In the event, the dissection of Dr Rutherford was far less of an occasion than the dissection of Dr Bain had been. For a start, the mortuary at Angel Meadow where the business was to take place was a far more intimate location than the glass-roofed wooden amphitheatre we had had at St Saviour’s. Dr Graves’s anatomy room had reeked of putrefying flesh and boiled corpses, the mortuary at Angel Meadow stank only of drains and sewers – both of which were fierce that day. Dr Graves wielded the knife, assisted by me and watched only by Will and Dr Hawkins.
I had not seen Dr Rutherford’s body since the morning it had been discovered. The image of that ruined face had, I thought, been etched for ever onto my mind. But nothing could prepare me for the changes twenty-four hours had wrought, nor for the sight of Dr Rutherford, naked and laid out for all of us to see. Rutherford’s face was now a terrible greyish white, the skin had the texture of any piece of butcher’s meat – firm to the touch, cold and dampish and yielding to the pressure of fingertips so that indentations remained, faint but unmistakable, as if beneath the skin was nothing but soft and pliable wax. His eyes beneath the black stitches were partly open, the eyeballs rolled back in his head, the greyish pearlescence of the sclera glimmering between taut lids. He was now without the dignity of clothing too, and with the dark suit of his profession stripped away he looked thin and weak and pale as a flounder, the skin loose over his thin chest and arms, his abdomen sunken, his legs knotted and sinewy.
We stood in silence and looked down upon him. The blood that had leaked from the place where his ears had been had hardened into crusts. It was evident, as it had been that first morning, that the stitches had been inflicted post mortem, and for all that I disliked Dr Rutherford, for all that I had learned nothing recently to cause me to alter my view of him as a cruel and vicious man, I was glad he had not had to endure such torture as that. There was no bruising, only the stab marks where the bodkin had passed through the flesh. The thread itself had absorbed the blood in thick clumps.
The fatal blow was to the left-hand side of Dr Rutherford’s head. As I had already ascertained, it had been struck at his temple where the skull was thinnest, the bone quite bashed in, forced against the brain which was impaled upon the phrenological callipers. It would have killed him instantly. After that the blood would have drained out slowly onto the carpet.
As I had also suspected, Dr Rutherford’s mouth contained his severed ears. ‘Sliced off with a surgeon’s knife, I think, sir?’ I said to Dr Graves.
‘The wounds are clean, certainly,’ he replied. ‘Though if the knife is sharp anyone might cut smoothly.’
Dr Graves slit through the skin across the brow and around the head, and peeled back Dr Rutherford’s scalp. He reached for a saw, bracing himself and putting his hand on the corpse’s head to keep it still. His rolled-up shirt sleeves exposed long, muscular forearms. I heard a harsh, grating rasp, and hot bone-dust stung my nostrils. At length, the top of the head came away and Dr Graves began to ease the brain from its membranous moorings.
‘I believe Dr Golspie wanted a brain,’ murmured Will thickly. ‘And a spinal cord.’
‘Dr Golspie is not in a position to have any such thing at the moment,’ replied Dr Hawkins. I saw Will cover his mouth with his handkerchief as Dr Graves dumped Dr Rutherford’s brain into a bowl. I could hardly blame him. The squelching of blood and flesh echoed about the place horribly.
‘The thread used is a surgical suture,’ I said. ‘It looks to be no different to the one Dr Rutherford kept for his own use.’
‘It is a standard fine-gauge suture,’ barked Dr Graves without looking up. He was focused on the innards now, slitting open the belly and hauling out handfuls of glistening entrails. The stomach he removed and flopped into another bowl. ‘Perhaps you might examine the contents, Mr Flockhart?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. I hated stomach contents. I slit open that crimson muscular bag while Dr Graves stood with his hands plunged into Dr Rutherford’s body cavity.
‘What do you find?’
‘Nothing unexpected,’ I said. What had I hoped to find there? Nothing. Whereas I realised the need for a postmortem examination, I had not expected to find anything useful for our quest. I was sure we had uncovered everything that Dr Rutherford’s body might tell us about what had happened that night simply by observing externals. It was the outside of the corpse that would provide us with clues – the neatness of the stitching, the choice of weapon, the nature of the mutilation itself – not the inside. Nonetheless, we had started so we must finish, and I remained with Dr Graves until he deemed the job complete.
Afterwards, he was taken to the visitors’ parlour, where Mrs Lunge had laid out some refreshment – cold meats and potatoes, and an iced fruit cake.
‘Thank you, madam,’ he said. He seized her hand – his fingers still damp and glistening from the hasty wipe he had given them with the mortuary towel, and touched it to his lips. He loaded his plate with chicken legs and slices of boiled ham, and took it away to eat in the silent company of Dr Rutherford.
Will and I walked home in silence, weighted down by our own thoughts and too preoccupied by them to say much. I knew Will was still trying to put from his mind the images from the post-mortem. I thought the noise and bustle of the world would do much to achieve that, but when I looked at him I saw that he was paler than ever, as if the city was sucking the life from him.
‘Come on.’ I took his arm. ‘Let’s go this way.’
The physic garden was mine. It was a gift, the governors said, for the two centuries the Flockharts had spent, man and boy, as apothecaries to St Saviour’s Infirmary. They said they had hoped I would accompany the infirmary when it moved to its new location south of the river, but I knew they were lying. And so, when I gave up my post there I asked for the physic garden in recompense. The governors were glad to have no more to do with the place, and they consented instantly to my proposal – with the tacit agreement that I would never approach them again, and that I would never allude to the crimes that had taken place in or near their precincts. I wondered how they could pretend that those events had not happened, events that had ruined lives and seen innocent people die. I could not think of St Saviour’s without disgust, so that when they had asked me to remove the ironwork above the physic garden gate that bore the words ‘St Saviour’s Infirmary’ I was only too happy to oblige. Now, instead, I had a brass plaque that read Flockhart and Quartermain, est. 1849. Beneath this, connoting the garden’s principal contents, was a skull and crossbones – the suggestion of Gabriel, and influenced, I had no doubt, by his reading of the penny bloods.
Along the garden’s south-facing wall I had grown a Virginia creeper – green and lush in summer, vermilion and crimson in autumn. Its berries had healing properties, reducing septicaemia; the leaves, as an infusion, act as an aperient. As a decoction it destroyed head lice in an' instant – Gabriel could testify as to its efficacy. Alongside was a pear tree, planted years ago by my father. The pear helped colic, constipation, fluid retention and nausea, as well as working on a hardened liver, easing spasms and calming a fever. Like many of the plants I grew it also had a more sinister application: in common with its sisters from the Prunus genus – cherry, apricot, peach, plum and almond – it contained cyanide within its seeds.
Will sank down onto a bench and closed his eyes, the bees of early autumn buzzing about his head. We sat side by side in silence, our faces warmed by the sun. I tried to empty my mind, but I could not, and when I closed my eyes I could see Dr Rutherford’s face, Dr Graves crouched over him, knife in hand.
‘I think I’ll gather some herbs for Mrs Hawkins,’ I said. ‘I feel better when my hands are occupied.’
Will stretched himself out on the bench as I stood up, his coat folded beneath his head. ‘I feel better when I’m dozing in the sun,’ he said. ‘Wake me when you’ve finished.’
Most ladies want roses and lilies, and it was not something I would have done for many women – in the mai
n because my plants are not mere ornaments. They have utility and in that, for me, their beauty lies. If she were feeling poorly – and she had looked most unwell as Mrs Lunge escorted her away from us – then what better way to stimulate the system than with fragrant herbs? Mrs Hawkins struck me as an intelligent and unaffected woman – had she not greeted the lunatics with kindness and compassion? Did she not join in with Dr Mothersole’s ‘hygienic methods’ with gracious good humour? I felt sure she would recognise the earthy, healthful qualities of such a gift, freshly picked from my own garden.
I took my gardening scissors from my satchel. Was she pregnant, I wondered, as I strolled through the beds? Certainly she had looked nauseous and dizzy, her complexion almost green she had turned so pale, and I was rarely wrong about such things. And yet somehow with her I was not so sure. I thought also of Mrs Lunge as she took Mrs Hawkins’s arm – the way she had plucked and worried at the collar of her dress as though the skin beneath itched and burned. Constance Mothersole should perhaps have given her a handful of chickweed, for the stuff was excellent against the itch. I wondered whether it would be importunate of me to offer her a salve next time we met.
I picked only the most tall and stately of herbs: rosemary – woody and astringent; fennel – sweet and fragrant. I cut a few stems of Chinese skullcap, a useful herb and one of my favourites, their long bracts of purple flowers hanging in rows like bells of embroidered silk. I gathered bay and lemon balm, meadowsweet, hyssop and goldenrod, humming to myself as I made my choices. The summer had been late that year, and for all that it was September many of my plants were still at their best. I took them to my workbench in the hot house and tied their stems together with string – the way I do when I am hanging them up to dry. I wrapped my handiwork in brown paper.
I was startled in my labours by the sound of a throat being cleared. I looked up to see Dr Stiven watching me. His face, shaded by the leaves of the fig tree, looked grey and tired. I was surprised to find that I was not best pleased to see him.
‘Good morning, Jem, please forgive the intrusion. Miss Chance and I were walking down St Saviour’s Street when we saw you coming in. Susan begged me let her see the garden.’
‘We rarely have visitors,’ I said. ‘Many of my plants are poisonous and I cannot have the uninitiated roaming at will plucking at this and that.’ I glanced up the garden. I could hear voices – Will’s and Susan’s.
‘Quite, quite,’ said Dr Stiven. ‘But I also wanted to ask you whether you had heard anything?’ Despite his powder, I could see he was anxious. His smile was strained, and fell away before it had reached his eyes.
‘No, sir,’ I said. We were walking towards the spot where Will and Susan were sitting, concealed behind the rose bushes. I could hear them laughing.
‘Have you seen Dr Golspie?’
‘He’s much better,’ I replied. ‘Dr Hawkins has sent him home.’
‘And Dr Graves? I saw him arrive. Did he find anything?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And do you have any further thoughts?’
‘Other than the fact that Edward Eden has been wrongly accused?’
‘And who do you think—’
But I did not want to talk about it, did not want to have talk of murder follow me wherever I went, and I strode on ahead.
‘Jem!’ Will sprang up. ‘There you are. I see Dr Stiven found you.’
Susan and I exchanged some bland pleasantries about the warmth of the day and the pleasing absence of fog. She was animated, smiling and chattering about the beauties of the garden, plucking at the leaves of the lavender and rubbing it between her fingers. The four of us sauntered around the garden. I showed her the poison beds, the hot house, the rock garden. My words seemed to please her, and she listened intently, asking about this and that, how it grew, what it was used for. Her hand rested on my arm and I felt the uneven pressure of her gait as she moved. But I was not in the mood for either of them, and my stride grew long as I tried to hasten their departure.
‘If I were you I would never leave this place,’ she said.
‘I don’t intend to,’ I replied.
Over the wall, she caught a glimpse of the villa next door. ‘Who lives there?’
‘It belonged to Dr Magorian. No one lives there now.’
‘How I wish I could live there,’ she said. ‘And be near your garden. I might climb over the wall.’
I said nothing. Eliza Magorian had climbed over the wall. She had loved the physic garden as much as I.
They left, not long after that. I think Dr Stiven sensed my mood and he hurried Susan away. I was not sorry to see them go. I felt tired, and there were few whose company I could bear when I was not in the vein to talk. Will seemed to be of the same mind, for we both turned back towards the garden the moment we had closed the gate upon them.
We stayed for a few hours more. I told Will where to hoe and weed, what to cut and what to tie back, and he followed my instructions with evident pleasure, his sleeves rolled up, his hat cast aside, his collar undone. The garden worked its magic, as I knew it would, and by the time we left to return to the apothecary our cheeks were rosy and we were both smiling.
Gabriel was working resentfully at the pestle and mortar. ‘You can’t leave me all alone like this,’ he said. ‘People coming in and out and wanting things and askin’ after you, and I’ve got no idea when you’re coming back, if you’re ever coming back, or even where you are. You might be dead and stitched up horrid or anything and I’d be the last to know—’
‘Who came asking after me?’ I said.
‘That doctor from Angel Meadow. Dr Golspie.’
‘When?’
‘About an hour ago. Longer, p’raps. Waited a good while too. Sat in that chair, said he’d wait for you. I asked if he’d like to help for a bit seein’ as he was intent on stayin’ but he said “no”. He drank some tea. Then he read Tales of Violence and Blight. I knew doctors liked blood, but I din’t know they liked the penny bloods.’ Gabriel laughed, and looked at us expectantly. I wondered how long he had been formulating his joke.
‘And?’ I said.
‘Didn’t stay after that. Left quick as you like, actually. Rather rude if you ask me, and me givin’ ‘im me paper an’ all. Took it with ‘im too. Well you can get it back off ‘im ‘cause I’d not finished readin’ it a third time. I always reads ‘em three times. That way you really know.’
‘Dr Golspie took Tales of Violence and Blight?’ I said.
‘He wants you to go over there as soon as you can. And you can tell him to give it back. I ain’t read it proper. I ain’t had time.’
Dr Golspie lived on the top storey of a tall, decaying town house. His landlady was a slatternly-looking woman with many children. The older ones roved the streets with gangs of other urchins, the younger ones gathered in clusters on the stairs or crawled about the hallway. Dr Golspie was without the benefit of inherited wealth, and his entry into the medical profession was slow and not at all lucrative. He hoped to move into better appointed accommodation once his work at Angel Meadow improved his connections, and therefore his patients and his income, but until then he had to be content with the attic room of number 6 Cuttlefish Lane.
The landlady’s front door was always open, and we went in and up the stairs without anyone seeing us or asking what we were about. Usually, I found this ease of access rather convenient. That evening, however, mounting those creaking rickety stairs in the darkening afternoon light without anyone noticing or caring made me feel uneasy. I looked back at Will. I could see by his face that he shared my disquiet.
We knocked on Dr Golspie’s door but there was no answer. We tried to open it, but it was locked. I put my eye to the key hole and found it to be unobstructed – whoever had locked the door had taken the key away with them – though I could see nothing.
‘And yet he is supposed to be in there,’ said Will. ‘Something is wrong. Can you open the door without the key, Jem?’
‘No,�
�� I said. ‘Not unless we break it down.’
‘Then there is only one option left,’ and he bounded back down the stairs to fetch a key off the landlady.
The woman insisted on following Will back up the stairs, talking continually as she did so. ‘I’ve not seen much of him these past few weeks. Seems as though he’s always up at Angel Meadow, though Lord knows what he does there, nor how he stands it what with all those lunatics about the place. And now there’s that terrible murder. Oh yes, sir, we’ve all heard about it. I were goin’ to ask Dr Golspie about it myself but, well, I ain’t seen him to ask, have I? Not yesterday, an’ not today, though I did hear him come in earlier. He ran straight up the stairs even when I called out and asked whether he’d like kippers or chops for his tea. Didn’t stop. Didn’t say, “Chops please, Mrs Slater” or “No thank you Mrs Slater, I’ll not ‘ave anythin’,’’just went straight up. No, I’ve not seen anyone on the stairs, sir. Nor heard ‘em. You say he’s in there? Yes, here’s the key—’
She was still talking when I unlocked the door and we stepped into the room, and still talking when I dragged open the curtains. Her talking only stopped when she saw Dr Golspie’s body stretched out in front of the fireplace. When she saw that his head had been stabbed, and that a pool of his blood was on the carpet beside his corpse, she began screaming.
Will sprang past me and fell to his knees. There were not many in the city that he called friend – other than myself I knew only of Dr Golspie – and his sobs were wretched. Beside him the landlady still shrieked and babbled. I seized her by the arm and propelled her back out onto the landing. I heard her footsteps skittering down the stairs, her screams and cries echoing out into the street, a banshee-like wailing starting up from her terrified children.
I crouched at Will’s side and put my arms about him. He had buried his face in his hands, unable to look at what lay before us. But I could not allow my emotions to overwhelm me. I had to think clearly, to try to understand what had happened. I forced myself to look at Dr Golspie, at the blood that pooled about his head, at the way his features had been obliterated, turned into a hideous mockery of a face by a clumsy and cold-blooded hand. Like Dr Rutherford, he had been stabbed through the head with a medical instrument – in this case I recognised the ebony handle of a curved double-edged amputation knife. Why would Dr Golspie have such a thing? He was not a surgeon. I looked closer. Was it engraved? Some of the more egotistical surgeons liked to stamp their presence on their equipment. I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped the handle. Three letters. R.J.G. I knew that knife, and I knew those initials. Richard John Graves. The knife must have been stolen from Dr Graves’s bag. Also like Dr Rutherford, Dr Golspie’s ears had been cut from his head and stuffed into his mouth, his eyes and lips darned shut with long black stitches. The crime was the same – in its manner and presentation. And yet there was something wrong, I knew it.
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