

“Although I don’t know him personally, I know of him.”

“That will help,” she said and told him about Lucien posing as Max to search for his missing sister. She also told him about Tom and Emmett and Bill and Agnes and the others who figured into the story—and how she had tried to help “Max.”

“So you didn’t find her,” he said when she finished.

Was he angry at the decisions she’d made? Surprisingly, it didn’t seem like it. She got the impression he was relieved that he could understand her logic, that she hadn’t really joined the London Supply Company. “Not yet. Unless Emmett turns up, and happens to know something about her, I think we may never know what happened.”

“Is that why you returned?” he asked.

She went to the window so she wouldn’t have to look at him when she replied. “For the most part. I didn’t see what more I could do there. But here, I could possibly see to it that Jack faces justice.”

He stood and came toward her. “How?”

“By finding Tom’s body. If he’s dead, we know that Jack must have killed him. His brother spoke to someone who saw Jack and Bill drag Tom into an alley the night he was likely murdered.”

“Murdered,” he repeated as if that word hadn’t previously existed in his lexicon. “What you are doing is so dangerous, Abby. You realize that.”

“Of course. But Big Jack has to be stopped before he hurts someone else.”

“Surely the duke can see to it.”

“Max—His Grace—has had his clerk asking about Madeline at the colleges. It has gotten him nowhere.”

“That doesn’t mean anyone is lying or withholding information, Abby. It could be that she isn’t dead.”

“Maybe not, but I’m rather certain Tom is. The way Bill and Jack were talking leads me to believe they sold his corpse. If so, we should be able to find it.”

“There is so much at stake here—for everyone.”

“Matters of life and death should outweigh all other factors.”

“And they do,” he assured her. “But . . . I don’t want you involved in this any longer.”

She opened her mouth to argue, to say that she didn’t care one whit about her reputation, but he lifted a hand to stop her before she could even get started. “I don’t want it to be
your
life that swings in the balance. So let
me
do it.”

“
You’ll
inquire about Tom?”

“Considering the reason for such inquiries, it would be far better coming from me.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “But you must let me go with you. That’s the only way I will be able to put my mind at rest—and between us, I am the only one who will recognize Tom.”

He hesitated as if he would deny her in spite of that. She knew he thought she would be better off to distance herself from the whole nasty business, let him take it from there. But she rushed on.

“And we have to act quickly, while he is still recognizable.”

“Of course. But . . .”

“Father, no doubt everyone has heard that I went missing. Let this be our way of establishing why.” She watched him expectantly.

“That means you don’t want to pay a visit to Aunt Emily in Herefordshire,” he said dryly.

“No, not now.”

“Just until whatever happens with Jack Hurtsill happens? I don’t like the idea that he might come back here, that he might try to achieve some sort of revenge.”

Abby had been so prepared to argue against going to the country—at any point. She definitely wasn’t going to go now, to be left waiting and wondering as to the outcome of all that had happened in Wapping. But perhaps it was a bit ironic given her heated opposition until now that she wasn’t so sure she would remain as steadfast against it in the future. In London, all she could think about was Max. Perhaps, when all was said and done, a change of scenery—about the time he was to marry—would help her recover.

“I can’t go now, Father. But . . . I’ll consider it,” she said.

Surprisingly, he didn’t push her. He stood there, looking rather large and out of place in her room, and she realized how few times he had actually visited it. “I’m glad you’re back, my dear.”

Abby smiled. “I missed you, too.”

He started to leave but turned at the door. “You seem different somehow.”

“I
feel
different,” she admitted.

“But it isn’t because . . . I mean, you haven’t been compromised in any way . . .”

She could tell how difficult it was for him to ask. “No. The duke kept me with him at all times and protected me from the others.”

He studied her carefully. “It sounds as if I owe him a great deal. He’s a good man, then?”

Carefully hiding the true nature of her feelings, she lifted her chin. “He is.”

Relief replaced the concern on his face. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

Chapter 25

Max sat in the corner, alone, at Forrester’s Arms, a tavern not far from Farmer’s Landing. He had slept the whole day. Now that it was getting dark, he finally felt rested, but when he had left the house, Jack was still in bed, snoring loudly.

Max couldn’t imagine they would be going out to work that night and was glad for the reprieve. He’d had about all he could take of body snatching—and Jack, too. Or maybe it was just that his current circumstances were made all the worse because Abby was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. He wasn’t sure he had ever been in a darker mood. He could only hope that no one crossed him; he was spoiling for a fight.

Almost as soon as the barmaid put the pigeon pie he had ordered in front of him, a small street urchin hurried into the tavern, paused to study each of the patrons and finally approached him. “Excuse me, sir.”

Max put down the fork he had just lifted. “Yes?”

“Are you the one called Max? Max Wilder?”

“I am.”

“With the London Supply Company?”

Max bit back a sigh. “For the moment.”

The boy adjusted his cap, which covered a mop of unruly brown hair, checked as if to be sure they couldn’t be overheard and lowered his voice. “I’ve got a message for you.”

Max accepted the folded paper the boy held out in one dirty hand. Then he gave him a few coins and watched him scurry off before leaning closer to the candle on the table, so he could read.

The note was from Mr. Hawley. Although it wasn’t signed, Max easily recognized his clerk’s handwriting:

Emmett showed up here, asking questions.

That was all it said. No doubt Mr. Hawley was trying to be discreet lest his missive fall into the wrong hands. But that single cryptic line evoked a million questions. If Emmett was alive and well, why hadn’t he shown up at Jack’s or Bill’s? What was he up to? And where was
here
—the warehouse?

Probably, Max decided. It made sense. Emmett had likely followed him there, just as he had followed him other places. But what kind of information was Emmett after? Did Jack know Emmett was safe? Could it be
Jack
who was really behind these inquiries?

Then there was the biggest question of all: Did either Jack or Emmett suspect Max’s true identity and purpose?

Max’s mind reverted to the conversation he’d had at the door with Bill and Agnes. Perhaps they mentioned to Jack that he had been interested in learning more about Madeline and that had heightened Jack’s suspicion.

To answer as many of these questions as he could, he had to speak to his clerk—preferably before Jack woke up. And this time he had to be sure Emmett, if he was around, wasn’t following him.

When Mr. Holthouse, one of the other surgeons at the college, pulled her aside, Abby braced herself for the worst. She thought he was going to scold her for comprising her reputation, ruining her father’s chance of a knighthood or further damaging the public’s opinion of the medical community. Like her father, he was a very conservative man—one who, no doubt, found what she had done quite shocking. But as they stepped into the operating theatre, he surprised her by saying, “I just want to tell you how grateful I am.”

At first, she thought he was being sarcastic. But he didn’t
sound
sarcastic . . . “For . . . ?”

He motioned to the table at the center of the room, which bore the cadaver she had delivered, currently covered with a sheet. “For providing the specimen under dissection, of course. The situation here was becoming quite intolerable. You are the only one who stepped up to solve the problem—and it occurs to me that this wasn’t the first time. You must have been responsible for the specimens we dissected last year, too. Am I correct?”

Abby acknowledged that with a nod. “I couldn’t stand to see the college suffer—not to mention your work, my father’s and the other the doctors’ and surgeons’.”

“You are a brave soul, Miss Hale. I would never have expected a woman, especially such a young woman, to have the temerity to act as you did. We all owe you a great debt for your bravery and willingness to take such a risk. If not for you, perhaps Aldersgate would have been forced to close its doors.”

Abby had been prepared to defend herself, not accept praise. “Thank you, sir. I-I appreciate what you have said.”

He gave her arm a slight squeeze. “Perhaps you can persuade your father to let you stay in your current position. I, for one, would not be opposed to it.”

Meaning he wouldn’t mind if she continued to do his dirty work? She wasn’t all that flattered, especially because she would no longer be satisfied with her current situation. She wanted more out of life. If she couldn’t have the man she loved, she at least wanted to plot a course that would be more mentally challenging—and rewarding—than her current day-to-day routine.

“Actually, I was hoping to be admitted to the college next term or . . . perhaps the term after,” she said. She figured if she was ever going to gain his support, it would be now. And if she could get him to stand behind her, perhaps she could get others.

But his eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. “As a
student
?”

“Yes. I would dearly love to become a surgeon,” she admitted. Why was that so out of the realm of possibility? Was her mind not as quick or agile as those of the male students who attended Aldersgate?

From what
she
could tell, it was.

“My, you are modern in your ideas,” he said and pulled out his watch as if he was suddenly too busy to continue the conversation. “I have my last class of the day coming up. If you will excuse me.”

Abby frowned as she watched him hurry down the steps to the cadaver she had helped deliver. He was grateful to her for enabling
his
career, but he wasn’t about to throw any support behind allowing her to embrace the same work. Although
she
had changed a great deal in the past week, not much else had.

“There you are.” Mrs. Fitzgerald came upon her from behind. “Did Bransby find you?”

Abby hadn’t seen him since he had welcomed her home that morning, but she hadn’t been around. She had spent much of the day visiting the other colleges with her father. Her father was still out. He said he wanted to speak with some of his anatomist friends in private, that he thought it might help them gain more information—if there was more information out there. But no one at the six places they had visited admitted to accepting a cadaver with a harelip like Tom’s.

“No. Has he been looking for me?”

“He was when I bumped into him a few minutes ago. As soon as he realized your father wasn’t back, he asked if I had seen you.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He was just coming out of your father’s office. I told him you might be in the pantry, going over supplies.”

That was something she needed to do. But she had been too preoccupied with the search for Tom’s body. She didn’t like the idea of Max staying in Wapping, in danger, any longer than absolutely necessary. “I’ll see if I can find him.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald offered her a smile, but it was rather stiff. The housekeeper didn’t know the whole story behind her sudden disappearance and hadn’t completely forgiven her for worrying her father.

All the nights when the housekeeper had waited up for Edwin, brought him his tea, asked after his health, tried to help him keep his daughter in line, suddenly seemed to make more sense. Maybe Mrs. Fitzgerald loved her father the way she loved Max, she thought, and felt far warmer toward the woman.

“What is it?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked.

“Love is a funny thing, isn’t it?” she said.

Mrs. Fitzgerald’s face went red and she ducked her head to attach the massive ring of keys she carried to its place on her belt. “Excuse me?”

Abigail threw her arms around her and gave her a hug, which made the poor woman stumble and blush but ultimately smile. “Never mind.” She headed to the pantry, but ran into Bransby before she even reached the kitchen.

“There you are,” he said.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald told me you were looking for me?”

He glanced over his shoulder, as if he didn’t want the kitchen help to hear what he had to say. “May I have a moment?”

“Of course.” She led him back to her father’s study. In the theatre next door, they could hear Mr. Holthouse welcoming his students and beginning his class.

“I’m sure you’re upset with me, Bran,” she said before he could get started. “I put you in a difficult situation when I decided to buy another corpse without my father’s knowledge. It must have frightened you a great deal when I went missing.”

“I wouldn’t presume to find fault with you, Miss,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re home safe.”

“Thank you.” Supposing he had merely wanted to let her know he had no hard feelings, she stood up. She had to dress for dinner. But he didn’t leave.

“This is regarding something else,” he said.

Mildly surprised, she sat down again. “And that is . . .”

“The porter at Pembroke College is Mr. Whitehill. He is a friend of mine and came to see me a few minutes ago.”

Pembroke was one of the colleges they had visited earlier that day. Mr. Bowden, the lead anatomist, had met with them and claimed to be in desperate need of a cadaver. Perhaps he thought, given her recent association with resurrection men, that she could provide him with one. She could easily imagine him sending his porter over to inquire—he wouldn’t want to ask such a thing of her in front of her father—but she wasn’t going to get involved in
that
. Only her love for her father, and
this
college, had caused her to take such matters into her own hands. “Don’t tell me he’s looking for me to supply him with a cadaver!”

“No, Miss. They currently have a large male.”

This surprised her. She specifically remembered Mr. Bowden saying they
didn’t
have a specimen. He had spent most of the time they were there lamenting the college’s
difficult situation
as if they had been a long time without the ability to dissect. “Are you sure?”

“I trust Mr. Whitehill’s word.”

“But my father and I spoke to the head surgeon there not three hours ago and inquired after their status in that regard. You’re not suggesting that Mr. Bowden lied to us . . .”

Abby had been trying to tuck a stray piece of hair back up in her chignon, but when he didn’t answer, she dropped her hand. “Well?”

“If he told you they don’t have a specimen, then I suppose I am, Miss. But . . . perhaps he felt forced into it.”

“Because . . .”

“Mr. Whitehill believes he bought their new cadaver from Big Jack.”

Heart pounding, Abby swallowed hard. She had a feeling she knew what was coming next. “He said that?”

“And more. According to Mr. Whitehill, there is some . . . imperfection in the lip.”

“The
lip
?” A chill ran through Abigail, causing her pulse to race even faster. That had to be Tom’s corpse. What were the chances that there would be some other recently deceased person with the same congenital defect currently in a college’s dissection room?

“But . . . why would they tell us otherwise?” she asked. “No one could find fault with them, least of all us. Any college could have made the mistake of buying that corpse from Jack and Bill.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” he said. “I can only guess that Mr. Bowden didn’t want the notoriety—or feared he would be brought up on charges.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. He wouldn’t be charged,” she said. “No one asks questions when purchasing a cadaver—including me. Unless . . .” She jumped to her feet. “Was there something obvious about this cadaver? Something that should have made the situation apparent?”

It was one thing not to ask questions when confronted with a stiff corpse dug up from a cemetery and quite another to remain silent when confronted with a fresh body that had clearly not been disinterred. The difference between those two scenarios was the chief argument against Robert Knox—the doctor who had purchased those bodies from Burke and Hare two years ago—wasn’t it? Many suspected that he was complicit. There were
still
newspaper articles that made various derogatory plays on his name—“Dr. Noxious” and “Dr. Obnoxious” and the like. Although no one had been able to prove that he knew any of the sixteen murder victims he bought from Burke and Hare had been killed—and it was possible that some of his assistants had actually dealt with the resurrection men instead of him—he couldn’t escape the stigma of it. His reputation would likely never recover.

But even then . . . as with the female corpse that had the artificial eye, murder wasn’t the only possibility.

“The cadaver’s throat was slit before it ever went under a surgeon’s knife.”

So there
was
more than receiving a fresh body to indicate foul play.
That
was why Dr. Bowden hadn’t been honest. He, or whoever on his staff actually purchased the body, had overlooked this not-so-minor detail—and he feared there would be repercussions because of it.