“Do you want a consultation?” said the student.
“No. I just want to see him.”
Puzzled, the student went in search of Davey. The porter, of course, was used to nocturnal visitors bringing tea chests on carts. He carried a lantern. After telling the student to go back to his duties, he asked Hare to bring the chest down to the cellar. Hare signalled to Burke, who promptly pulled the chest off the cart on to his broad shoulders.
In the cellar, Davey told him to dump it on the floor. “If ye’ll wait a minute, I’ll go and fetch Mr. Jackson, the doctor’s assistant,” he said.
When Burke and Hare were left alone, and the lantern cast high shadows on the damp walls, Burke glanced round uneasily. “It’s really creepy, isn’t it, Willy?” he said.
“Shh,” said Hare, “An’ leave the talkin’ to me.”
Davey returned accompanied by Jackson who, with Burke, hauled Johnnie out of the chest and on to a dissecting table.
“Will ye be wantin’ his shirt on?” Hare asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Davey. “The doctor can see him better without.”
Burke ripped off the shirt and dropped it back into the chest.
“I’ll be getting Dr. Knox now,” said Davey, going up the cellar steps again. He stood in the doorway of the drawing-room for several minutes before he could catch the doctor’s eye and beckon him over.
“What is it, Davey?” Knox asked.
“A couple o’ new men, sir,” Davey whispered. “Wi’ a subject …”
“You don’t know them?”
“No, sir. Irish gentlemen they are, by the sound of them. Very nice spoken one of them is. I’ve laid the subject out with Mr. Jackson’s assistance, all ready for ye, sir.”
“I’ll be right down.” The doctor glanced at Martha and Mitchell, who were in the middle of a gavotte, oblivious of anyone else, and followed Davey to the cellar. Jackson met him half-way up the steps with the lantern.
Knox looked at Burke and Hare with distaste, and when Hare mumbled: “A very good evenin’ to ye, sir,” the doctor merely nodded curtly. He walked past them for a close examination of the naked Johnnie on the table.
“Sure, he’s a perfect specimen, yer honour,” said Hare anxiously. “Burke, move aside so that the gentleman can see.”
Knox ignored him and continued to study the body with a cold professional eye.
“Died only a few hours ago, yer honour,” Hare went on. “We heard ye liked them fresh, sir … and this one’s as fresh as a new-cut cabbage!”
Knox only said: “Hm, excellent.” He moved Johnnie’s head from side to side and examined the neck. “I’ll give you seven pounds ten,” he said, taking out his purse and counting the money into Hare’s hand.
Hare couldn’t resist beaming at Burke. Seven pounds ten for a shrivelled old corpse!
“Thank ye kindly, yer honour,” said Hare.
Knox asked him keenly: “Is this your normal line of business?”
“Not really, sir. We’re new to this, as yer might say. It’s Mr. Burke here. He’s by way of runnin’ a small lodging establishment y’see …”
Knox cut him short. “If you have any more like this,” he said, “bring them to me.”
“Oh, we will that,” said Hare, pocketing the coins. “To be honest with ye, sir, we were thinkin’ of letting old Johnnie here go to Doctor Monro, but one o’ yer students recommended us to come to you.”
“Very sensible of him,” said Knox.
As the doctor turned and mounted the steps, Hare called after him: “May the saints preserve yer honour!” He then paused for a dramatic farewell look at Johnnie and removed his hat, saying: “An’ may his soul rest in peace.”
“Amen,” said Burke, also removing his hat.
“Come, Willy,” said Hare. Escorted by Davey and Jackson, the partners gleefully returned to the alleyway, where Hare gave Burke £3 5s., keeping £4 5s. for himself.
Towards the end of January, Burke went over to Hare’s lodging house for an evening. The house (demolished in 1902) was to the west of Burke’s, its back entrance leading out to the same piece of waste ground. It was slightly better than the Burke’s hovel in that it was a self-contained, single-storeyed dwelling, with a large dormitory downstairs.
Hare and his wife shared a can of whisky with their guest in the private rooms on the first floor. The can was almost empty, and the alcohol having its effect, when Mrs. Hare, a sturdy, round-faced woman with heavy brows, said thickly: “Wish we could get rid of that lodger Joseph.”
“Wha’s the matter wi’ him?” asked Burke. “Is he another Johnnie Donald?”
“No, not exactly,” Hare explained. “He’s been ill these past few days with the fever. We’re thinkin’ that if he isn’ae on his feet again soon, it’ll keep other lodgers away. Come down and have a look at him. I’ll show ye.”
Leaving Mrs. Hare slumped in her chair, snoring, Burke accompanied his friend down the narrow spiral stairs. The dormitory was unoccupied except for Joseph (the only name by which the Hares knew him). He was a miller by trade, and was said to have been a wealthy man. He now lay on his truckle bed, panting desperately and sweating, staring up at the ceiling.
Hare regarded him for some time without the slightest trace of sympathy, and was struck by an idea. “Ye would almost think it a mercy to put him out of his misery,” he said softly. “He’s no chance of gettin’ better that I can see!”
“It’s right that ye are,” Burke agreed. Burke had even less money than usual, it being so soon after the tail-end of the New Year celebrations, and had been reflecting for quite a while that waiting for another lodger to die on him might take years.
“I’d call it giving nature a helpin’ hand,” Hare went on. “After all, he’ll be dyin’ on us, and we dinna want the trouble of the undertaker comin’ and all that.”
“Ye think we could get away with it?” said Burke.
“Who’s to know? The only other person in the house is the missus—an’ she’s asleep.”
Burke went over to the window. It looked out on to an alley. “People might see,” he said.
“There’s another place in here,” said Hare, opening a side door. He pointed to a small room, the window of which faced a pig-sty and a blank wall.
When they picked up the bed, with Joseph in it, and carried it into the side-room, he cried weakly: “Where are ye takin’ me?”
“To a room of yer own,” said Hare soothingly. “Ye would like that, wouldn’ae ye?”
“I want water. I’m thirsty …” said Joseph faintly.
They put down the bed. Hare shut the door and fastened the iron bolt, which was on the inside. He listened for a moment to make sure that no one was coming. Then both of them, without further word, leapt at Joseph. Hare sat on his body to pin him down. Burke whipped the pillow from under his head and held it flat over his nose and mouth. After the miller’s first few seconds of pure terror, his struggles weakened and gradually ceased. Five minutes later he was sprawled on the bed, lifeless.
Hare went again to the door to listen. He shook his head. The house was still quiet. No one had heard.
That same evening the body went to Surgeons’ Square, and Dr. Knox, again without asking questions, but commenting that it was a more virile specimen than Johnnie Donald, gave Hare ten pounds. Hare kept six and gave four to Burke, who had to surrender £1 of his share to Mrs. Hare for the use of her premises.
This windfall enabled Hare to buy, among other things, a second-hand overcoat, some shoes and a stylish pair of kid gloves; Burke and Helen indulged in even more extravagant alcoholic excesses. The money didn’t last long, and about a week after Joseph’s head, trunk and limbs had been dissected for the benefit of the doctor’s students, the partners began casting around for a new source of income.
Their attention centred on another of Hare’s lodgers, a tall, black-haired Englishman whose name they didn’t know, but who had come to Edinburgh to sell matches, or spunks as th
ey were called. He was suffering from an acute attack of jaundice, and hadn’t been able to leave his bed for days.
Burke and Hare carried him into the side-room, and when darkness fell were richer by another £10. The Englishman lay on the dissecting table in the cellar at No. 10 Surgeons’ Square under the critical gaze of his purchaser, Dr. Knox.
The two murders didn’t weigh unduly on the consciences of Burke and Hare (such as these were); Joseph and the Englishman seemed certain to die anyway, and suffocating them appeared to be simply a matter of hastening events. However, there was a shortage of ailing lodgers even in so unhealthy a house as Hare’s, and the partners came round to thinking that if their standard of living, so speedily raised, wasn’t to sink back to its former abysmal level, they would have to go out into the wynds and closes in search of victims.
It was this fateful decision, to supply Dr. Knox by means of a systematic, cold-blooded slaughter, which set Burke and Hare on a sordid adventure of horror unparalleled in Scottish criminal history. For days and nights they lurked in the by-ways of the Old Town. But, through inexperience at their new profession perhaps, it took them about a week to find a suitable victim—until, in fact, Monday, February 11, 1828.
That particular Monday was exceptionally mild for the time of year. The sun shone in a clear pastel sky, and though the fury of the winter wasn’t entirely spent, the promise of kinder weather on the way tempted many of Edinburgh’s citizens into the surrounding countryside. At noon Mitchell called for Martha in his gig and drove with her to the outskirts of the city, between hedgerows still laced with snow round their roots. He stopped at his favourite spot for picnics; a grassy river bank where his punt nestled in the reeds.
Mitchell spread a thick tartan rug on the grass and stretched himself out, luxuriating in the sun, while Martha unpacked their lunch from a wicker basket. She was busy doing this when she happened to glance up and was surprised to see Jackson. The student, playing truant from his classes, was taking Mary out for a walk, and the couple suddenly emerged arm-in-arm from the bushes only a few feet away. The two women presented an almost startling contrast. Mary was darkly voluptuous and a little over-dressed; Martha was fair, demurely beautiful and extremely chic.
Jackson was at once embarrassed by the meeting. “Oh …” he said, raising his hat to Martha. “How do you do, Miss Knox.”
“I am well, thank you, Mr. Jackson,” Martha smiled.
Mitchell sat up, got to his feet, looked at Mary and said: “How do you do.”
There was a pause. Mary whispered to Jackson rather loudly: “Well, aren’t ye goin’ to introduce me?”
“Er, yes, of course. This is … Miss Mary Paterson. Mary, this is Miss Knox and Doctor Mitchell, one of our … er … doctors.”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” said Mary, much too effusively. She pumped Martha’s and Mitchell’s hands with hearty vigour.
Jackson squirmed. He felt himself going red behind the ears. After another awkward gap in the conversation, Martha came to the rescue with: “What lovely weather!”
“Yes,” said Jackson. “It’s so nice that Mary—that’s Miss Paterson here—and I thought we’d come out and enjoy it while we can.”
“It’s better than lyin’ about indoors, I always say,” said Mary.
A pause.
“Soon it will be summer,” said Mitchell heavily.
Mary tittered loudly and unnecessarily. “Is that your boat?” she asked.
Jackson nudged her. “It’s a punt, dear,” he said.
“It looks nice. I wish we had one.”
“Why don’t you borrow it for the afternoon?” Mitchell offered. “We won’t be needing it. You’d be very welcome.”
“What!” exclaimed Mary. “Wi’ Chris paddlin’? No fear! I dinna fancy walkin’ home wi’ wet drawers!”
In the appalled silence which followed, Jackson coughed and said hastily: “Well, we must be on our way. Goodbye now …”
Martha smiled: “Goodbye!” She managed to keep a straight face while they turned and walked away. Then, unable to contain herself any longer, she gave an explosive giggle.
“Where on earth did he find her?” Mitchell asked incredulously.
“Goodness knows,” said Martha. “But you must admit she’s very pretty. Did you notice her wonderful eyelashes?”
Mitchell helped himself to a sandwich and joked: “You’re not going to trap me into saying anything like that! I’ve learned it’s dangerous to compliment another woman’s assets!”
“You know,” said Martha, “I feel rather sorry for Jackson.”
“Why?”
“He tries so hard, and he always fails.”
“It’s not from lack of encouragement,” said Mitchell, dipping into the basket again. “The Doctor’s been giving him extra coaching. He’s been very patient. Maybe the truth of the matter is that Jackson’s mind isn’t on his work.” Mitchell looked at Martha and added: “Come to that, neither is mine!”
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She protested laughingly: “Please, Geoffrey, not in public!”
But he persisted, and kissed her tenderly on the lips.
Jackson and Mary walked back into Edinburgh in silence. They went straight to Jackson’s room. It was untidy. The bed needed making; the table was piled with books and writing paper; clothes were heaped on a chair. Jackson closed the door behind Mary as they entered, and immediately tried to take her in his arms. She pushed him away.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She pouted. “Ye know perfectly well what’s the matter. Why were ye ashamed to introduce me to yer friends?”
“Miss Knox and Dr. Mitchell aren’t exactly my friends—and of course I wasn’t ashamed!”
“Well, ye looked it.”
He held her close to him. “Mary, please understand. I was just flustered, that’s all. Doctor Mitchell is … well, almost my chief. Surely you can understand that I didn’t know what to say, meeting them unexpectedly like that. You know I’m proud of you; prouder than any man deserves to be.”
She looked up at him, doubting it. Slowly she managed a smile and allowed herself to be kissed. After a moment she started to look round the room. She picked up a couple of shirts from the chair and put them in a cupboard. “Ye need a woman aroun’ this place,” she remarked.
Jackson followed her. His arms encircled her waist. “I need you,” he said, kissing the back of her neck.
She eased away from him. “Later … tonight,” she said.
“I’ve got to work tonight.” He sat on the bed disconsolately.
“Work?”
“My thesis on the skull for tomorrow’s lecture.”
“But I hoped we’d have tonight for ourselves. I thought we’d have a drink or two somewhere and come back here.”
“I know. But there’s so much to do, and I’ve been getting behind with everything lately. Doctor Knox was saying only the other day that …”
Mary slipped on to the bed beside him and loosened his cravat. Jackson relaxed until he had his head on the pillow. Mary bent low and kissed his bare throat.
“Dinna work tonight, Chris,” she whispered. “Please, not tonight …”
She kissed him on the lips. He hugged her. She reclined on the bed and Jackson turned to face her. Gently he pushed off the shoulder-straps of her blouse, kissing her mouth, her neck and then the warm soft flesh of her shoulders.
The Merry Duke at 11.30 p.m. happened to be almost deserted. Baxter and Mackenzie had departed for a graveyard on the far side of Edinburgh where, it was reported, some sailors washed ashore after a shipwreck had just been interred, and the few drinking companions Burke and Hare had managed to acquire had melted away with the end of the partners’ money. Hare drained his glass, banged it on the table and searched his pockets for the third time. They were empty.
Burke, having abandoned hopes of finding a murder victim that day, was slumped beside him.
At the opposite end of the table
was Abigail Simpson, or “Aggie” as she was known to everyone. In her late sixties, she wore a drab home-spun dress and a white cotton shawl decorated with blue spots. She lived in Gilmerton, some four miles to the south-east of the city, but came in every Monday to collect a pension of 1s. 6d. and a can of kitchen-fee (dripping; traditionally one of the cook’s perks) from her former employer, Sir John Hope. This week’s 1s. 6d. had gone on whisky, and she was sprawled out over the table-top, fast asleep.
Hare shook the drunken Burke. “Wake up,” he said. “Come on wi’ ye, now …”
Burke lifted his head wearily.
“Sure I thought ye’d passed out on me!” said Hare.
Burke almost slumped down again, but his friend, who was surprisingly sober, grabbed him.
“Sit up, man,” said Hare sharply. “The money’s finished.”
“All gone?”
“Not a farthin’ left.”
Burke was about to collapse forward once more when Hare gripped him by the scruff of the neck and jolted him upright.
“An’ what were ye doin’,” Burke grumbled, “wastin’ so much of the money on the likes of her?” he jerked a thumb in the direction of Aggie.
“Wastin’ it?” said Hare. “I haven’ae been wastin’ it!” He put his mouth close to Burke’s ear. “Aggie is what they call a capital investment!”
“A what?”
“Sure it’s a thing that business men talk about.” He added with emphasis: “She’s what we’ve been lookin’ for all these days!”
Letting this fact register in Burke’s befuddled mind, Hare got up and looked around. Even the barman was asleep. Hare went over to Aggie and began shaking her gently.
“Poor Aggie,” he said to Burke. “Isn’t she a sight to make yer heart bleed?”
“It’s the drink that’s taken hold of her,” said Burke seriously.
“C’mon, Aggie. Wake up, old girl. Ye canna go sleepin’ here the night. Gi’ us a hand, Burke. The poor thing needs a decent bed. It’s the least we can do for her.”
As Burke climbed unsteadily to his feet, Aggie regained consciousness for a moment. She gazed at the partners blankly.
The Flesh and the Fiends Page 6