by Andrew Lane
He settled back in his seat, folding his arms and resting his chin on his chest. Matty just stared at him for a while, then turned and looked out of the window. Despite his friend’s presence, Sherlock had never felt so desperately alone.
‘We could just go home,’ Matty said after a while. His voice sounded very small.
The thought had already occurred to Sherlock, but he had rejected it. ‘We could,’ he replied, ‘but that doesn’t help Mr Crowe, or Virginia, or even Rufus. Besides, the Paradol Chamber know where we live. Our best bet is to hide out in Edinburgh until we can get this whole mess sorted. Go to ground.’
‘Like Mr Crowe and Virginia,’ Matty pointed out. ‘They ran away and hid as well.’
‘I know.’ Sherlock didn’t look over at Matty. ‘I know. But I wish I knew why. I can’t imagine what would frighten Mr Crowe enough to make him run rather than stand and fight his ground.’
At some point the train passed from England to Scotland, but if there was a sign to mark the moment then Sherlock missed it.
The stations slipped past more rapidly now and the names looked different to those on the platform signs in England. The landscape was rougher, wilder – craggy, dark hills in place of rolling fields. Even the sky seemed more overcast.
A ticket collector eventually appeared, and Sherlock explained about their friend not having made it back on to the train. The man tutted several times, and said he’d have a word with the stationmaster when they next stopped to see if a message was waiting, or whether one could be sent back to Newcastle. It was, Sherlock knew, too little too late. It was unlikely to produce a result.
Time seemed to slide slowly past. The ticket collector returned later to say that there was no news of Rufus Stone, and Sherlock felt his mood become blacker. Eventually, looking out of the window, he noticed that they were heading through more houses than he’d seen in one place for a while. Rather than being made out of brick, they were constructed from large blocks of grey stone. It gave them a serious, permanent look. The sun, which was balanced on the horizon, cast an orange light over them. The train began to slow down, wheezing to a halt just as it came alongside a platform that seemed to go on for miles. The signs on the platform read Edinburgh.
‘We’re here,’ Matty said simply.
They left the train, clutching their bags. They took Rufus’s too. Sherlock pulled Matty to one side and stopped. He wanted to watch the rest of the passengers leaving, just in case he recognized someone – like Mr Kyte or, hopefully, Rufus Stone.
The station was a teeming mass of people in different varieties of clothes, from top hat and tails to hairy tweed jackets and patched trousers. There were even – and Sherlock had to suppress a gasp at this – men wearing skirts.
Matty noticed Sherlock’s reaction. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘sorry – I probably should have mentioned that. Took me by surprise when I was here a few years back.’
‘Men with skirts? Well, maybe you thought I wouldn’t notice.’
‘They’re not skirts,’ Matty said firmly. ‘They’re kilts.’
‘Kilts.’ Sherlock sampled the unfamiliar word.
‘They’re a traditional piece of clothing worn by the Scottish clans.’ He sniffed. ‘A “clan” being a posh name for a family, as far as I can tell. Anyway, the clans used to be perpetually at war with each other until they all decided to get together and hate the English, and apparently the kilt makes it easier to fight. Or something. Anyway, they’re coloured in different ways depending on which family you come from.’
‘Presumably,’ Sherlock said, ‘so you can make sure that the man you’re fighting is from another clan and not your second cousin twice removed.’
‘Probably,’ Matty replied.
Sherlock filed the information away in his brain. Different coloured kilts for different families – that would bear some further investigation. You could look at a man in a street in London and not have any way of finding out his name short of asking him, but if you could look at a man in a street in Edinburgh and know straight away that his name was MacDonald, well, that was a useful thing to know.
‘Anything else I should know?’ he asked.
‘That purse-like thing that hangs down in front of the kilt is called a “sporran”, and it’s used to store things like money and such. Oh, and if a Scotsman’s wearing a kilt then there’s an odds-on chance that he’s got a small knife tucked into his sock. It’s called a “dirk”.’
‘Got it. Thanks.’ Sherlock continued to look around, and to listen. Many conversations were going on within earshot, but the words were accented, difficult to understand. Sherlock was used to local accents of course – people in Farnham talked differently from people in London, and the various Americans he’d met talked differently from anybody in England, but he hadn’t expected there to be an accent within a train ride of London that was so thick it was almost incomprehensible. He listened for a minute or so, analysing the passing conversations with Matty standing patiently by his side, until he had the basics sorted out. Once your ear was attuned to it, the accent seemed to fade into the background, letting the words come to the front.
‘Right,’ he said as the last passengers walked through the barrier and he stared along the empty platform, ‘I think I’ve acclimatized myself. Let’s go and find the hotel.’
They went outside and took the second cab they could find. The driver seemed to be in two minds whether he should risk taking two boys by themselves, but Sherlock showed him a handful of shillings from his pocket and the man nodded. As long as they could pay, he didn’t care what age they were.
Sherlock had already looked inside the envelope that Mycroft had given them, and he called out the hotel’s name to the driver.
The journey took about twenty minutes, passing terraces of tall buildings all made of the same grey stone blocks, and larger halls and mansions set back in acres of grass behind metal railings. Close up, Sherlock noticed that the grey stone contained hints of other colours – orange, yellow, blue, green – and that even the stone that was really grey often had ripples of darker hues running through.
The cab took them along the side of a park, and then jinked left and right into a wide thoroughfare lined with shops and hotels. It was the match of anything Sherlock had seen in London, New York or Moscow. Edinburgh, he could tell already, was an old and proud city.
The cab took a sudden right and drew to a stop. Sherlock and Matty got out just as the driver threw their bags down from where they had been stored behind him. He obviously felt that he shouldn’t dismount for kids. Sherlock resisted the temptation to throw the money at his feet. Instead he just held it up, slightly out of reach, so that the driver had to lean forward precariously to get it.
They had stopped before a tall terraced building with a sign saying ‘The Fraser Hotel’. The cab pulled away into a turn, back towards the main thoroughfare, and Sherlock noticed with part of his mind that the road sloped downward ahead of them. The rest of his mind was taken up with marvelling at the castle that had been revealed as the cab pulled away. It was enormous and dark, but the fact that it was built on a hill that was partly hidden by mist made the castle look as if it was a vast storm cloud hanging over the town.
‘What now?’ Matty asked.
Sherlock felt the absence of Rufus Stone weighing heavily on his mind. With Rufus gone he felt vulnerable, uncertain. Two kids, alone in Edinburgh. What could they do?
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
CHAPTER NINE
After dumping their bags Sherlock and Matty headed down the hotel’s staircase and out into the town. The sun had dropped beneath the horizon, and the darkness of the night was leavened by gas lamps and by flaming torches attached to brackets on the stone buildings. People were already thronging the streets, crossing from one tavern to another apparently in search of a better time than they were already having. Avoiding all of the activity as far as they could, the two of them found a relatively civilized tavern where they could si
t in a corner and eat a gammon pie each, washed down with a watery beer which the barman seemed to have no problem serving them. However, when Sherlock asked for a pitcher of water the man just looked at him with a scowl on his face.
Every few minutes a different person tried to sit down beside them and engage them in conversation. Sometimes it was a woman with more make-up than was necessary and wearing clothes that looked as if they hadn’t been washed in a while, but more often it was an unshaven man in a stained suit or a grey collarless shirt and braces. Matty always said the same thing – ‘Our dad will be here in a minute, and he wouldn’t like it if he found you here’ – and they quickly left with a muttered apology or a curse. The first time it happened Sherlock just shrugged it off, but after the third time he stared at Matty with a question in his eyes. Matty avoided his gaze. ‘There’s some strange people around,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t matter what town you’re in, they always try and make friends with you if you’re a kid alone. You learn early on not to have anything to do with them.’
Sherlock didn’t ask any questions. It was obvious that Matty didn’t want to go into details, but once again he was glad to have his friend with him.
For a while they discussed what to do about Rufus Stone. It was clear that they had both secretly hoped that they would find him, or at least a message from him, at the hotel. The fact that there was nothing had rattled them more than they wanted to admit.
‘We could go to the police,’ Matty suggested. ‘Tell them that he’s gone missing.’
‘The trouble is that we don’t actually know what has happened to him, so there’s not much the police can do. It’s not like we saw him being abducted. They’ll say he just missed the train and he’ll turn up tomorrow. Worse than that: they’ll worry about two kids alone in Edinburgh. They’ll assign a guardian to us, or place us in some philanthropist’s home until Rufus arrives. That’s the last thing we want.’
Matty nodded. ‘I can see that. What about your brother, though? We could send him a telegram, tell him what’s happened.’
‘And within an hour he’ll send a telegram back telling us that we have to return to London until he knows what’s happened to Rufus. If he does that, then I won’t be able to disobey him – I’ve tried that before, and it never works out well. No, we need to be here. It’s best that we don’t tell anyone what’s happened.’
‘What do you think’s happening to Rufus?’ Matty asked quietly, not looking at Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed. He’d been trying not to think too hard about that. ‘I don’t know for sure. Maybe those two Americans have taken him, and they’re asking him what he knows. Given that he doesn’t know anything that they don’t already know, they’ll probably release him.’ Or kill him, Sherlock thought, but he didn’t put his fear into words. Although Matty was streetwise in a way that Sherlock would never be, he was younger than Sherlock, and there were some things he needed protecting from.
‘He knows about Edinburgh,’ Matty pointed out.
‘If they were on the train with us, then they know about Edinburgh as well. That secret is out of the bag, I suspect.’ He paused for a moment. ‘On the other hand, if it’s the Paradol Chamber, then I don’t know what they want with him.’
Sherlock found that the conversation had blunted the sharp edge of his appetite. Thinking of what might be happening to Rufus while they were relaxing in a warm bar and eating well made his stomach lurch.
‘I don’t want to worry you,’ Matty whispered after a while, ‘but have you seen the bloke over there?’ He nodded his head at the opposite wall. ‘In the booth, sitting by himself.’
Sherlock glanced over, trying not to be too obvious about it. He was worried that Matty might have spotted Mr Kyte, but when he saw the unfamiliar thin man sitting alone in the booth he breathed a sigh of relief. A moment more and he started to feel uneasy, however. The man didn’t show any signs of being interested in the two of them, but there was something odd about him, something Sherlock couldn’t quite work out. He was painfully thin, for a start, as if he’d been starved for weeks, and his skin was so white it was almost translucent. His eyes seemed invisible in the dark shadows of his eye sockets, and the bones of his cheeks and his chin pushed out against the tautness of his face so much that Sherlock thought the skin might suddenly split as he watched. There was something strange about the man’s clothes as well: they looked like they might have been his Sunday best, but they were coated in dirt, and there was a green tinge to his shoulders and sleeves. He was staring straight ahead, but he didn’t appear to be looking at anything in particular. Nobody was sitting near him, and although he didn’t have a drink in front of him, the barman didn’t seem to want to go across and either take an order or throw him out. The man just sat there doing nothing.
The crowd in the tavern grew larger, and eventually the view of the strange pale-skinned man was blocked by people. Sherlock and Matty finished eating their pies and got ready to leave. As they stood up a gap opened in the crowd. Sherlock looked across. The man had gone.
‘You ever heard of the Resurrectionists?’ Matty asked as they left the tavern. He seemed edgy.
‘I don’t recognize the name,’ Sherlock said.
‘It was two blokes named Burke an’ Hare. Both called William. They was notorious up in this neck of the woods a few years back. I heard about them when me dad was up here, working. Lookin’ at that bloke back there reminded me of ’em. Edinburgh is one of the places doctors come to train, cos of the Edinburgh Medical College, but they’ve got a problem: how do they find out about the ’uman body if they can’t examine ’em, cut ’em up, like, when they’re dead – see where all the organs is, an’ where the blood goes?’
‘I thought medical schools were allowed to use the bodies of executed criminals,’ Sherlock said, frowning.
‘In theory, yeah,’ Matty responded, ‘but there’s always less bodies available than there’s student doctors wantin’ to take a look at ’em. An’ the number of things you can be hanged for has gone down a lot, which means there’s a lot less bodies available for use. Sixty years ago there was over two ’undred different crimes that led to an ’anging. Now there’s only five. So only about two bodies a year came up for use by the College. Which is where Burke an’ Hare came in.’
‘I have a feeling I know where this is going,’ Sherlock said quietly, feeling a shiver down his spine. ‘They dug up corpses and sold them, didn’t they?’
Matty stared at him. ‘Not quite,’ he said, ‘although a lot of that did go on. “Bodysnatching”, it was called. There was so much of it happening that friends and relatives of anyone who had just died used to keep watch over the grave to stop it being dug up. Some people – rich people – used to have cages built around graves of their relatives to stop anyone getting in. Before they realized what was going on, people used to visit the graves of their loved ones and find them disturbed, as if the bodies had come back to life an’ just crawled out of their own accord.’ He and Sherlock were pushing their way through the crowded streets towards their hotel. ‘Course, once people got to know about the bodysnatchers, they had to change how they went about things. They was quite inventive, the bodysnatchers. They used wooden spades, cos they made less noise than metal ones, an’ they used to dig down at an angle, so that any disturbance to the grave would be a way away, not directly over it. They’d uncover the end of the coffin, smash it open an’ drag the body out with a rope.’
‘All right, but you said this Burke and Hare weren’t bodysnatchers. What were they then?’
‘They was both Irish, for a start,’ Matty replied, ‘an’ they moved to Edinburgh to work as labourers on the Union Canal. Burke ended up stayin’ at a boarding ’ouse run by Hare’s missus. They got to be drinkin’ buddies, an’ they got talkin’ one night about ways of makin’ some money. One of ’em suggested that they could steal the body of someone who ’ad died locally of natural causes an’ ’ad no family, like, an’ sell it to someone at the Colleg
e who could use it to demonstrate ’uman anatomy to students. It weren’t long before some old pensioner who owed Hare four quid died of natural causes. Burke an’ Hare made sure the coffin that was buried was filled with tree bark, ’an they flogged the body to a Dr Knox ’ere in the city for seven quid.’
‘Very enterprising,’ Sherlock said drily.
‘Problem was that people weren’t dyin’ of natural causes fast enough for ’em, so they decided to ’elp ’em along a bit. First one they actually killed was a local miller. They got ’im drunk on whisky an’ then suffocated ’im. Second one was another pensioner, a woman this time, named Abigail Simpson. After that . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Well, they was off an’ runnin’. Dr Knox would pay ’em a guaranteed sum for every dead body they delivered to ’im, no questions asked – ten quid if the body was in good nick, eight if there was anything wrong with it. They preferred women and kids, of course, cos they was easier to subdue an’ to suffocate.’
Sherlock found he was feeling sick. It was the casual nature of what Burke and Hare had done that offended him. The murders weren’t crimes of passion, or ‘spur of the moment’ incidents – they were a series of what were effectively business decisions. Business decisions that left people dead.
‘How many people did they end up killing?’ he asked quietly as they turned the corner and headed towards the hotel’s front door.
‘Best guess is seventeen,’ Matty answered, ‘over the course of a year.’
‘And didn’t anyone suspect? I mean, the doctor they were selling the bodies to must have realized that they weren’t executed criminals. Hanging must leave a distinct mark on the neck, and those corpses wouldn’t have had that mark.’