The Resurrectionist (4 page)

I
N ITS WOMB
of glass it hangs suspended, half-turned as if it sought to hide itself from the viewer’s gaze. Though it has but one set of legs, above the waist a second, smaller body grows, a chest and arm which emerge from the chest of the first, and though this second body is but half-made, on its top there is a head, as perfect as the body is grotesque. Half-hidden by its larger twin this smaller head seems to sleep, nestled close against its protector, the tiny form cradled by the larger’s arm.

But while the smaller sleeps the larger is awake, or so it appears, for by some trick of the preserver’s art its eyes are rendered so they seem to follow the viewer to every corner of the room. The lids half-hooded over sightless orbs, their depths somehow malign, like those of a toad or some heavy, hateful thing, jealous of life and all its joys. But for the puckered stitches which run in a Y from their necks to their common nave, their skin is smooth, perfect as any child’s, yet pale and chill as marble or alabaster.

On the shelves all about stand a hundred other jars, each
filled with their own monstrosity. In some the limbs and organs of the dead preserved, hands and eyes, ears and feet, their flesh turned grey and horrible by the alcohol; in others different things, less easily recognised: a blackened lung, a massive heart, an eyeball trailing its white thread of nerve like a jellyfish. In one stands the head of a man neatly bisected with a saw, the face on one side perfect and unblemished, eyes closed as if but for a moment, the other half pressed close against the glass to reveal the layers of bone and brain and muscle, the delicate chambers of the nose, the tongue’s fat root. But here too are other things, less easy for the untutored eye to look upon, ones which draw their shapes from the shadowed realms of fevered sleep. Six-fingered hands, a scaled foot, the generative organs of an hermaphrodite, a half-grown cock and balls nestled in its vagina’s anemone folds. And in their midst a line of larger jars, each holding a child deformed in some dreadful way: one’s head an empty sac which billows on its neck; another made as a mermaid is, its back and legs disappearing into serpent coils; the head of the next turned inside out, the teeth growing in concentric rings through the exposed meat of the palate as if the inverted hole sought to consume the face in which it sits from chin to brow.

Each is preserved through the work of Mr Tyne, by whose cunning hands these creatures and their skeletons are given this semblance of life. Once, long ago, he was apprenticed to Gaunt, who makes teeth for the rich. From him he learned the art of setting teeth with wire and horn, of carving palates and clamps to hold them tight in their new owner’s mouths. And from him as well he learned to find teeth, whether from the living or, more often, from the mouths of the dead. It was through this trade that he came to the attention of Mr Poll, who saw in him even then a talent for the craft, for the finding of the dead and the purloining of their riches. In time he
bought Mr Tyne from his apprenticeship and took him as his own, setting him to work among the rookeries and slums, procuring the bodies of the dead as he once procured their teeth for Gaunt.

In every way he is my master’s man, his faithful shadow, uncomplaining in his diligence, ruthless in Mr Poll’s interests. Throughout the city he has men and places that he goes, sniffing out cases in which my master might find interest, arranging for the delivery of those we cannot save to the house. His is a secret nature, prying and watchful, and though he has no power over Robert and me, we have learned to watch him well, and trust him not at all. For there is no trace of kindness in him, however these creations that he makes seem to show the stifling hand of a mother’s love, and he treats this house as if it were his own. But though he is my master’s man in every outward way, I have sometimes glimpsed another thing within, a hatred harboured deep inside, as if he bridled to be so possessed.

A
S THE DANCING PAUSES
and she lowers her mask I feel myself tremble; in the hissing cast of the limelight her face shivers, as if she were at once real and insubstantial, a creature composed not of matter but of the substance of dreams. Marked out against the ghostly pale of the stage paint, her eyes look huge, liquid, her mouth wide as an ache.

Amidst the swirling colour of the ball upon the stage she stands like a point of stillness, and I stare at her, hungry, frightened she might somehow evaporate or I might wake, losing the sense of her lines in the urgency of this feeling. In the pit the orchestra is playing again, the audience laughs, then she replaces her mask and steps aside so her companion might speak once more.

The play is a drama, a thing of pirates and Turks set in a Venetian palace. She plays not the heroine, but a smaller role, a friend, and as the play proceeds she comes and goes, sometimes lingering with the heroine or the man who would be her lover, sometimes with the actor who plays the man that she herself desires. Her largest scene is the attempted
seduction of her by the villain of the piece, which she plays with a strange kind of resignation, as if she has already lost herself to him in her mind, and her own lover’s rescue of her, when it comes, is already too late. Each time she appears she takes the audience’s attention, all of us, even the murmuring crowd in the stalls below falling quiet when she speaks. Why this should be is not clear, for she does not play to them as the others do, nor does she invest her lines with great drama. Indeed the part seems no more than a semblance, meant to disguise something else, something unrevealed and unsaid, an illusion within an illusion.

Later, in the rooms to which we repair, I see her pass through. Her face is clean of the paint, and she seems smaller, almost fragile. She walks with a pair of men and a young woman with blonde hair. She does not look our way as she moves through the room, but I cannot help but tense. May’s mouth comes close to my ear.

‘What is it you see, my little bird?’

‘That woman, she was in the play,’ I say, not sure whether it is a question or a statement.

‘She was,’ May says. His breath is hot. ‘You think her beautiful?’

I nod, and May chuckles. Chifley too has seen me looking at her.

‘Your prentice is learning your habits, de Mandeville,’ he declares. There is laughter then, but also the look in Chifley’s eye as he laughs, the chill of his appraisal.

T
HE KNOCK COMES
unexpectedly, loud in the empty house. As the door opens, there is the noise of the street, a voice, the words inaudible. Then, sure and steady, the sound of a man’s boots, overhead, moving closer.

Uneasily I rise, turning to face the figure who descends the stairs. He is tall, and powerful, and though no longer young moves with the tread of a man aware of his own strength and unafraid of it. By the fire he stops, opening his hands to warm them.

‘A wet night,’ he says. His voice is deep, its tones those of a gentleman.

‘Indeed,’ I say, glancing towards Mrs Gunn, who stands on the stairs behind him. She does not speak, just shakes her head, her face communicating some warning I cannot understand.

‘They say a child was taken down a drain in Finsbury and drowned,’ he says, looking at me as if to see how I will respond.

‘What is your business here?’ I ask. ‘Whom do you seek?’

He smiles at this.

‘Your name is Swift, is it not?’ he asks, his eyes narrowing.

‘It is,’ I say carefully. He nods, his gaze straying to the books spread upon the table. On one page is a diagram, a picture of a child still huddled in its mother’s womb, the image engraved with terrible precision. Reaching down he lets his fingers stray over it, then turns the page so he may see the next.

‘You are apprenticed here, they say, bound by your guardian, your master’s cousin.’

It makes me uneasy that he should know such things. In the silence he looks up again.

‘Who are you?’ I ask, and he laughs, a curiously silky sound.

‘You mean they have not told you?’ he asks, watching me. ‘Lucan, my name is Lucan.’

I do not reply.

‘Perhaps there are things they think it better you not know,’ he says, and turns another page.

In the fire’s light his wide mouth and hooded eyes lend something sensual to the too-brutal line of his jaw and his crooked nose. Not handsome, but something else, less easy to describe.

‘Your master, Swift, where is he?’ he asks, his voice lingering on my name as if tasting it.

‘Not here.’ The edge of the table is hard against my thigh.

‘And de Mandeville?’

I shake my head. For a long moment he stands, unspeaking, his eyes not leaving mine. I feel the power of him, almost like a desire it trembles in me.

‘If you have a message for my master or Mr de Mandeville I shall ensure they receive it.’

His eyes crease in amusement. Turning away he reaches into his jacket and produces a silver case. It is small, and carved in an Oriental fashion. With a practised gesture he
flicks it open, offering me one of the thin Turkish cigars within. I have smoked these cigars before – May is fond of them – but as I look down it is not the cigars I am struck by but the hand. Large, and long, its nails are chipped and grimy like those of a labourer, and though swollen with rheumatism the fingers are decorated with a profusion of rings such as a tinker or a Moslem might wear.

I shake my head. He waits, then with a small gesture of resignation withdraws one for himself and closes the case.

‘I do not like your manner with me, Swift,’ he says, taking a taper from the fire and lifting it to the cigar.

‘I am sorry for that,’ I reply. ‘But this is my master’s house, and you are a visitor.’

Drawing back on his cigar he lets the smoke coil slowly from his nostrils.

‘Your master treats me as he might a servant. It would not hurt him to learn some courtesy.’

‘Is that what you would have me tell him?’

He stares at me long enough for me to think better of my words. Then he chuckles, as if I have pleased him somehow.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘tell him that.’ Then, moving slowly, with the steady, hypnotic motion of a snake, he lifts a hand and takes my face in it, turning it so he may look more closely upon me.

‘You are a good-looking boy, Swift,’ he says. ‘The lady patients must enjoy your ministrations.’

The smell of his tobacco is heady and sweet, and though I know I should, I cannot break away, my body in the grip of some strange paralysis. Beneath heavy lids his eyes are so dark as to be almost black, and within them is a kind of fire.

From above there comes the sudden sound of the street door, the voice of Mr Poll and Oates, who drives his carriage. With a chuckle Lucan releases me and steps away.

‘Perhaps I shall speak with your master after all,’ he says, lifting his cigar to his lips.

In the hall upstairs Mr Poll falls still at the mention of Lucan’s name.

‘What?’ he asks. His manner gives me the uncomfortable sense that he holds me somehow responsible for this breach. Behind him his driver Oates takes a step back, Mr Poll’s coat clasped in his pudgy hand. ‘On what business does he come here?’

‘I do not know,’ I say. ‘Only that he would speak with you.’

Mr Poll considers this news. Then with a shake of his head he smiles, though not kindly.

‘Tell him I will see him in my study.’

Mr Poll does not speak as Lucan enters. Instead he stands, observing him with poorly concealed contempt.

‘You have business with us?’ he asks.

‘Perhaps,’ Lucan says. ‘I have heard things spoken you would do well to hear.’

‘Indeed?’ asks Mr Poll, mocking. ‘What might these things be?’

‘It is said Caley boasts he has made you and the others his fools. That he takes pleasure in taking money for bodies he does not deliver and cheats you wherever he can.’

‘Caley says it is you who interferes with his work.’

Lucan smiles. ‘Were I to interfere they would do more than complain of it.’

‘You threaten me?’ Mr Poll snaps. ‘Remember whose
house you are in: I no longer have to submit to your extortions.’

‘Extortion is a word I would use carefully if we are to remain friends,’ says Lucan, his voice angry now. But Mr Poll only laughs.

‘Do not flatter yourself that we are friends,’ he says.

Lucan falls still. Suddenly I realise Mr Poll intended I bear witness to this insult. All at once Lucan laughs.

‘There may come a time you wish you had not dismissed my friendship so lightly,’ he says, and though he smiles his meaning cannot be mistaken.

Though it is my place to take my master’s part, as I lead Lucan to the door I am ashamed for reasons that are not clear to me. Though he is proud Mr Poll is not a cruel man, nor a foolish one, yet I cannot help but feel he has acted ill. On the doorstep Lucan turns to me.

‘All men are hostage to their natures, would you not say?’ he asks, his eyes unreadable. In the street behind him the rain is falling, the lamps bleeding light into the misty air.

‘You do not think our wills may master them?’ I reply.

For a long moment he stands. Then at last he smiles, whether in amusement or contempt I do not know.

‘No doubt we shall meet again,’ he says, and inclining his head in a sort of bow he turns and steps out into the night.

I
AM SEATED
by the fire in the kitchen when Robert returns. He looks thin tonight, and tired too, but still he offers me some of the bread and stew Mrs Gunn has left so I may eat with him. When I refuse he looks at me curiously, but does not press. He has but little care for food, I think, and often will forget to eat. And even when he does so he eats slowly and methodically, as though each mouthful must be reflected on as it is chewed. At last he looks up, and with a smile asks what troubles me.

‘Lucan was here,’ I say. Robert does not pause with the mouthful that he chews, but once he has done he lays down his fork and looks at me.

‘On what business?’

I shake my head. ‘I am not sure,’ I say. ‘He sought to speak to Mr Poll.’

‘And did he?’

‘He did,’ I say.

‘And what did Mr Poll say to him?’

‘That he flattered himself if he thought that they were friends.’

Robert nods, and taking up a piece of bread dips it in what remains of his stew.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘There is no sense in this.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘To set ourselves against Lucan thus.’

‘You would have us bow to his threats?’

‘I would not make enemies of men who might cause us harm. He has reason enough to hate us as it is.’

He stops and looks at me. ‘What do you know of him?’

‘That he is a resurrectionist, as Caley is, and that he holds half the anatomists in London to ransom.’

Robert nods. ‘You know too that he once worked for us, and for Sir Astley and the others, and that Caley and Walker were his men?’

He dips into the stew again, then continues. ‘He sought to force us to pay more and more, and threatened to starve us if we did not. And so they determined they would humble him. By our master and Sir Astley’s efforts Caley was broken from him, then as one the Club stood against him.’

‘They were right to stand against him.’

‘Perhaps. But the prices were driven by our own greed as much as by his. And besides, there is something that could be given far more cheaply, something Lucan seeks more than money.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Respect,’ Robert says. ‘He was a gentleman once.’

I make a sound of contempt, and Robert looks up from the plate, his eyes steady.

‘You think their own pride does not interfere with their judgement? Then ask yourself: how is it that Lucan still works if they stand as one against him?’

‘He sells to van Hooch, and Brookes and the others,’ I say.
‘Those anatomists who are not gentlemen and are not permitted membership of the Anatomical Club.’

Robert nods. ‘No man will suffer his pride to be injured easily,’ he says. ‘And we have injured Lucan’s in more ways than one.’

‘And Caley?’ I ask. ‘How was he divided from Lucan?’

Robert gives a short, mirthless laugh. ‘This is London, Gabriel – everything is for sale.’

Later tonight Caley will come, bearing bodies, and I will see the way that Robert and Mr Tyne are careful of him, as if they fear he shall learn Lucan was here. And though he makes no mention of it, as he turns to go he smiles, and asks what it is that we hide from him. And when we tell him nothing, then he just stands, examining us. He might be cruel but he sees lies well enough, and weakness too.

Now, though, upon the stairs, I find Mr Tyne, his body placed so as to block my path.

‘How came he here?’ he asks.

‘I do not know,’ I say. But Mr Tyne does not shift, and in his eyes is suspicion, a violence I have not seen before.

‘You spoke to him alone?’

‘I did,’ I reply uneasily.

‘And what did he say to you?’

‘Nothing.’ I shake my head.

For a long time he does not move. Then at last he steps aside so I may pass, his body close to mine, his eyes hard upon my face.