Will and I exchanged a glance. Dr Crowe had a reputation for bringing out the best in his students, for making them see more in themselves than they thought they possessed, and I could not deny that such enthusiasm was hard to resist. We had brought him a severed hand, and found ourselves being offered employment and opportunities of the most exciting kind. He was right too. I had asked myself more than once whether I really wanted to spend the rest of my life selling cough drops and purgatives. I had always prided myself on being unconcerned by titles and honours, but with a lifetime of being disdained by physicians and surgeons alike there was something in me that leaped at the chance to gain the same status. My apprentices, Gabriel and Jenny, could surely run the shop well enough; I did not have to be there all the time. And I missed the extremis of hospital work, no matter how I tried to pretend I did not. Will too was looking pleased. I knew that any chance to work on something that did not involve drains or filth would please him; he had enjoyed his work on the catalogue and was clearly delighted that his drawings had been singled out for praise. Dr Crowe had gone over to his desk. He scribbled a note and rang the bell for Skinner. ‘By return, please, Skinner,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Send one of the boys.’
He went back to his chair beside the fire. ‘Well then,’ he said. He cleared his throat and looked meaningfully at the package I still clutched in my hands.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes.’ Through the flimsy sheath of newspaper the flesh of four dead fingers struck cold against my hands. Perhaps the doctor would feel differently about Will and me once he knew the purpose of our visit. ‘Sir, I have something—’
‘Jem,’ whispered Will. He shook his head, and glanced at the three Crowe daughters sitting side by side, their long slim fingers cradling their half empty teacups in their laps.
‘Oh my dear sirs!’ cried Dr Crowe. ‘Whatever you have to say you can say it in front of everyone.’ He smiled as he leaned forward, his eyes upon the crumpled newspaper. ‘Is it flowers? They adore flowers, don’t you, my dears?’
His daughters did not speak, but inclined their heads in acknowledgement, raising their cups to their lips in unison, like a trio of automata. Two of them watched me, the third still kept her eyes downcast.
‘N— no,’ I stammered. ‘It is not flowers.’
He clicked his tongue. ‘Oh, come along, come along, sir!’ and he seized the parcel from me. But the newspaper had grown damp and the stuff gave way, the hand tumbling out, crashing into the middle of the tea things to lie palm down amongst the cups and saucers. The thumb and forefinger seemed to be reaching for a macaroon. I expected uproar, but no one made a sound. I suspected it was not the first time that body parts had upstaged the pastries.
Dr Crowe blinked. He leaned forward, plucking a pair of spectacles from his pocket. He affixed them to his nose and peered down. Pulling out a pencil and using the tip as a probe, he flipped the hand over and lifted one of the flaps of skin.
‘Mm,’ he said. Then, still more unexpectedly, he handed the pencil to the eldest of his three daughters. ‘Your observations, Lilith my dear?’
Lilith Crowe lifted the hand from amongst the crockery. She turned the thing over and dusted the sugar off its fingertips. ‘Have you examined it?’ she said to me.
‘A little.’ I glanced at the other two girls.
‘Oh, don’t mind them,’ said Dr Crowe, noticing the dart of my eyes. He indicated the girl on the left. ‘My dear Silence was born deaf. As for Sorrow— ’ the other girl shifted in her seat, though she kept her eyes downcast. ‘Look up, my dear.’ The girl raised her eyes, the first time she had done so, and I saw at once the pale gaze of ruined sight. There were all manner of childhood ailments – rubella, measles, syphilis, premature birth – that might destroy the sight, or the hearing. Having a father who was a medical man was no guarantee that life would be any less cruel.
‘Yes,’ said her father. ‘You see it now?’ His shook his head. ‘They are not like other women.’
Sorrow Crowe raised her cup to her lips as the clock ticked out an awkward silence, her blind gaze fixed, I presumed, upon darkness. Her deaf sister kept her eyes trained upon my face. As for Lilith, I wondered what it was that made her ‘not like other women’. I was about to find out, for without the slightest concern she lifted the skin flaps and poked at the flesh beneath. ‘A neat enough incision,’ she said. ‘Pared away from the fascia with some skill.’ She glanced up at me. ‘You think a medical man did this, Mr Flockhart?’
‘It is more than likely.’
She pointed to the bloody stump. ‘Cleanly dismembered. Post-mortem?’
‘One would hope so,’ I said. ‘And yet—’
‘Is it possible to tell whether it was removed postmortem, or,’ Will swallowed. ‘Or before?’
‘It is not easy to say,’ said Miss Crowe. ‘The specimen is very pale, so there has clearly been blood loss, which is consistent with the removal of an extremity while the blood was still circulating.’
‘Quite so,’ I said. I opened my mouth to say more but she was there before me.
‘And if we examine the wrist we can see that the tendons have retracted somewhat – something you see when living tendons are cut, which might suggest that it was cut from a live body.’ She shrugged. ‘The extent of rigor is impossible to evaluate. We cannot rule out the possibility that the subject was alive when the hand was removed. And yet we cannot say with any confidence that he was dead either.’
‘Good, Lilith.’ Her father smiled. ‘Pray continue, my dear.’
‘It is a man’s hand, that much is obvious to anyone,’ she said. ‘But not a working man.’
‘How so?’ said Will.
‘We are looking at the right hand. The hand almost all of us use more than the other, no matter what we are doing. The skin of this hand is too soft for the hand of a labourer. The nails are short – trimmed, and to a great extent clean, so perhaps this is the hand of a man who wishes to make the right impression. Perhaps others see his fingernails and judge his worth? A man of the middling classes, then. A dark-haired man, sallow skinned, of lean build, not above thirty years of age judging by the condition of the skin, and of average height. The length of the fingers seems fairly standard in their dimensions, so unless the fellow was unduly tall with small hands or unusually small but with the hands of a monkey, we can surmise a man of five feet and seven inches tall.’
‘Excellent,’ cried her father. ‘Of course, you have just described many of the young men in this building. Apart from Mr Tanhauser, who has the proportions of an ape – and the mind of one, given his recent performance in class.’
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Besides, I saw Mr Tanhauser not half an hour ago and he was in possession of both his hands.’ She smiled at Will, though she spoke to me. ‘Have I missed anything?’
‘Very little, Miss Crowe,’ I replied. ‘Though the nails were recently cut, suggesting that his life was terminated unexpectedly – if one expects to die one does not undertake a manicure.’
‘An accident, perhaps?’
‘Or worse. Oh, and there is blood in the nail beds,’ I added. ‘Perhaps you have some ideas about that?’
‘There was a card too,’ said Will. ‘Show them, Jem.’
I handed the card over.
It was at that moment that everything changed. ‘Et mortui sua arcana narrabunt,’ read Lilith. ‘“And the dead shall surrender their secrets”.’ I saw her swallow, saw the tremor in her father’s fingers as he removed his spectacles. There was silence, as if all at once there was nothing more to be said.
The clock ticked.
Dr Crowe licked his lips. ‘And you found this . . . this relic where, exactly?’ It seemed curious that he had only just thought to ask us.
I told him.
‘Amongst Dr Strangeway’s exhibits?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say a group of students had just passed through?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Wel
l, I think your answer lies there. In all likelihood it is nothing but a practical joke.’
‘Might we see Dr Strangeway?’
‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.’ A frown creased his brow.
‘Dr Strangeway doesn’t like visitors,’ said Lilith.
‘Dr Strangeway is a very private person,’ said Sorrow. Her voice was low and deep, and had a curious rough quality to it, as if it were seldom used.
Silence Crowe had not taken her eyes off me. She said nothing.
‘He said he was going up to the Exhibition this morning,’ added the doctor.
‘Really?’ said Will. ‘Is it possible that this hand was meant for him to find?’
‘I suppose it is possible—’ said Dr Crowe. ‘In fact, we were all meant to go to the Exhibition this morning.’
‘Is it his hand?’ cried Will recklessly. ‘When did you last see him, sir?’
‘This is not the hand of Silas Strangeway,’ said Dr Crowe. But his face had turned pale, as if Will’s words had somehow struck a chord with him. ‘Et mortui sua arcana narrabunt,’ he murmured.
‘Does it mean something to you, sir?’ I said.
‘It does not.’
I was sure he was lying. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘But perhaps we might ask your students what they know, as there is every reason to suspect that one of them at least is responsible.’
Dr Crowe nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Would you care to come along and meet them? Dr Cruikshank is lecturing in ten minutes.’ He smiled as he stood up, though it fell from his lips almost immediately. ‘My daughters will look after you.’ He bowed, and vanished through a door at the back of the room. Although his departure was hasty, it was courteous, and as we had taken up much of his time when he had work to do, it was easy to explain. Nevertheless, I had the distinct impression that Dr Crowe was suddenly afraid.
‘Vesalius told us how we should view the study of anatomy, that it is the foundation of the whole art of medicine. You’ve heard of De humani corporis fabrica, I take it?’ Lilith Crowe was talking to Will as she led us out of the parlour and back towards the main body of the building. I walked behind with Sorrow and Silence. The former had her hand upon her sister’s arm, and they moved in time with one another, like a single being.
‘They are inseparable,’ Lilith remarked in an undertone, seeing Will glance round at them. ‘Between them they see and hear everything.’
‘And they come to Dr Cruikshank’s lectures, too?’
‘They attend all the lectures they wish to attend. There will be other ladies present today. This is a class for beginners, and is popular with the public. Afterwards, I will show you where you will be working—’
‘Oh, but my master, Mr Prentice—’ began Will. ‘I cannot—’ Even as he spoke an errand boy appeared and handed him a note. He glanced over it and passed it to me.
‘So you have a new commission, Will,’ I said. ‘Congratulations. Mr Prentice says you are his very best draughtsman, an artist of the highest order whose plain style will admirably suit Dr Crowe’s purposes – should you be able to stomach the job.’
‘Is that something that troubles you, sir?’ said Lilith. ‘There is no shame in it. My father says he fainted many a time when he was first apprenticed. It can be overcome.’
‘Can it?’
‘Oh yes.’
We were walking down a narrow corridor. On the floor, the carpet had been replaced by a coarse grey drugget. Soon, this too disappeared and beneath our feet there were only plain quarry tiles, a rich ox-blood in colour, a practical choice that made the mopping up of fluids easier. They also camouflaged whatever stains might already be there. I could feel a slight tackiness beneath the soles of my boots. I did not look down.
The passage was dim, our way illuminated only by whatever light was admitted by the open door we had just come through. Somewhere up ahead I could hear the murmur of voices and the occasional burst of laughter. And then a banging sound started up, as if from the stamping of many feet. The students were impatient. My own medical training had taken place in the apothecary at St Saviour’s Infirmary. I had learned the rest on the wards, for I had been obliged to treat everyone when our physicians and surgeons were not present. Now, as the noise grew louder, I felt a nervousness in the pit of my stomach – I always felt it when I was about to enter a room full of medical men. My existence was shot through with a constant fear of exposure, what fate would befall me if they ever discovered that they had been duped into accepting me as one of their own?
‘If you could wait here while I speak to Dr Cruikshank. He is working on the anatomy manual with my father. It’s his lecture you will hear this afternoon, but as you don’t have tickets I must explain – perhaps you would like to meet him in person before we begin?’ Lilith smiled up at Will. ‘Along with my father he will be advising you on what your work requires.’
She turned to me. ‘If you would excuse us, Mr Flockhart.’ I opened my mouth to object, to say that I would like to come too, but they were gone.
The door closed behind them and an awkwardness descended. I became aware of Sorrow’s gaze, milky and luminous in the gloom. Her eyes were wide, and would have been as beautiful as her sister’s but for the pale web across the dark centre. There was a curious iridescence to them like the eyes of the drowned, washed out and sightless as if their souls had been swallowed by the deep. I saw her nostrils flare, as though she were a fox scenting me.
‘Have we met before, Mr Flockhart?’ she said suddenly.
‘I don’t believe so, Miss Sorrow.’
She uncoupled herself from her sister. ‘May I?’ She raised her hands, bringing them towards my face, following the direction of my voice with eerie precision. My instinct was to back away, but I fought the urge and remained still. Her fingers were cool against my skin, her face close to mine. Her eyes seemed to be looking nowhere, and yet I felt as though she could see into my very heart. I shivered, and saw her smile. I blushed then, and my skin grew warm.
‘You are nervous, sir?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Your skin is hot, your voice is light but too quick.’ Her cool fingers rested on my neck. ‘How your pulse races!’ She smiled again, lowering her gaze so that her dead eyes were concealed behind alabaster lids and dark lashes. She looked like an angel in repose, but for the coy smile that twitched at the corners of her mouth. ‘I can hear it in your voice, in the tremor of it. I can feel it in your skin.’ Her fingers had travelled across my cheeks and chin, beneath my ears and against my neck. My eyelids fluttered closed as she touched them gently with those cool hard fingertips. ‘Your skin is very smooth,’ she observed.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I have an enviable complexion.’
I glanced at Silence, and saw with some surprise that she was smiling. ‘He wears a red mask, Sorrow!’ she said. ‘A scarlet birthmark across his eyes.’ The girl’s voice was curiously flat and clumsy-sounding, the words blurring into one another.
‘You can hear?’ I blurted. ‘And speak?’
‘Of course.’ She had read my lips. I had thought as much, for her gaze had been fixed hungrily upon them. The sisters smiled as they linked arms once more. They could tell I was discomfited, and I had the impression that they were glad. I had assumed the two of them to be diminished by their disabilities. Instead I found them quite extraordinary: a woman who could not see but who could detect every emotion; another who could not hear, but who saw everything, from the dilated pupil in her interlocutor’s eye to the sweep of a tongue across nervous lips. They smiled, though they were not smiling at me. Had they guessed who and what I was? I was relieved when the next moment the door opened and Will reappeared.
‘This way,’ he said.
Dr Cruikshank was a tall wiry Scotsman of some fifty years. He wore his shirt collar high against his jaw, wound about at the neck with a frothing cream kerchief. His hair had retreated to the back of his head to expose a high bulbous forehead,
with features clustered above a small weak chin. What remained of his hair was gathered in a ruff about his ears and the back of his head. It was slick with oil, and had been coaxed into ringlets with a lady’s curling iron. His right eye was dark and watchful, his left eye white and sightless. But what he lacked in natural attributes he more than made up for in dress. He wore a waistcoat of purple velvet, a topcoat of black wool with a lining of plum-coloured silk. A jewelled pin set with a large garnet skewered his kerchief like a blood clot, and there were two other similarly ostentatious stones glittering on his fingers. He stood behind a pulpit-shaped lectern on a raised dais, the students stacked row upon row in almost vertical standings against the surrounding walls. We’d had a similar room at St Saviour’s, but not like this. I had never seen so many men crammed into so small a space, for there must have been at least three hundred of them. At the front, a row of ladies sat. Sorrow and Silence slid in alongside Lilith, who was already seated. Will squeezed onto the end of the row beside her, his gaze transfixed by her profile. There was no room for me.
‘What do you have in that parcel, my good man?’ cried Dr Cruikshank as I stood there foolishly. The room fell silent. He pointed at the package I was still clutching. I began to wonder whether I would ever be rid of the thing.
‘A hand, sir,’ I replied.
‘A hand!’ he cried, his voice a clear cultivated Scots. ‘Pray, sir, whose hand?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.’ I told him how we had come across it and he laughed.
‘Well well . . . Perhaps it’s no bad thing for a real exhibit to find its way amongst Dr Strangeway’s waxen poppets. Indeed, some might argue that the only illumination his handiwork offers a medical man is if it were turned into tapers and set alight!’ His voice rose as he spoke, his hands grasping the lapels of his coat, his gaze sweeping up to his audience, so that it was clear that his disrespectful comments were meant as entertainment. There was a bellow of appreciative laughter from the assembled students. The ladies’ cheeks glowed with excitement.
Surgeons’ Hall Page 4