The Resurrectionist (10 page)

T
HE END WHEN IT COMES
is swift. On the doorstep a man I do not know. One eye staring pale and blind, the colour in it seemingly scoured away, its emptiness making me recoil. At first I take him for a sexton, or an undertaker perhaps, for he wears a dark suit and hat, and there is something about his long face and manner, his air of false sympathy which somehow fits the part. But his suit is too ragged, and his smile at the way his eye startles me betrays a different sort of nature.

‘Here, boy,’ he says, ‘this is for your master.’

I take the letter he holds outstretched.

‘Who is it from?’ – but as I ask, the door behind me opens. Mr Tyne. His eyes move from one of us to the other, and then his expression changes.

‘You?’ he spits. But our visitor only smiles, as if Mr Tyne’s temper pleases him. Seeing the letter in my hand Mr Tyne snatches it.

‘This is yours?’ he demands. The other man simply touches his hat and bows exaggeratedly –

‘Give your master my blessings.’

Left alone with me Mr Tyne lifts the letter to my face.

‘Did you bring him here?’ he demands.

Shaking my head I tell him I have never seen him before today. With a sudden motion he casts the letter at my chest.

‘Your master is inside, boy. Do as you were bid.’

He follows me up to Mr Poll’s study. Charles is there, and Robert too, and as we enter the three of them turn.

‘Yes?’ asks Mr Poll, and I step forward, placing the letter in his hand. Seeing the script on its front, a flicker passes across his face, but otherwise his expression is impassive as he opens and reads it.

‘Who brought this?’ he asks then, looking up at me. Mr Tyne takes a step forward.

‘Craven,’ he says, and at this the room grows quiet. Even I know it as the name of Lucan’s man, the most trusted of his gang.

‘What does it say?’ Charles asks, rising from the chair. Mr Poll makes no move to put the letter in his hand; indeed, he does not even look at Charles.

‘It is from Lucan,’ he says. ‘Caley and Walker are taken by the law.’

Beside me Mr Tyne makes a hissing sound, but it is Charles who speaks.

‘Would he have us beg?’

‘That is precisely what he means to have,’ says Mr Poll, his voice dismissing Charles’s words as if they were those of a foolish child. Charles’s face darkens, but if Mr Poll sees it he gives no sign. Instead he rounds on Mr Tyne, holding the letter out at him.

‘And you, man. How is it I must learn of it thus? Is it
true?’ – though it is plain from the fury of Mr Tyne’s expression that he knew no more than any of us. ‘Well? Answer me!’

‘I do not know.’

Mr Poll stares at him for a long moment.

‘Go then, find out.’ And then he turns away, dismissing us. Only Charles remains, looking at his back, his eyes cold.

It is dark before Mr Tyne returns, the house silent and still. We follow him to Mr Poll’s study, where he makes his report: Caley and Walker are indeed taken, and at this very moment sit in the cells of Bow Street where they were brought after a struggle in the yard of St Bartholomew’s.

Outside in the street the night is mild, the cries of children and the scent of smoke rising through the windows, but in the house it is cold.

‘Very well, then,’ says Mr Poll. ‘It is done.’

O
NCE MR POLL HAS GONE
I follow Charles and the others to a place in the Haymarket. Inside the air is hot, and close, the rooms crowded with men and women all talking and drinking. Chifley would play at cards, and almost immediately takes himself and Caswell away to find a table, leaving me alone with Charles. Charles moves restlessly, looking through the rooms as if for something which remains ever out of reach.

‘What will happen to Caley and Walker?’ I ask as we go, and he gazes at me though I speak of something from long ago, another time, another place.

‘They will be tried, and no doubt convicted.’

‘Of what?’

‘Theft, trespass, public affray. Some charge will be found.’

‘And us?’

He shrugs. ‘We will be Lucan’s again.’

Surprised by the carelessness of his tone I begin to object

– but he reminds me that these are not subjects for company such as this. On the room’s other side Chifley and Caswell
have found a game and are seating themselves. Chifley motions us to join them, but Charles declines, excusing himself and leaving me there.

And so left alone I wander back through the house, looking at the faces, the dresses and the jewels and the beauty of the women whose bodies fill its rooms. Down the stairs in the hall, there are palms in massive pots, and by the door Negroes in uniforms, and in the ballroom the band plays.

And then quite suddenly I see her, half-turned away. She wears a dress of the deepest blue, her hair piled high upon her head. I begin to walk towards her, delighted to find her here, but then I realise she is not alone, that she is on the arm of a man I do not recognise.

He is older than her, moustachioed, his frame broad, and powerful. I stop, a kind of space opening within me, and then she turns. That she sees me, I know – for our eyes meet and for a long instant she freezes, gazing back, her eyes dark with the look of warning she gave me that night, months ago, in Kitty’s room. Then she looks away, showing no sign of recognition.

‘You know her then?’ Chifley’s voice.

‘Who is that man with her?’

‘Her lover, Sparrow, a man of property.’

I will not flinch.

‘What? You thought she might love you alone?’ Chifley asks.

I step away, not prepared to let him see how his words have cut me, the room moving as if I am drunk, my legs weak, and his face lit with his crooked smile.

L
ATE, AND IN THE STREET
rain has begun to fall, a mist which moves in clouds through the glow of the lamps. Alone and drunk, in front of the house I draw out my key, push the door as quietly as I can. Inside it is dark, the events of the day lingering in the stillness. Tomorrow Lucan will come, we know. He will offer terms we have no choice but to accept along with the knowledge of our defeat at his hands.

Beneath my feet the boards creak, the sound loud in the space of the hall, and then I feel it – a presence in the air.

‘Robert?’ I ask, swaying slightly. ‘Mrs Gunn?’

Something, barely more than a rustle.

‘Hello?’ I call, pressing open the door which leads to the dissection room at the house’s rear. A suggestion of light falls from the glass roof. Otherwise darkness. Taking a step inwards I peer into the silent space. In my chest my breath is stopped, my blood moving in the silence. Then behind me I hear the hastening creak of the door as it shuts, the rising light of a lamp filling the room, and turning I see Mr Tyne.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

He does not reply, just takes a step towards me.

‘Have you some need of me?’

In the light of the lamp his eyes seem without white, small and hard as those of the shark that sleeps in a tank next door. The way he moves frightens me, and without thinking I step back and aside as he approaches. Only when he is almost on me does he speak.

‘I know what you are, boy,’ he says, his voice low.

Turning slowly I follow him with my eyes as he moves past me into the room, unwilling to let him out of my sight or to let him come too close. It is not me he reaches for though, but the dissection table, its surface hidden by the sheet which covers Caley’s last body, delivered the night before last. Mr Tyne pauses beside it, watching me, one hand extended to grip the sheet.

‘What is it?’ I ask again, but Mr Tyne only laughs, one hand drawing the sheet down, and away, so it slides and falls to the floor below, exposing a woman’s body. I look at her numbly for a moment, and then Mr Tyne lets the hand which drew the sheet aside stray to her face, moving as he does about the table’s end, so he stands at her head. There is something unpleasantly intimate in the touch of his hand, the way it lies upon her naked skin.

‘She is for dissection tomorrow,’ I say. He nods, his eyes moving up and down her naked form. I am ashamed for her suddenly, lying exposed before this man. I am uncomfortable with him even this close to me too, and gingerly I take another step back, but as I do his hand slips into his jacket, and emerges with a knife. With one fluid movement he steps forward, the tip of it coming to rest against my neck.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, willing my voice not to tremble. In my chest I can feel my heart now tapping a quick, shivering beat. This close I see the powder on his face, smell
the gin that lingers in his breath. Then with a slow movement he lets the knife slide over my collar and down my chest. As it drops he moves closer still, until we are almost face against face, the blade coming to rest beneath my ribs, the point pressed into my skin.

‘You have the airs of a gentleman, yet your father died a beggar.’

‘Have I offended you somehow?’ I ask, my voice trembling. Mr Tyne’s eyes narrow.

‘You want for manners, boy,’ he says. The knife slips away from my belly, and almost convulsively my breath escapes. Mr Tyne takes a step back, the knife hanging in his hand almost casually. It is a short, ugly thing, its sharpened sides tapering to a point. A knife for killing, nothing else.

‘I am sorry you think that.’

‘Perhaps it is time you had a lesson,’ he says. For a few seconds more he watches me, then he turns to the corpse again, lifting her head, and pressing the knife against her cheek. The skin gives, but does not break.

‘You must not mark her,’ I say, willing my voice to sound authoritative.

‘No?’ he asks. ‘What would you do if I did?’

‘I should be forced to tell our master.’

‘And if I were to deny it, who do you think he would believe?’

I hesitate. ‘Why are you doing this?’

A terrible stillness seems to have gripped him, all save his eyes, which he raises to mine.

‘Do not play me for a gull,’ he says. ‘For I am not.’ As he speaks he lets the knife snake across her face.

‘Mr Poll will want to know who is responsible if she is marked. He may not believe I did it without reason.’

He nods, smiling, the knife loosening in his grasp. Relieved, I relax, my breath escaping again in a rush. Then in
one quick movement he lifts his hand, takes her nose between his thumb and forefinger and cuts at it with a hard, hacking motion until it comes away in his grasp. Opening his hand he displays the severed nose to me, nestled in his palm. I stare back, unspeaking. Then, with a quick flick of his wrist he flings the ghastly thing at my feet.

‘Tell him it was me and I will kill you in your sleep.’

I
TIS MRS GUNN’S VOICE
I hear first, laughing delightedly. Then Oates, and laughter once more, although this time stifled, as if they fear being overheard. To hear laughter from the kitchen in the day is not unusual. It is the habit of Oates to settle there when Mr Poll is in the house, and although I have heard Mrs Gunn complain of him, in truth I do not think she minds, for Oates is amusing in his way, and much given to all sorts of gossip.

Wiping my hands upon a cloth I make my way towards the door. Both fall silent, turning their faces to me as one. Oates stands by the fireplace; seeing me he frowns and looks away to Mrs Gunn. Almost a month has passed since the discovery of the woman’s body, but the incident is not forgotten, least of all by Mrs Gunn. What she was told I do not know, all I see is that she treats me now not as she did, but as one might an uninvited guest.

‘What is this?’ I ask, looking from one of them to the other. ‘Has something happened?’

Mrs Gunn purses her lips, but Oates answers for her, so
full of the power of this thing he knows he seems to swell with it.

‘News,’ he says.

‘Of what variety?’

Oates raises his eyebrows, as if to say he will not tell, although from experience I know he will.

‘A happy kind,’ he replies, but before he can continue we are interrupted by the sound of the door overhead. Grasping her apron in her hands Mrs Gunn hurries up the stairs, Oates behind her. Charles is in the hall, his hat still in his hand; seeing Mrs Gunn he smiles.

‘I see my announcement has preceded me,’ he says. Rushing forward Mrs Gunn reaches for his hands and presses them in hers. Charles laughs, no doubt as much at the impropriety of this as anything, for Mrs Gunn loves him as she might a favoured son, and he holds her in what seems a special affection.

‘Let me be the first to congratulate you, sir,’ says Oates, bobbing up and down in what is no doubt meant to be a bow.

‘My thanks,’ says Charles, giving Mrs Gunn’s hands another squeeze. Then he lifts his eyes to me.

‘What say you, Gabriel? Will you not give me your congratulations?’

‘Tell me first what has happened and then I shall,’ I say, although I already know what it must be.

‘I am to wed Miss Poll,’ he says. ‘A date is set.’

Although his words are light I fancy his meaning is not as simple as it might seem. For a fraction of a second I hesitate. Then I step forward, thrusting out my hand in congratulation.

Although there are no more celebrations that day, come Saturday we take Charles into Covent Garden. In a room above a tavern there is meat and gravy, wine and dancing. The
evening is mild, and the streets outside are thronged with people, all boisterous with drink. There are a dozen of us, including Robert, some I know, some I do not, and together we make a merry party.

By midnight we are drunk, the dozen we arrived with swollen to twenty or more. Two men I do not know, a pair of Irishmen with fiddles and a drum, several women and a pox-scarred man I take to be their bawd. Though the party is for Charles, as ever it is Chifley who is its master. Seated on a chair at the room’s centre he conducts the scene, one arm about a girl, the other clasped hard upon a glass, feeding on the scene’s disorder like some malefic thing. To me he does not speak, except to call once for me to sing, his face glinting with the challenge he knows I will not meet. Of us all, am I the only one who sees the way he watches Charles, and Charles watches him? – as if between them lay some secret hate, and Chifley sought to do him harm by the very fact of our delight. Charles, though, seems to have no heart for our games, even as he laughs and sings as one of us.

For them to be like this is nothing new. But at one o’clock a girl appears amongst us. Approaching Charles she seats herself up on his lap, an act which provokes great delight among the rest of us, for she is very fat, and he winces beneath her weight. With her toothless mouth she kisses him, and good-humouredly Charles responds, a dreadful sight, then leaning back she pulls down upon her bodice so her breasts spill forth. They are huge and pale, the skin upon them almost transparent, and on one a blue vein is visible, snaking towards the nipple, thick and pulsing like a worm. Leaning forward she presses them into Charles’s face, shaking her shoulders so they bounce and ripple against him. Trapped by her weight upon the chair Charles has little choice but to submit. On every side our companions whoop and holler, urging her to
continue, and so she does, grasping Charles behind the head and pressing his face into her chest as if to give him suck. As the others cheer, flushed with drink and excitement, I find myself growing tense, afraid of what Charles might do.

After what seems an eternity Charles pushes her away into Chifley’s embrace, Chifley grasping her wrists and jigging her about so her naked breasts dance wildly for all to see, this obscenity provoking yet more applause, the woman shrieking like a banshee in his grip.

Forgotten, Charles stands, makes his way towards the open window. While the woman shrieks and spins the fiddlers play a reel, but by the window Charles does not turn, just stays, staring out. I cross to him and see that in the street below, too, people push and cry, sing and dance, full of drink and a wild release. Through our haze of wine this is a scene of great colour, its players moving too quickly and its clamour rising to the window. Our bodies are close.

‘I have no taste for tonight,’ he says.

‘It was a vulgar trick,’ I say.

Beneath us a couple embrace, their bodies pressed against each other, lost in a kiss. When at last he speaks again his voice is quieter, less certain.

‘I sometimes wish I might live as they do, heedless of the world and its demands.’

I shake my head, uncomfortable. It seems awful to me, that one such as he should wish to unmake his life.

‘I do not understand,’ I say, although I fear I do.

‘No?’ he asks, turning to face me at last. I can smell his distinctive scent of fresh laundry and cologne. His eyes meet mine, searching, as if he thinks he shall find something there, the moment seeming to open with possibility. Then he gives a nod.

‘Then you are fortunate.’ He steps back and stares across at Chifley and the girl, and all at once his mood seems
forgotten. Clasping my arm he turns me back towards the room.

‘Come now,’ he says. ‘I would have a song of Caswell.’ But though he wears a smile, in his eyes there is no joy.

It is late before I find my way home again, my path winding through the darkened streets. Although I have had much to drink I am not drunk, rather lost in some leaden sobriety no amount of liquor will ever shift. On the step I pause. The darkness of the rooms within seems to open up, unfillable, and for a time I stand unmoving, unable to press on.

Inside, the house is asleep, or so it seems until I pass by Robert’s open door. I do not know quite when he left the celebration, for he did not speak to me or say farewell. Now he sits before his desk, his body leaned into the candle’s light, forehead cradled on his hand. The window is open to the night, admitting the warm spring air, the sound of his pen’s scratch upon the paper audible above the distant sounds of the dark city. Although he must have heard my feet upon the stairs he does not turn, so absorbed is he in whatever it is he has before him. I stop, arrested by the stillness of the scene, its memory of an ease we shared which now seems gone.

After a time he looks up, and regards me with an expression that is not unkind but which saddens me for the distance it contains.

‘Have you need of me?’ he asks.

I shake my head. ‘I am only just returned.’ Then I stop, not knowing what next to say. Although a month has passed since my encounter with Mr Tyne in the cellar and all that came after it, things are still not right between us. Nothing has been said, yet both of us know a trust not easily mended
has been broken, and lingering in his doorway I wish only to find a way to make it whole again.

Perhaps he sees this, for he lays down his pen.

‘Are you unwell?’ he asks.

‘No.’ This is not entirely true. My moods are out of sorts, and I have not slept well these many nights.

‘It will be summer soon,’ he says. ‘My apprenticeship will be at its end.’

‘I know,’ I say, but in truth it is hard to imagine life here without his presence. ‘Have you decided what you will do?’

‘I am told there is business in the Indies for medical men.’

I nod, although it had not occurred to me that Robert might consider such a course.

‘It seems very far to go,’ I say brokenly. What I wish to say is that he must not go, or that if he does he should take me. I wish fervently, for a moment, that I might go with him to somewhere warm.

‘I am tired of London,’ he says, ‘and of the company of the dead.’

There is so much unsaid between us, and I do not see how we can find our way through it.