Surgeons’ Hall

by E. S. Thomson

  He shambled to the back of the room and pulled a curtain aside. On a shelf were some two dozen jars, each containing an anatomical specimen. From where I was standing they looked no different to any others. ‘Well?’ I said.

  He plucked up a jar. ‘The gall bladder of William Burke.’ He grinned at me, his gaze now strange and blank. It was as if he looked into the past through a haze of opium and saw it more clearly than he saw the present. ‘I was there when Monro dissected the body. The crowd some two thousand strong, out in the street, out in the college quad, filing past to spit and stare. I took it for my collection.’ He lifted another jar. ‘The eyes of John Lawrie. Hanged in Edinburgh in 1821 for murdering three women. And this one here,’ he held up a large vessel with a pale foetus curled within. ‘One of the twelve babies strangled at birth by Margaret Meikle. The others she dissolved in quicklime. You see the marks on the neck?’ He thrust it towards me, the lump of flesh within bobbing. He pointed to a jar containing a small, greyish coloured piece of flesh. ‘You know what this is? This is the tongue of Clenchie Kate. Aye, she was a clapper-tongued besom, that one. I was glad tae see her hangit.’

  His skin had grown moist, with beads of oily sweat standing out on his brow. He gazed blankly at the wall, his eyes with their pinprick pupils, though I knew that in his mind he would be seeing all manner of things. The room was stuffy, the stink from the bottles and preparations on his workbench filling the air, so that I could not help but wonder what memories such a reeking atmosphere might provoke.

  All at once he blinked. He stared at me, as if wondering who I was, and then slipped the jar back onto the shelf. He wiped his hands on the rag that hung from his belt. Bloody Wragg, the students called him, for he was rarely seen without it. He made to pull the curtain back over his grisly collection.

  ‘And this one?’ I said. I took up another jar, not unlike the one he had just put back. It contained a greyish, purple lump, about the size of a small fist. It was sliced neatly down the middle, the chambers within exposed, the tough strings that pulled the valves open and closed still fixed and taut. Dr Wragg’s hand shot out and he snatched the thing off me, cradling it to his breast.

  ‘Never you mind what this is,’ he said. ‘I think you’ve seen enough now, don’t you?’ He waved a hand. ‘Away with ye!’

  The label was old and stained, but it had been easy enough to read, the neat handwriting that Dr Wragg prided himself on still fresh and clear: Heart. Cross Section. Mary Anderson. 19th December 1830.

  Will was sitting at his desk, a spinal column laid out before him. It looked raw, as if it had only recently been abstracted from its owner.

  ‘Some wear at the lumbar region,’ he said. ‘But apparently a good specimen, despite coming from a workhouse corpse.’ He did not look up, but worked on, his hand moving steadily across the page. ‘I have already done the vertebrae – each separate, showing the undulations and crenulations of the bones.’ He waved a hand in the direction of some finished pages. ‘Now this. It seems the spine is Dr Crowe’s passion. He has written books on the matter, and down there in the museum there is a collection of some two hundred different spines.’

  ‘Two hundred?’

  Will shrugged. ‘“More than merely a portion of the skeleton it is essential to the whole being, the key to the entire organic world.” He was telling me earlier.’ He threw down his pen. ‘I cannot say I share his enthusiasm, though it is certainly a miracle of strength and flexibility and could no doubt teach us much about both.’ He gestured to a large earthen bowl covered with a saucer that stood to one side. ‘And in there I have a set of lungs, for when I am finished with this spine. Dr Cruikshank brought them up. Apparently Halliday will cut them open for me once I am ready to draw the insides. I think he was looking for Miss Crowe, to be honest. The lungs were just an excuse.’

  ‘Has she been up here?’

  ‘No.’ He did not look at me, and there was a pause, a sudden awkwardness.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘That body in the dead room—’

  ‘Jem, please—’

  ‘Listen to me, Will. I know you want to believe Miss Crowe’s story that Wilson has returned to Edinburgh – in fact it’s quite likely she believes it herself. But I’m telling you that there is no question that the corpse is Wilson – at least, it was Wilson. Dr Cruikshank has sent his headless torso up to Dr Strangeway, so already he is no longer complete – goodness knows where his head and limbs have ended up – and I’ve just been talking to Dr Wragg who admitted that the corpse was Wilson.’

  ‘Dr Wragg is hardly to be trusted.’

  ‘Isn’t he? He seemed very certain to me. And how often have I been wrong, Will? You never used to doubt me.’

  ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘I want to go to Wilson’s lodgings and see what we can find out. Will you come?’

  He sighed. ‘Jem—’

  ‘And . . . and there is something else.’ I had to tell him. I could not bear to keep it to myself.

  ‘Yes?’

  I put my hand into my pocket, and drew out the letter. I told him I had found it in that very room. I said I had looked for others, but that I had found nothing. I laid it on the desk. ‘My mother’s handwriting,’ I said. ‘Addressed to Dr Bain.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I have a book of recipes she wrote. I am in no doubt at all that it is her handwriting.’

  ‘You have not read it?’

  I shook my head. ‘I have not.’

  ‘It may be nothing, Jem. It may be no more than a laundry list, or a request for medications.’ He looked at me sadly. ‘And you have been worrying and thinking about this since yesterday?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Would it not be better just to open it and see? Would you like me to—?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I shall do it. It’s just . . . seeing her writing. And the paper – it is not the stuff we used in the apothecary at St Saviour’s, but is much finer. It’s as if what this contains is private, is more than something that might be scribbled down on St Saviour’s cheap paper. You know Dr Bain was . . . was popular. With women.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Will. ‘I remember it well.’

  ‘What if he and my mother—’

  ‘Does it seem likely?’

  ‘I have no idea! It didn’t. But now . . . Now . . . ’

  ‘Anything is possible, Jem. But why not look? At least then you can be sure—’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Go on then.’ He handed me the letter. ‘Take a look. All will be well.’

  The paper was thick and creamy, the address un-faded, despite the years that had passed, so that it looked as if she had written it yesterday. I slipped the single folded sheet from the tiny envelope. It was dated some eighteen months before I was born.

  ‘My dear Alexander

  I am unable to see a way forward for either of us that is without pain. You have been the kindest and most patient of men, but the time has come for us to consider the path we have embarked upon and where it will lead us. Without me you will be able to continue your work. I would only hold you back, and, in time, you would resent me. I could not bear it. I am older, and, in this matter, wiser than you, and so I make this decision for both of us. For all of us.

  Cathy.’

  I read it over once more, then folded it up. I thought of all the hours Dr Bain and I had spent together. He had been my only friend at St Saviour’s – before Will came – and I had been distraught when he died. ‘He never said. Never told me that he . . . that he knew her so well.’

  ‘Perhaps there was no need. Not while your father was alive.’

  ‘And now they are dead,’ I said. ‘All of them, and I am alone.’ I had not meant to sound so self-pitying, but the words tumbled out before I could stop them. Will meant more to me than any of them; was I to lose him too? For as I watched him draw closer to Miss Crowe I felt a cold draught about my heart. I could not love him more than I did, though for him, it h
ad not been enough.

  I closed my eyes. I heard Will stand up from his desk, heard him push open the skylight and felt a faint breeze swirl in. He put arms around me, the arms of a true friend, and I was glad that I had told him. The rough nap of his woollen waistcoat rasped against my cheek. He smelled of ink, and pencil shavings left in the sun, as he always did. I hoped Miss Crowe liked it as much as I.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ I said. ‘To Wilson’s lodgings? We cannot in all conscience let him simply vanish into his own anatomy school as a collection of anonymous body parts—’

  He sighed and pushed me away, holding me at arms’ length. For a moment he looked into my eyes, his hands upon my shoulders. Then, ‘I will always love you, Jem.’ He kissed me on the forehead. ‘And I will always, always come with you.’

  According to Mrs Speedicut, Tanhauser, Squires and Wilson had lodgings on Brush Street, a dull row of flat-fronted Georgian terraced lodging houses in varying states of dilapidation not far from the Hall. The street sweepers and night soil men seemed reluctant to visit the place, and there were mounds of excrement about the road and pavement. It had a grim darkness to it for all that the sun was shining, and I was glad the fog had lifted, for I would not like to walk its length without being able to see where I was putting my feet.

  Tanhauser, Squires and Wilson lived at the end. The woman who answered the door was as thin as a lath with a baby on her hip. Another child clutched hold of her skirts with filthy fists. Both children were crying. The sound of still more of them doing the same echoed up the dark passage that led to the back of the house. She gestured up a flight of gloomy, moist-looking stairs. ‘Top floor,’ she said, when I explained who I was after. ‘Do you know where Mr Wilson is?’ she added. ‘I need the rent.’

  ‘I’m sure he will be along soon enough, madam,’ I said smoothly.

  ‘Are you?’ she said. Her grumbling voice drifted after us as we began to mount the stairs.

  Tanhauser and Squires were in their sitting room, the former sprawled in a sagging armchair, the latter standing before the fire staring gloomily at the small mound of greasy coals that smoked reluctantly in the grate. The hearth was littered with black plugs of spent tobacco and brown splats of dried spit. A skull sat on the mantel, alongside a row of empty beer bottles and a cracked tobacco jar. The two men were drinking ale and smoking, and the room had a thick brown atmosphere. Beneath the smoke it stank of dirty socks and stale food.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Tanhauser as we entered the room. ‘Well?’

  I put the beer I had brought onto the table. It was littered with dirty plates, scribbled papers and scraps of food.

  ‘You want to get your landlady to give this place a good clean,’ said Will. He wrinkled his nose. ‘And what’s that smell?’

  ‘It’s Squires,’ said Tanhauser. ‘He smells like a corpse.’ He drained his beer and held out his hand for another.

  ‘I thought you two had an examination tomorrow?’ I said.

  ‘I’m giving up,’ said Tanhauser. ‘I’m all in. It’s not for me. Can’t stomach it. Can’t remember anything either.’

  ‘It hardly matters,’ piped up Squires. ‘Half the sawbones in England don’t know their arse from their elbow.’

  ‘Now that I do know,’ said Tanhauser, pointing the mouth of his beer bottle at his companion.

  ‘And you, Squires?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I have to carry on,’ said Squires. ‘Nothing for it. Besides, I’m not quite as thick as Tanhauser.’

  ‘Oh yes you are!’ said Tanhauser. ‘You’re every bit as thick as I am. But now we don’t have Wilson. Wilson made both of us look good.’ He raised his bottle. ‘To absent friends.’

  ‘You told Dr Cruikshank that Wilson had gone back to Edinburgh?’ I said.

  ‘No. I don’t know where that came from,’ replied Squires. The two men exchanged a glance. ‘He may well be that body you were looking at, for all we know. The one without the hand.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tanhauser shrugged. He did not answer, though the way he glanced at Squires made me think there was something he was not telling us.

  ‘Where are his family?’ I said.

  ‘Wilson has no family,’ said Squires. ‘It’s one of the reasons he was here. He was a Scotsman—’

  ‘Aren’t they all?’ drawled Tanhauser. He sucked on his pipe and released a cloud of acrid smoke into the reeking atmosphere. ‘Never met a single one I liked. They look after their own.’

  ‘Apart from Wilson, evidently,’ said Will.

  ‘So it seems,’ said Tanhauser. ‘Apparently his father was keen for him to try for a surgeon – you know, the old story, wanted his son to amount to more than he had. Used to know the lot of them when they were up in Edinburgh, apparently. Thought young Wilson could do with a better profession than the one he’d had, and told him to seek out Crowe and Cruikshank.’

  ‘That tripe about bettering yourself dogs me too,’ muttered Squires. ‘My father’s a baker. Thinks I might one day be surgeon to the king.’ He shook his head. ‘If only they really knew what it was like. No jobs for anyone unless you have an uncle who can help.’ He smirked. ‘You tell me a man’s position at any hospital in town and I’ll tell you who his uncle is.’

  ‘Yes, well, the trouble with Wilson was that he didn’t take to it any more than I have,’ said Tanhauser. ‘He only did it for his old man’s sake. The old man’s dying wish, he always said. There was no reason to stay up in Edinburgh once his father was dead so he came to seek his fortune in London.’

  ‘Where the streets are paved with gold,’ said Squires. He jerked his head towards the window. ‘Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘But Wilson’s far too dim to make a surgeon. Mind you, if he spent as much time in the dissection room as he did chasing the ladies he might not be too bad at all.’

  ‘What was his father’s profession?’ I said.

  ‘Police constable, I believe,’ said Squires.

  ‘I think Wilson Senior had some idea that young Wilson would end up rich and famous. Crowe and Cruikshank are both doing very well. They have huge private practices, for all that they spend much of their time at the Hall.’

  ‘It’s nothing but drudgery if you ask me,’ said Squires. ‘Stinks too.’ He sniffed his fingernails and wrinkled his nose. ‘By God, Tanhauser. It is me!’

  ‘Of course it’s you. You never cover your clothes, that’s why. You reek like a charnel house.’ Tanhauser put his head back and closed his eyes. ‘Anyway, I’m out of it. I’m going back home and I’ll be glad never to see that place nor any of them ever again.’

  ‘Who?’ I said.

  ‘The weird sisters, for one. All three of them. An anatomy school is no place for a woman. I mean, it’s one thing sitting in a few lectures, but hanging about the place?’ He shook his head. ‘They tamper with the corpses, you know.’

  ‘How so?’ said Will. He looked aghast. ‘But they are so—’

  ‘What? So beautiful?’ Tanhauser laughed. ‘I know! I’m not sure whether that makes it better or worse.’

  ‘I don’t know which of them it is,’ said Squires, frowning. ‘My money’s on the older one. But everyone knows it goes on. They don’t come into our dissecting classes, the demonstrations, so that’s a relief. But then they don’t need to! They already know how to cut a body up. Dr Strangeway showed them.’

  ‘Uncle Strangeway,’ Tanhauser shuddered.

  ‘They take . . . bits,’ said Squires. ‘We’ve all noticed it. Who else would do it?’

  ‘Dr Cruikshank?’ I said. ‘Dr Crowe?’

  ‘Crowe and Cruikshank don’t want bits. And Strangeway never comes down. Haven’t you seen the two younger ones about the place with a jar in their hands?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Why do you think their cuffs are always red? Surely you’ve noticed? Besides, Wilson said he’d seen them.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Don’t know. He said he saw them both. The blind one carrying it. A head, he said it wa
s. The deaf one was leading the way.’

  ‘And Miss Lilith?’

  Tanhauser snorted. ‘Not you too,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Everyone’s in love with Lilith Crowe.’

  ‘Even Wilson?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ Squires looked thoughtful. ‘No, Wilson didn’t like her at all. I don’t know why. But she’s even worse than the other two. Ask Halliday.’

  ‘They can see round corners, those other two,’ remarked Tanhauser. ‘Wilson said that blind one knew it was him before he’d even—’ He stopped.

  ‘Before he’d even what?’ I said.

  Tanhauser’s cheeks coloured. The two men exchanged a glance. Then, ‘Oh what the hell. He shouldn’t have done it and he shouldn’t have told us if he didn’t want anyone to know about it. And he seemed mighty pleased with himself afterwards.’ He turned to Will and me. ‘Wilson gave the blind one a squeeze. Thought she’d never know who it was.’

  ‘It was more than a squeeze,’ said Squires. ‘She wasn’t keen apparently. But Wilson is a brute, and I doubt he was interested in her opinion. The ladies usually like him. He’s a handsome devil, it’s true enough. Mind you, not much point having good looks when the lady can’t even see you.’