Surgeons’ Hall

by E. S. Thomson

  ‘Sorrow, my dear,’ said her father gently. ‘Please—’

  ‘Oh, Father,’ she said. She turned her silvered eyes upon him. ‘Do you not know? Do none of you know? There are more secrets around this table than there are people.’

  The room fell silent, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock and the angry snap of the coals in the fireplace. I saw Tanhauser and Squires exchange a glance. Dr Allardyce’s face had taken on a sickly pallor, whilst Lilith’s expression was one of such horror that I thought for one moment that she was about to rise up and dash from the room. Dr Cruikshank saw it too and he sprang to his feet.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, friends and colleagues, if I might say a few words about Dr Wragg,’ he said. ‘He was a true and loyal friend. A man I had known all my professional career, through difficult times, and many trials and troubles. I owe him a great deal. Dr Allardyce, Dr Crowe and I, we all owe him a great deal. To a dear departed friend and colleague. To Dr Wragg.’ He raised his glass. We all did the same, all of us but Halliday, who looked as though he would rather hurl his glass at the doctor’s head. But then, like everyone else, he raised it in a toast. ‘Dr Wragg,’ he said. He drained it in one gulp, as if washing down bile.

  ‘Well, Mr Tanhauser,’ said Dr Crowe, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. ‘I hear you are to quit medicine. I cannot say it is a great loss to the profession.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I have failed anatomy and surgery twice. Dr Allardyce has washed his hands of me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not quite true, Tanhauser,’ said Dr Allardyce. ‘I n-never wash my hands of any student.’

  ‘You’re obviously not suited to medicine,’ said Dr Crowe. ‘But there will be a calling for you somewhere.’

  Dr Cruikshank however was less tolerant. ‘You are an idiot, Tanhauser,’ he said. ‘You have the attention span of a goldfish.’

  ‘I can’t help it. The endless lists of things – nerves and bones and organs and what not. And Dr Allardyce’s demonstrations make me want to go to sleep.’

  Dr Allardyce scowled. ‘I cannot work with such poor material as you,’ he said. ‘I cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. Your mind is mush, Tanhauser. Unless I were asking you to remember types of beer, or the runners and riders of the Epsom Derby, in which case you would do admirably.’

  ‘It is an art, Tanhauser, that’s all,’ said Halliday. He grinned. ‘I’ve tried to help you before but you’re an idle beggar and make no effort at all.’

  ‘But it’s just a list of things.’

  ‘Practise!’

  ‘I can’t!’

  Lilith turned to Halliday. ‘Mr Halliday, if you could turn out your pockets, please?’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘So that I may show Mr Tanhauser how to get himself a better memory – should he consent to learn the trick from a woman.’

  Halliday grinned. He seemed relieved, as we all did, that the feeling around the table had grown less prickly. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Though I think it will take more than the contents of my pockets to help Tanhauser. Even the lewdest of mnemonics have failed with him. And yet his head is so huge, if we followed the logic of Mr Squires’s arguments one might assume him to be a genius.’

  ‘Alas!’ said Lilith. ‘I fear his brain is actually the size of a walnut and the rest is rags and straw.’

  Tanhauser laughed. ‘Go on then, Miss Crowe. You can surely not make me any worse.’

  Halliday was wearing the coat he habitually wore when he was about his business in the anatomy museum, and although he had brushed the shoulders it was evident that it had seen better days, for the pockets were shapeless and sagging. I had seen him stuff a specimen jar into each one when he had too much to carry up the stairs to his desk. Now, he looked faintly embarrassed that his coat had attracted the attention of a lady, though he emptied its pockets without demur.

  ‘Good Lord, Halliday,’ said Dr Allardyce as Halliday spread out the contents on the dinner table. ‘Do you have a magpie’s nest in there?’

  There was laughter at this, for Halliday’s pockets did indeed contain a surprising number of things. Lilith fetched a small tea tray of polished wood and laid the items upon it, each one some two inches apart from the other. She held up her hand for silence, and then stared at the miscellany, one after the other, for a minute or more. Then she covered them with a handkerchief – also provided by Halliday. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘I’ll wager you ten shillings that I can list the things on this tray in the order in which they are placed starting from the top right. Hold up the handkerchief so that I can’t see them. Mr Tanhauser, tell me if I am right.’ She closed her eyes. ‘A sixpence. A shilling. A length of string. A small stick of sealing wax. A candle end. A fold of blotting paper. A small key. The cog from inside a watch. A tooth. A gallstone. A pencil. A boiled sweet. The nib of a fountain pen. A small wooden whistle. The cork from a beer bottle. A ball of coloured wax. An acorn.’ She spoke slowly and methodically, hesitating only once – at which point Tanhauser let out a premature roar of victory – but she resumed directly, listing them all in the order in which they were set out. She did not make a single mistake.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Tanhauser. Squires said nothing. Dr Allardyce too remained silent. I saw him slip his hand into his coat pocket. He watched Halliday morosely, as if he wished he could empty his own pockets onto the tray, and that his would be much better, more interesting, and far harder to memorise.

  ‘Now you, sir,’ said Lilith to Tanhauser. Her face was stony.

  Of course, Tanhauser managed only four items, and two of them were not in the right order. He sat back, a sheen of sweat upon his brow as if exhausted by the effort. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘You have heard of Aristotle, Mr Tanhauser, and the ars memoria?’

  ‘Alas, no.’

  She sighed. The cheer seemed to have gone out of her, and the explanation she provided, though perhaps no more than he deserved, was dull and perfunctory. Her sisters were similarly restless. I saw her exchange a glance with Silence, and then she gathered up the miscellaneous items and handed them back to Halliday in two fistfuls.

  He grinned, and stuffed them back out of sight. ‘Far too disciplined for the likes of Tanhauser,’ he said. But a gloom seemed to have descended as Lilith’s good humour evaporated, and shortly afterwards she said she had a headache and, with her sisters in tow, left the room. Tanhauser and Squires took themselves off soon after, in the company of Dr Allardyce, and the mood lightened still further.

  ‘Two useless boys,’ murmured Dr Cruikshank. ‘There are many others, just the same. Their fathers send them to be medical men but what’s the use if their hearts are not in it? Fortunately not all our students are like that.’ He smiled. ‘Dr Crowe?’

  ‘Ah yes! My dear boy.’ Dr Crowe turned to Halliday. ‘There is something Dr Cruikshank and I wanted to speak to you about. He and I – and I’m sure Dr Allardyce concurs – we believe you to be a quite exceptional young man. I realise you have had your differences with Dr Allardyce.’ He sighed. ‘He used to be such a bright young lad – not as bright as you, dear boy.’ There were tears in Dr Crowe’s eyes as he spoke. Dr Cruikshank watched him carefully, as if fearing that Crowe was about to say too much. ‘You remind me of someone,’ he said. ‘A long time ago now. I have only daughters, you see, so who might I – who might I—’

  ‘Dr Crowe would like you to join Dr Allardyce as one of the anatomy demonstrators,’ said Dr Cruikshank. ‘The students look to you for guidance. And you have a keenness, and a degree of charisma that the teaching of anatomy needs. Without such things it is dull, dull, dull. Our students do not look to Dr Allardyce. They do not . . . do not hear him, respect him.’ He looked at Dr Crowe. ‘I don’t know why you keep him, Sandy.’

  ‘You do know why,’ replied Dr Crowe. He clapped his hands. ‘But come. Halliday, my dear boy, I see in you another Hunter, another Cooper. Will you accept the position?’

  Halliday’s face was white,
his eyes ringed by dark circles as if he had hardly slept for days. Anatomy demonstrator at only twenty-four years old – it was an honour indeed. I saw him lick his lips, his eyes darting towards the door. I frowned. Was he frightened? But of what?

  Dr Crowe saw it too. A look of consternation crossed his face, as if he feared his offer was about to be rejected. ‘And to mark that appointment I would like you to accept these.’ Dr Crowe reached up to the mantel and took up a box. It was made from polished walnut with a clasp of gleaming silver. He buffed it with his sleeve, and then handed it over. Halliday’s face had turned almost green. His lips were bloodless. His hands shook as he took the box, and saw his own initials embossed upon the lid in silvered copperplate.

  ‘Open it,’ murmured Dr Crowe. ‘They are for you.’

  Halliday swallowed, and eased the lid open. Inside, resting on a layer of plush velvet, was a set of surgical knives. He seemed unable to speak. I saw him swallow again, and close his eyes. Moisture beaded his upper lip. He opened his eyes and looked down at the contents of the box. All at once he cried out, the box springing from his hands as if it were burning hot, the knives cascading into the hearth like shards of ice.

  Precognition for the murder of Mary Anderson,

  18th December 1830.

  From the Edinburgh Evening Courant, 21st December 1830

  On the morning of the 20th inst. a tragic incident occurred at Surgeons’ Hall. Following the murder of the woman known as Mary Anderson some two days earlier it had come to light that a knife had been found at the scene of the crime bearing the initials of one James H. Franklyn, recently appointed demonstrator at Dr Crowe’s anatomy school of 13 Surgeons’ Square. Mr Franklyn had been unable to account for his whereabouts between the hours of approximately half past 8 and 10 o’clock on the evening of the 18th inst., when the murder was believed to have taken place. Although he claimed to be walking to Surgeons’ Hall from Duddingston at that time, no one had seen him on the road. The knife bore evidence of recent use, and was smothered with fresh blood.

  On arriving at Surgeons’ Square with a view to apprehending the young man, the arresting constables found that an angry mob had already gathered in anticipation of the seizure of one or other of the anatomists. Mr Franklyn was understood to have visited the deceased on many occasions, and was rumoured to have tried to purchase her corpse even before she was dead. Being aware of this, and with the dreadful events of the West Port, and the trial of Burke and Hare still fresh in the minds of the population, the mob had gathered outside Surgeons’ Hall, into which building Franklyn had vanished in search of asylum. Pursued by the arresting officers, and no doubt sensing the hand of justice closing in upon him, the young man was heard to cry out that he was innocent of the crime; that Dr Crowe knew he was innocent; that they should ask Dr Crowe, and if they would not then he would. So saying he ran to a window at the rear of the building and, throwing the sash wide, attempted to jump down from the first floor.

  Despite being a drop that would not ordinarily have resulted in anything more unfortunate than a broken ankle, it seems that in his haste and desperation the young man opened the wrong window, and instead of dropping onto the lawn at the back of the building fell to his death, some 40 feet into the basement area.

  There are currently no other suspects in the murder of Mary Anderson. As a result, it appears that the law has, on this occasion, been served by misadventure, the young man’s flight eliminating whatever doubt might have remained in anyone’s mind as to his guilt.

  It is to be assumed that the dead babe of the murdered woman, the body of which has never been found, was disposed of by Franklyn before he had the chance to confess its whereabouts. Franklyn’s personal ‘anatomy collection’ has been taken by the police, and it is believed that the items contained therein will be found to include the preserved body of the missing child.

  Will and I walked home along St Saviour’s Street in silence. The evening had been unsettling – Corvus Hall struck me as the most macabre of places, the people in it bound together by something as disturbing as it was unknown. I thought I understood medical men, that although they might seem largely driven by ambition, in their hearts they had the best of intentions. I had never allowed my experiences at St Saviour’s, at Angel Meadow Asylum or on board the Seaman’s Floating Hospital stop me from thinking otherwise. They were fascinated by the body and its workings, were driven to find out all they could about it, and this often led them down pathways most would baulk at – robbing graves for corpses, experimenting on animals, anatomising anything that had once drawn breath. But Corvus Hall seemed to have its own logic, its own ways of behaving. That death was its currency seemed to mean that when terrible things happened – unidentified bodies found, faces removed, hands severed – these acts were considered unremarkable. It was a world that seemed divorced from normality. I almost wished more of them were grinning, well-meaning dolts like Squires and Tanhauser.

  I sensed that Will was looking at me, though I did not turn to confirm it. And, of course, there was something else that bothered me too.

  ‘Are you in love with her?’ I said. I still could not look at him. I had meant to say something quite different, something about what was going on at Corvus Hall, but Will was at the front of my mind.

  ‘With whom?’ he said mildly.

  ‘With Miss Crowe,’ I said. ‘With Lilith.’

  He did not speak for a moment, then ‘Jem—’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I cannot love you. Not the love you deserve or want. And so you must look elsewhere. You must. You cannot be happy just living with me as your friend. It’s like Squires and Tanhauser—’

  He grinned. ‘God, Jem, I hope you never smell like either of them.’ He looked away. ‘But since you ask, then yes. I believe I am.’ He sighed. ‘She is perfect in every way. Bold, clever, unique. Did you see her this evening? The way she put that fellow Squires in his place, the way she showed Tanhauser up to be the dolt he is. I know her father has given her an unorthodox upbringing but that is all to the good. She is independent, beautiful, wise. She needs no man to make her complete, but to be her equal – who would not delight in such companionship? You saw the memory game, Jem. How she could recollect every piece. I thought she would not manage it. There was one point when she faltered – you recall?’ I did recall. It was as though in her mind something had jarred, or slipped, for she had been proceeding quite smoothly up to that point. And then all at once she had hesitated. A slow smile had spread across Tanhauser’s face as he thought she had failed – but she had drawn a breath and carried on. And yet she had not looked the same afterwards – at the time I had assumed it was due to the fact that she had almost failed in the task she had set herself – memorising seventeen disparate items in the correct order. And yet—

  I stopped dead, the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly damp with fear. ‘We must go back,’ I said. ‘We must go back now.’

  ‘Why?’ said Will. He sighed. In the distance the clock at St Saviour’s church chimed. ‘It is past midnight—’

  ‘We must go back,’ I said, ‘because if we do not, then all is lost.’

  We let ourselves in the front door and locked it behind us. The Hall was silent, though I knew we were not alone that night; that in the darkness there would be others waiting. Not down here, but upstairs, up on the top floors where few of the students bothered to go. For the killer those upper storeys were safe and familiar, every inch mapped out, every artefact placed just so, so that it could be negotiated blind.

  A lantern had been left on the table in the hall, its light glinting off the two twisted skeletons in their glass boxes. I put my finger to my lips, and listened. At first there was nothing. Nothing but that great echoing silence. Was I mistaken? I had been so sure. I had seen what Lilith had seen, I knew what she knew. And then I heard it. A movement, a sigh, perhaps, or a soft footfall. I could not be sure, but I knew it had begun.

  ‘Quickly,’ I cried. I bounded up t
he stairs. Never had the place felt so huge and empty, so dark and fearful. I led Will down the hallway towards the anatomy museum. Up ahead the door to Dr Strangeway’s workshop was open, the light bright, as it always was, splashing out into the hall in a square of yellow, lurid against the pressing darkness.

  Inside was in a state of terrible disorder. It was clear that there had been a struggle, the models that had stood on the table top had been knocked aside. One of the Venuses – one of Dr Strangeway’s ‘girls’ – had been flung to the floor, her organs spilling out obscenely even as her face looked heavenwards, her expression ecstatic. The smell of wax that hung in the air was tainted with some other, richer smell, a smell at once earthy and visceral. I had smelled it before in that room the first time we had visited, the first time I had met Dr Strangeway and he had told me he had needed ten human heads to create the waxen model that had been sent to the Exhibition. It was the smell of blood.

  Dr Strangeway was sitting in a high-backed chair. Around his neck was a sky-blue shawl, wound tight as a tourniquet. I realised then where I had seen it before, for there was one just like it – around the shoulders of Mrs Crowe, in the portrait that hung above the fireplace. The portrait painted by Dr Strangeway. He was dead, there seemed little doubt about it. The shawl had been wrung into a twisted rope, wrapped tight about his neck again and again, and then tied to the chair so that he might remain upright. Before him stood the sisters, Sorrow and Silence. In her hand, Silence held a long sharp Liston knife. In the bright lamplight of the wax modelling room the drop of blood that hung from its tip glittered like a ruby. There was more of the stuff dripping down the wall, for above the strangled figure of Dr Strangeway a severed hand had been nailed. A card, no bigger than a carte de visité, bearing the words et mortui sua arcana narrabunt, had been jammed between its fingers.