‘Would you look at that?’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s the luck of the Irish!’
‘Why’s it lucky?’ muttered Tom. ‘I can hardly see–’
He broke off as a figure loomed out of the mist. Tom saw to his relief that it was Jamie reporting for duty. Will gave him a brief nod and then beckoned to the boys to follow him to the stable. Just inside the entrance there was a four-wheeled wooden trolley and standing upon it, a plain, wooden tea chest. Tom could see that the lid had been nailed securely shut.
‘Well, here it is,’ said Will, rubbing his hands together. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out some coins. ‘Here we are now, lads. A penny for each of you and the same again when you get back here.’ He looked at Jamie. ‘You remember where to go?’ he asked.
Jamie nodded. ‘No p . . . p . . . problem,’ he said. ‘The S . . . S . . . Surgeons’ Hall.’
‘Good. You’re expected by the night porter. You’re to tell him that the contents of this chest are for the eyes of Dr Robert Knox and nobody else. Is that clear?’ He looked sternly from one to the other and they both nodded. ‘The porter will pay you the sum of ten pounds, which you’re to bring back to me.’ Tom reached out a hand to touch the top of the chest and Will slapped it away. ‘You’ll notice the box has been properly sealed to keep the contents fresh and it needs to stay that way. There are very strict rules about the transportation of meat. If the porter notices anything amiss, he’ll let me know and the two of you will answer to me. Got it?’
‘G . . . got it,’ said Jamie.
‘Right. Bring it out,’ ordered Will.
Tom and Jamie took hold of the trolley and pushed. It took some effort to get the rickety old wheels to roll, but once it was moving they soon had it trundling noisily across the yard towards the loading gate. Will slid back the bolt, opened the gate and stepped out into the road. He looked first in one direction and then in the other. He seemed happy enough and motioned to them to bring the box out.
‘Take your time now,’ he advised. ‘If you see anyone coming, just cool your heels and let ‘em go by. They won’t bother you.’
‘We . . . won’t get into trouble over this, will we?’ asked Tom.
Will sniggered. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘Sure, you’re only making a delivery, aren’t you? You’ll be fine.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘All right, lads, on your way. As soon as you get back, report to me and I’ll have your money ready for you.’ And with that he strolled back into the yard, closing the gates behind him.
Tom looked at Jamie. ‘He’s generous,’ he observed. ‘He gets ten quid and we get tuppence. Does that strike you as fair?’
Jamie shrugged. ‘I c . . . can buy a cake for tuppence,’ he said.
Tom sighed. ‘Which way?’ he asked.
‘This way,’ said Jamie, pointing. They started pushing the cart slowly along the fog-shrouded street. It was an eerie sort of night, the mist so thick they could barely see more than a few feet in front of them. The streets appeared to be completely deserted which was a blessing because the clattering of the metal-shod wheels seemed to echo in every direction.
‘How far is it?’ asked Tom.
‘Around a half hour’s w . . . w . . . walk, with this thing,’ said Jamie, nodding at the cart. ‘It’s up by the Uni . . . v . . . v . . . versity.’
‘Let’s hope there’s no hills.’ He strained to get the trolley over a bump in the street. ‘This thing is heavy,’ he complained.
‘Yes. Wh . . . what’s in it exactly?’
Tom scowled. ‘Didn’t I tell you? It’s beef. They sell it to the kitchens at the Surgeons’ Hall.’
Jamie licked his lips. ‘I l . . . love a bit of beef,’ he said. ‘D . . . d’you think they’d miss a bit if we h . . . helped ourselves.’
‘There’s no way we . . .’
‘Hush!’ whispered Jamie. They stopped pushing for a moment and listened intently. The sounds of footsteps came towards them, accompanied by some raucous voices. They stood very still, hugging the shadows as two figures lurched into view; a couple of men, both of them the worse the wear for drink. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders and were gabbling nonsense at each other. They weaved unsteadily past Tom and Jamie with barely a glance and the boys were able to continue on their way.
‘They w . . . wouldn’t know if we took a c . . . couple of handfuls,’ muttered Jamie.
‘No way! You heard what Will said. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, do you? Besides, this lid is nailed shut. How do you think we’d open it? With our teeth?’
‘G . . . good point,’ admitted Jamie.
The journey was pretty uneventful. They saw hardly any people on the way and the few they did see seemed to take no interest in the two ragged boys pushing a trolley. Luckily, there was no sign of the new police officers who sometimes wandered the streets of Edinburgh looking for law breakers. After around half an hour of steady progress Jamie was finally able to point out the gas light that hung over the entrance to the porter’s lodge outside the Surgeons’ Hall. The boys parked the trolley beside a wall, approached the door of the lodge and tapped gently on the metal knocker. At first there was no answer, so Tom tried pounding it harder. After a few moments the door opened and a man peered blearily out at them, as though he’d just woken up. He was a short, plump fellow in a grubby tailcoat and waistcoat. His head was bald on top, with wisps of long iron-grey hair trailing down at the sides. His cheeks were ruddy and mottled with veins which Tom had already learned was a sign of a hardened drinker. He stared at his visitors for a moment, his mouth open, revealing jagged grey stumps of teeth.
‘What time d’you call this?’ he muttered. ‘They said it would be late, but this is ridiculous. It’s nearly one in the morning.’ He made a show of pulling a watch out of his pocket and held it out so they could see it, just in case they were in any doubt about the time. Then he tutted and put the watch away. He stood for a moment, his hands in his waistcoat pockets, and stared at the tea chest. ‘So, this is it?’ he asked them dismally, as though he’d been expecting something grander.
‘It’s for Doctor Knox,’ said Tom, remembering what Will had told him. ‘For his eyes only.’
‘Yes, yes, I know that! Wait here.’ The man stepped out past them and walked along to a double door a little further along. He rapped his knuckles against the wood and, after a short wait, a man opened the door, a tall fellow in a long grey coat. The porter spoke to him quietly for a moment, having to almost stand on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. The tall man’s expression didn’t change. He turned and shouted over his shoulder and a second man, similarly dressed, appeared beside him. The two men came out and started to manoeuvre the trolley in through the doors.
‘We n . . . need the trolley back when you’ve finished,’ Jamie reminded them, but they took no notice. They got the vehicle inside and closed the doors again.
‘We’re supposed to be paid ten pounds,’ said Tom, nervously, worried that the porter might be trying to pull a fast one.
‘All in good time,’ said the porter. ‘All in good time. We have to make sure the meat is of suitable quality. We don’t purchase just any old thing, you know.’ He looked quickly around as if worried that he might be overheard. ‘Actually, you’re in luck,’ he whispered. ‘Old Cyclops is actually here tonight.’
‘Old Cyclops?’ echoed Tom, mystified.
‘Doctor Knox! He’s been working late on a complicated bit of surgery. Terrible it was, a woman, knocked down by a brewery wagon. Her legs . . .’ The porter screwed up his face. ‘But the doctor managed to save one of ‘em. She’ll be on crutches the rest of her life, but that’s a sight better than having no legs at all, wouldn’t you say? Oh, he’s a great man, Doctor Knox. A genius. They say he’ll go down in the history books.’
Tom frowned. Now that the porter had mentioned it, the name of Knox did seem to ring a bell with him, but he couldn’t remember exactly where he’d heard it before. A histor
y lesson, perhaps?
The double doors opened and the tall man came out, pulling the empty trolley after him. He parked it and went back inside without a word just as another man stepped out, a distinguished-looking fellow dressed in a long white coat. He too was balding on top of his skull but sported a pair of thick brown sideboards that curved around his cheeks, almost to the edges of his mouth. There was something wrong with one of his eyes, Tom noticed; it appeared smaller and less animated than the other. After a few moments he realised that it was actually a glass eye and he understood why the porter had referred to the doctor, rather uncharitably, as ‘Old Cyclops’. Doctor Knox had an almost aristocratic air about him and when he spoke it was in a refined Edinburgh brogue. ‘So,’ he said. ‘I must confess myself very pleased with the latest consignment.’ He reached into his coat and withdrew a leather wallet. ‘I believe the agreed fee was ten pounds?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir, thank you sir.’ Tom nodded and held out his hand to take the money. Knox smiled graciously at him.
‘Is that an English accent I hear?’ he enquired, pressing a paper note into Tom’s hand and Tom nodded.
‘Manchester, sir.’
Dr Knox smiled. ‘I’ve never visited your city, though I have naturally, in the course of my work, been to London, several times. A most gracious city.’ He returned the wallet to his pocket. ‘Please convey my best wishes to your employer and tell him I’m always happy to take more of his wares.’
‘W . . . we will, sir,’ said Jamie, brightly.
Dr Knox studied Jamie’s bare feet for a moment. ‘Have you no shoes, boy?’ he enquired. ‘For heaven’s sake, you’ll catch your death.’
‘Oh, I d . . . d . . . don’t like shoes, sir,’ said Jamie. ‘Too uncomfortable.’
Knox raised a quizzical eyebrow at this, but didn’t pursue the matter. ‘Well, I must get on,’ he said. ‘I’ll bid you good night, gentlemen.’ And with that he turned and strode back in through the double doors. They slammed shut behind him.
Jamie walked across to collect the trolley.
‘Have you gentlemen got far to go?’ asked the porter.
‘Tanner’s Close,’ said Tom.
‘Well, mind how you proceed in this fog,’ said the porter, strolling back towards the open door of his lodge. ‘We wouldn’t want you to have an accident, would we? Who’d keep our larders stocked then?’ And with that, he went back inside his lodge, closing the door behind him.
‘We’ll get b . . . b . . . back to Laird’s, shall we?’ suggested Jamie.
‘Ok.’ Tom reached out to push the cart, but as he did so the rickety wood seemed to turn to jelly beneath his fingers and he felt a familiar whirling sensation at the back of his skull.
‘Oh, no,’ he said.
Jamie was looking at him, perturbed. ‘T . . . Tom?’ he murmured. ‘Wh . . . what’s wrong?’
Tom opened his mouth to reply, but before he could even say a word he was spinning into darkness and there was no way to stop himself.
Twelve
‘Look at those!’ said Mum.
Tom opened his eyes. He blinked and stared. The last thing he remembered was trying to push the empty trolley after he and Jamie had made their midnight delivery. Now, suddenly, here he was, back in the museum where everything had started. Mum was pointing to the glass cabinet where the tiny coffins were on display. They were exactly as he remembered them, arranged in a row and lit by tiny spotlights.
‘Weird,’ he said. He didn’t know what else to say. He looked quickly around and everything seemed to be just as it had been when he was last here. Except that this time, it was Mum who was reading the explanatory card beside the coffins.
‘Says here there used be seventeen of them,’ said Mum ‘Some kids found them in 1836 on . . . Arthur’s Seat. Hey, we could take a walk up there later if you fancy,’ she told him. ‘It’s a nice day. I’m told it’s not so hard if you take your time.’
Tom just stared at her, trying to make some kind of sense of this. He put a hand out to touch the cool glass of the cabinet, wanting to be sure that this was all real and not some dream he was having. But the cabinet felt solid enough. Mum looked at him.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked him. ‘You look . . . strange.’
‘I feel strange,’ he assured her.
Mum frowned and carried on reading. ‘Says here the kids didn’t know they were worth anything and started throwing them at each other!’ She laughed, as though picturing the scene. ‘That’s why there’s only eight coffins left. But this schoolteacher, he realised they were important, so he went back up there and found what was left of them, so . . .’
‘Mum,’ interrupted Tom. He was having a bad feeling about all of this. ‘I think maybe we should leave.’
Mum frowned. ‘I thought you were enjoying it,’ she said.
‘I was. I mean, I am, but . . . you know, it’s getting late and . . . I’m hungry.’
‘Oh?’ Mum glanced at her watch. ‘Well, there’s a café here, you know. A nice one. I’ve eaten there before. Couldn’t you hang on for a little while, just in case Hamish decides to join us?’
Tom gulped. ‘Hamish?’ he muttered.
‘He was feeling tired this morning so I let him sleep on, but I texted him on the way here, told him where we’d be. If he fancies coming.’ She smiled. ‘That’s ok, isn’t it?’
Tom looked at her. No, he thought, that’s not a good idea. When he gets here, he’ll be drunk and he’ll have tickets for the Hibs. And it’ll all turn nasty. But he couldn’t tell her that. He’d have to get her away on some pretext. ‘Is there . . . is there a loo near here?’
‘Yes, dear, just hang on a minute.’ She was still intent on reading the card. ‘Nobody’s sure who put the coffins up there,’ she continued. ‘There are theories though. Some people thought it might be witches. You know, like voodoo dolls or something? Or it could be they’re for sailors that drowned at sea. It says here . . .’
‘There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’
Tom looked up in dread, expecting to see Hamish’s glowering figure prowling between the cabinets towards them. But it was worse than that. Much worse. The man gliding towards them was dressed in a long leather cloak. He had Hamish’s features, but the cold mirthless smile belonged to William McSweeny. He strode forward, his gaze fixed intently on Tom.
Mum laughed in disbelief. ‘Hamish?’ she murmured. ‘What’s with the fancy dress?’
McSweeny ignored her. He kept his gaze fixed on Tom. ‘Face it,’ he said, ‘You can’t escape me. This is your destiny, Tom. You eluded me last time, but you may as well accept your fate.’
‘Hamish, what’s going on?’ Mum started walking towards him, putting herself front of Tom. ‘Is this some kind of a jo −?’
McSweeny didn’t slow his pace. He raised one arm and struck her hard across the face with the back of his gauntlet-covered hand. She reeled aside with a cry of shock and collided with a glass cabinet, overturning it. It struck the ground and exploded into smithereens, spilling its precious contents onto the floor. Mum sprawled in the midst of the wreckage, seemingly knocked cold.
‘Mum!’ Tom took a step towards her, but froze as McSweeny reached into his cloak and his hand emerged, wielding a knife. He scythed a deadly arc inches in front of Tom’s face and kept right on coming.
‘Come on, Tom,’ he hissed. ‘Take your punishment like a good boy.’
Tom began to back away along the aisle, glass cabinets to either side of him. He glanced helplessly around, searching for some kind of protection and he spotted an exhibit on the wall to his left, a huge double-handed broadsword in a jewelled scabbard. He grabbed at it instinctively, thinking it would just come away, but realised in an instant that it was fixed securely in place. McSweeny laughed as Tom tugged ineffectually at the sword.
‘Pathetic,’ he said and raised his arm to strike.
Tom put everything he had into one last, desperate pull, straining with all his mig
ht. The fixings tore out of the wall in a shower of grit and plaster and Tom swung around to face McSweeny, holding the sword horizontally in front of him just as McSweeny’s arm descended. The man’s wrist struck hard against the jewelled scabbard and he cursed as the knife slipped from his grasp and went skittering across the floor. Tom didn’t waste any time. He took the sword by the handle and pulled it loose from its scabbard, then tossed the sheath away. He gripped the weapon with both hands and swung the heavy blade from side to side as he began to advance on McSweeny, who had suddenly lost his confident smile.
‘Come on then,’ hissed Tom through clenched teeth. ‘Come on, if you think you’re hard enough.’
McSweeny laughed. ‘You haven’t got the guts to use that blade,’ he said, but now it was he who was backing away, pieces of glass from the shattered cabinet crunching under his heavy, metal-shod boots. He glanced down at Tom’s mum, as though debating taking her hostage, but Tom hurried forward to head him off.
‘Don’t even think about touching her,’ he snapped and McSweeny continued to back away. Tom lifted the heavy sword above his head. ‘I’m sick of being chased,’ he growled. ‘Now let’s see how you like it.’ And with that, he gave a yell and ran at McSweeny, the sword held ready to strike. McSweeny’s nerve failed him. He turned and fled, back the way he had come, heading for the swing doors at the top of the room, his cloak flapping behind him. He reached the door, threw it open and ran into the corridor beyond. Tom raced after him, determined not to let him escape, but as he burst through the doorway, he had to rein himself in, when he saw an elderly man and a young girl standing a short distance away, staring at him in absolute terror. The man’s arm went around the girl and he pulled out a wallet. ‘Take whatever you want!’ he gasped. Tom swerved past the couple and saw that McSweeny was heading down the staircase, running now for all he was worth.
‘Sorry!’ yelled Tom as he followed McSweeny, descending the staircase as fast as he dared. McSweeny made it to the next floor, which was crowded with tourists. There was some incredulous laughter as he came pounding down the stairs, but they turned to yells of terror as they saw a boy armed with a broadsword, running in hot pursuit and yelling like a maniac. People scattered in all directions and a security man started shouting something into a walkie-talkie. McSweeny threw open the door of the next gallery and ran inside. Tom was intent on nothing more now than getting his man and he followed. He saw McSweeny up ahead of him, running through the crowded gallery, barging people aside in his eagerness to escape.
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