The Resurrectionist Page 4

  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 we
ll 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.

  IN THE DAYS that follow the weather grows worse: first rain, then sleet, then a choking mist which settles on the streets and will not lift. Everywhere the air is thick with it, its fumes burning at the eyes and throat. Then as quickly as it came the mist is gone, the days as clean and clear as ice. No wind, just stillness, the freezing ache that comes before the snow. Upon the air the scent of burning coal and woodsmoke.

  With the cold comes illness, blackened lung and pneumonia, all the afflictions of the poor, and so in the evenings we are often called to visit those who live in the narrow streets and tenements of St Giles and Saffron Hill. They have nothing to pay and yet we go to them, bringing what comfort we can, even if it is only a kind word or two.

  It oppresses me, to be with these people, to see their naked need. There are so many of them, so few of us, the comfort that we bring is so small. I have no ease with them, no words to give, as Charles has, no sense of when I should be still and let them speak, as Robert does.

  Afterwards, if we are alone, Charles will bid me come to drink somewhere, or watch some show upon a stage. Sometimes the others will be there, sometimes not. In his company I begin to learn something of a city I would not otherwise have seen. That Robert knows where we go I am sure, though he never asks of it, nor does Charles often include him in the invitation.

  Then, one evening early in December, I am woken after midnight by someone at the door below. Rising, I stand quietly at the top of the stairs, listening to the voice of Mr Tyne. We are alone tonight: Robert granted leave to visit his mother’s home, his sister being ill; Charles and Mr Poll gone home. Hearing Mr Tyne’s step coming up now, I begin to descend.

  ‘There’s a lady here,’ he says when we meet on the stairs, ‘asking for Mr de Mandeville.’

  ‘I left him two hours since,’ I say. ‘He will not be back tonight.’

  ‘You think I have not told her that?’ Though his words are sharp he checks himself, as if seeking my confidence.

  ‘What is her name?’ I ask.

  ‘She will not say,’ he replies, ‘only that she must speak with him.’

  I step past him, down the stairs, not knowing what I will find. Some poor maid perhaps, sent running on her mistress’s behalf and ordered to be discreet; maybe some wretch from the streets of St Giles or Saffron Hill bringing word of a relative’s sudden worsening and too afraid of Mr Tyne to give a name. But what awaits me is neither. She stands by the fireplace, her coat still buttoned, and though I cannot see her face I know it is her immediately.

  ‘You are the apprentice?’ she asks. Her voice is deeper, less certain than it was upon the stage.

  ‘I am,’ I say. In the light of the fire her dark hair is the colour of burnished metal, and her face seems to shimmer as it did that night.

  ‘And Mr de Mandeville?’

  ‘He will not return tonight,’ I say.

  At this she turns her head, and all at once I see she is younger than I had thought, perhaps not much older than myself.

  ‘Please,’ I say, ‘what is it you need?’

  She looks undecided. Her eyes are that deep brown one rarely sees, more like those of a deer or some wild creature.

  ‘A child,’ she says at last. ‘A dog has attacked him.’

  ‘The child is your own?’ I ask, feeling a sudden pang, but she shakes her head.

  ‘A friend’s.’

  ‘His injuries are serious?’ I ask.

  She nods. I think for a moment, then gesture for her to accompany me.

  ‘Then I will take you to him,’ I say.

  Outside Charles’s rooms I strike the roof of the cab, and telling her to wait I climb out. A light is visible in Charles’s window three floors above; lifting my hand to the door I strike at it, then step back and urgently call his name upwards. Almost at once a figure appears behind the glass, drawing back the drapes before vanishing again. A few seconds pass, and then the street door opens, revealing not Charles’s valet, Holroyd, but Charles himself, a lamp held in his hand.

  ‘Gabriel,’ he says, holding the lamp higher, ‘is there some emergency?’ Before I can answer there is a step upon the stones.

  ‘Arabella?’ he asks. ‘What is this? What are you doing here?’

  Though he seeks to hide it there is something in his voice, some fear, and it is in her face as well, that sad, wary look we reserve for those with whom we have shared an intimacy which is now gone.

  ‘Is it Kitty? Has something happened to her?’

  ‘Not Kitty,’ Arabella says. ‘Oliver.’

  At this Charles falls still. When he speaks again his voice is softer.

  ‘Dead?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Hurt, most grievously.’ Her words are spoken in a flat voice which seems to speak of private meanings.

  Charles hesitates. ‘Let me fetch my coat,’ he says then.

  It is some moments before he returns, moments we spend standing in silence in the darkened street. Now we are here Arabella does not look at me. When Charles returns he places a hand upon my shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, Gabriel,’ he says. ‘I will speak to you tomorrow.’

  ‘I will ride with the driver,’ I volunteer, the cab only being large enough for two. Something in my manner must give Charles pause.

  ‘Very well,’ he says.

  The cab delivers us to a street near Drury Lane. Although it is not the worst street in the district, it is a dilapidated place, the buildings stained almost black by the soot, broken windows gaping here and there, some left unrepaired, others boarded shut. Underfoot the road is rutted and muddy, and even in the cold a foul smell hangs over the place, as if a privy has overflowed.

  The house Arabella leads us into was once a better place than it is now. Pale shapes on the wall still show where paintings hung, but any trace of luxury is long vanished, its rooms divided into a warren of individual lodgings, the paper on the walls peeling and spotted with mildew. Charles says nothing as we ascend the stairs; his mouth set, face closed.

  On the third floor we come to a room which must have been a study once, or perhaps a bedroom, for its walls are decorated with frescoes, much damaged by the damp, and heavy curtains musty with age hang across the windows. Now it is a parlour of some sort, furnished with a faded divan and two chairs. At the sound of our arrival a maid appears at a door on one side; she is thin and poorly dressed. Seeing Arabella, she motions to us to enter the further room quietly.

  Inside a woman lies upon a bed, the child’s form cradled in her arms. As we enter she looks up, and though her eyes are swollen with tears there is no mistaking the anger in the gaze she fixes upon Charles.

  For a moment Charles stands, staring back at her. Once, perhaps not long ago, she was beautiful, but now her face has the hard cast of poverty, its look of desperation. Without speaking Charles extends a hand towards the child. The woman watches his hand, then, as if it revolts her, she draws back. Charles lets the hand fall to his side.

  ‘Please, Kitty,’ he says. ‘I must see him.’

  For a long moment she stares at him, then with a sudden, convulsive movement she passes the boy to Charles, who takes him in his arms and, bearing him to the divan under the window, lays him down. As he draws back the blanket he does not flinch, but I feel the way the sight of what lies beneath runs through his frame. The boy is barely conscious, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and at first it is hard t
o make out the extent of the injuries, for all that is visible is blood and ruined flesh.

  ‘A dog did this?’ I ask, regretting the vehemence of my words even as I speak them.

  ‘Its master said it was a country dog, that the carriages had startled it,’ Arabella says softly.

  By the door the maid cuts in. ‘There were no carriages, the dog was wild.’

  Charles is listening, his eyes not leaving the boy. His face is expressionless, as if all feeling has drained out of it.

  ‘Bring me water,’ he says when the women are done, ‘and rags. We must clean him.’

  In the kitchen Arabella takes down a pot from above the fireplace, and begins to fill it, her arms cradling the pitcher as she pours. She is smaller than I had thought at first, and slighter, and as she stands lost in this task there is a fragility in her presence I had not glimpsed before. As the last of the water falls, and the pitcher rises in her hand, she looks up, and I see again the way she seems to exist within herself.

  ‘Were you there?’

  She pauses, then shakes her head. ‘Tetty was with him.’

  ‘The maid?’

  ‘He gave her a sovereign; such a fine gentleman.’

  For a moment we stand united thus, caught in the knowledge of this thing. Then she lifts the pot, heavy now with water, and places it in my hands.

  ‘Here,’ she says, ‘take this in. I will fetch some rags,’ her eyes level and clear.

  Charles sends the women away before we begin, Arabella and the maid helping Kitty from the bed and leading her to the room outside. Then we take the water and sponge the blood from the boy’s skin, wary lest we set those of his wounds which have already skinned bleeding again. Several times he regains consciousness, whimpering and moaning, and once looking up with sudden clarity, but for the most part he is quiet. As the extent of his injuries is revealed a heaviness descends upon Charles, as if he knows already that the battle is lost. The right arm is ruined, two fingers missing from the hand, the flesh on the forearm and elbow so lacerated and torn in places that bone and sinew are visible, shocking white against the oozing blood, while across the shoulder and neck and chest bruises and puncture wounds are everywhere. But it is the face and head which are the worst, his scalp torn clean away from the skull, the hair and meat hanging on a grisly flap where the ear protrudes. Perhaps once he was a handsome boy, but now the face has been almost destroyed as well, the nose and cheeks mauled, the right eye staring blindly from a mass of oozing flesh, its lid ripped away altogether.