Instead, he said, “You didn’t mention anything about Hands to your friend, did you?”
“No.”
“Good. The fewer people who know about that night the better. Hands has far too many friends in odd places. If Mrs. Van Hansel ever invites you to her house again, you’ll have to make some excuse not to go.”
“I don’t intend to go again regardless. I didn’t enjoy it much.”
“It’s as well we’re in Yorkville. He’s unlikely to run across either of us as long as we don’t venture into the city too often.” Thaddeus couldn’t help but be curious, though, about the consequences of that strange night. “So he survived the gunshot wound? I thought he must have.”
“Yes, but his left arm was damaged. He doesn’t seem to have much use of it at all.”
“Serves him right.”
As they reached the gates of the Burying Ground, Luke and Thaddeus followed Morgan past the Keeper’s Lodge and into the cemetery. This time Spicer led them to a grave near the fence that ran along Tollgate Road.
“It’s the same as before,” Morgan said, the dismay evident on his face. The marker was knocked roughly aside, the grave opened, the corpse thrust up onto the bank of dirt. “It’s another old grave. This part of the cemetery has been filled up for some time.”
Thaddeus once again looked at the grave, and then in all directions around it, hoping the orientation of the site would give him some clue as to why this coffin in particular had been ripped out of the ground. But there was nothing in the location that offered up any clue, or anything he could see that would connect it with the first violation.
“Where were the men when you saw them?” he asked.
“They slipped out the front gate just as bold as anything. I expect they got in the same way.”
“But the last time they went over the fence.”
“Only because I surprised them.”
Thaddeus peered at the fence that separated the cemetery from the road. There was nothing about it that was out of the ordinary. Nothing to see except the dusty street and the buildings on the other side. “Luke and I will help you set things to rights. Then I want to look at your records.”
“Here, let me,” Luke said, when Thaddeus stooped to grasp one end of the shrouded corpse.
“You don’t have to do that,” Morgan said. “I can take care of it later.”
“It’s all right. I’ve handled dead bodies before. This one is less disturbing than most I’ve seen. At least he was given a proper burial.”
“Is it a he or a she?” Thaddeus asked.
Morgan pointed to the dislodged stone. “Isaiah Marshall.”
“Poor soul. Let’s get him back to his resting place then.”
As Morgan and Luke manoeuvred the body back into the coffin, the folds of Isaiah Marshall’s shroud ripped open and fell away to reveal an arm and part of his chest. A pungent smell wafted up at them, making Thaddeus’s eyes water. The exposed upper arm had a cheesy, whitish appearance, but a section of brown skin was intact over the bony part of the shoulder.
“Was Mr. Marshall a coloured man, or has the skin darkened after death?” he asked.
Luke knelt and pulled the folds of cloth away from the man’s head. Here the skin had shriveled, the lips pulled away from the teeth in a grimace, the eyes absent, consumed by insects or maggots. But the man’s hair was grey and kinked, the cartilaginous remains of the nose wide and flat.
“I’d say he was. The skin darkens after death, but always on the underside of the body, not on top of the shoulder like that, and the hair looks right.” He opened the grave clothes a little further, recoiling from the smell that was released.
“What are you looking for?” Morgan asked. Thaddeus wished he would stop looking. With every shift of cloth the stench grew worse.
“This body has been dissected,” Luke said.
“How can you tell?” Thaddeus asked.
“The body has decomposed a great deal, but I can still recognize the incisions. He’s been more or less put back together again for burial, but rather sloppily, I’d say.”
“He may have come from the Anatomical School,” Morgan said. “A lot of their bodies are sent here. If they’re unclaimed to begin with, no one knows where else to send them.”
Luke rewrapped the man as well as he could, then he and Morgan laid him back in his coffin.
“I’ll get some tools,” Morgan said and walked over to the lodge to fetch shovels and a hammer and nails.
While he was waiting, Thaddeus picked away some of the moss that had grown over the gravestone and found a date underneath the name: October 15, 1847.
“It’s sad, isn’t it?” he said. “This is the date he died, but there’s no corresponding date of birth.”
“A stranger in the Strangers’ Burying Ground,” Luke said. “No one would have known what it should be, I suppose.”
Thaddeus picked away at a little more moss, but there were no other markings. Then he moved the stone to one side, so that they wouldn’t trip over it while restoring the grave.
When Morgan returned, he and Thaddeus nailed the coffin shut again, but when they both reached for shovels, Luke stopped his father. “We’ll do the heavy work,” he said. Thaddeus was about to protest, when he realized that he was just as happy to let them go ahead. His knee hurt. I’m such old bones, he thought. The younger men take the heavy load now. It won’t be long before I join poor old Mr. Marshall. When that happens, I’ll see Betsy again. I wonder if there was anyone waiting for this man?
Luke and Morgan mounded the soil over the coffin and tamped it down as best they could, but it looked raw and wrong in such a settled part of the cemetery.
“Shall I say a word or two?” Thaddeus asked.
Morgan looked grateful. “I wanted to before, with the first one, but I didn’t think it was right for me to do it.”
Thaddeus nodded, then the three men positioned themselves around the grave, Morgan at the foot, Luke at the head, Thaddeus between them.
“Oh Lord,” Thaddeus began, and then he hesitated. He knew prayers for the newly interred and prayers for those who had experienced a delayed burial. He even knew prayers for those who had never been properly laid to rest. He wasn’t sure what he should say for someone who had been committed once and then dug up again.
Finally, he decided that a few simple words were all that was needed. “Dear Lord, we are again giving you the earthly remains of Isaiah Marshall and trust that you remain guardian of his immortal soul.” And then he began the familiar prayer “Our father, who art in heaven …”
Morgan joined him. Luke did not, although he stood with his head bowed respectfully. Thaddeus was aware that Luke professed no great faith, and this saddened him, but even as he intoned the familiar words, he reflected that his son must find his own way. He could only hope that the way led down a righteous path.
At “amen” they all three stood for a moment, then turned and walked slowly back to the lodge. Sally met them at the door.
“I’ve put the kettle on,” she said. “I thought you might like something after such a horrible chore.” Then she disappeared down the hall and Thaddeus could hear her climbing the stairs.
“She’s a good girl,” he said as he slumped into a chair at the kitchen table.
Morgan nodded. “She is. I’d wish a wife like her for every man if I could.”
Luke sat down on one of the wooden stools that had been pulled up to the table, while Morgan fussed with the teapot. When he had served each of them a mug, he reached down a brown ledger from the kitchen shelf and began leafing through it.
“Here it is. Isaiah Marshall. Died October 15, 1847. Birthdate unknown. Cause of death: Congestion. Interred: October 28, 1847.”
“Nothing there to tell us much,” Thaddeus said. “Other than the fact that he was a long time being buried.”
“That would fit with the evidence of dissection,” Luke said. “He may have been taken to hospital, where he died from
his illness and was sent on to the Toronto School of Medicine when no one claimed the body. Either that or he died in his bed and no one knew what else to do with him.”
“May I see the entry from the time before?”
Morgan flipped forward a page and handed over the book.
“Abraham Jenkins,” Thaddeus read. “Died: May 4, 1848. Birth date: unknown. Cause of death: Pain in the stomach. Interred: May 15, 1848.’ His burial was delayed, as well. Does that suggest that both of the bodies came here via the dissecting rooms?”
“I should think so,” Luke said. “Nobody else would leave a body lying around for ten days. Not in May.”
“So neither of them had family. Or at least no family who cared to go to the expense of burying them. You reburied the first corpse yourself, didn’t you, Morgan?”
When Morgan nodded, Thaddeus asked, “Was he a coloured man too?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look that closely. Only his arm slid out of the grave clothes and it was mostly bone. I just tucked it in before I put him back.”
“It would be interesting to discover if he was. In any event, we might be able to track down more information for Mr. Marshall if he was a member of one of the African congregations. We could talk to the medical school as well. Do they keep records of where they obtain their corpses?” Thaddeus looked at Luke in expectation of an answer.
“I doubt it,” Luke said. “They didn’t in Montreal — there would have been far too much explaining to do if they had. There were never enough cadavers to go around. I know some of them must have come from resurrectionists. I expect it’s the same situation here. But Dr. Christie might know better than I about the records.”
“Let’s consult Christie and we’ll see where we go from there,” Thaddeus said. He flipped idly through the rest of the book, taking note of the kind of information the cemetery recorded. Dates of death. Names, although in one or two instances even these were missing. Occupations, when known. Occasionally a date or place of birth. He suspected that these more complete entries were made in cases where a church maintained no cemetery of its own and used the Burying Ground instead.
The very first entry in the book was for Mary Carfrae, the infant daughter of Thomas Carfrae, alderman, customs collector, harbourmaster, and one of the early proponents of a non-denominational cemetery. The Carfraes had lent dignity to the potter’s field they supported by burying their own in it. The name appeared a number of times in the record, the last entry being for Thomas himself, who died in 1841.
“Well,” he said, handing the ledger back across the table. “I think we should visit the African churches and the medical school, but I have to leave in the morning so it will have to wait until I get back. And now I’d like to visit my bed again, unless Morgan can think of anything else I should see.”
“Nothing that I know of,” Morgan said. “Thank you for doing this. I know it must not seem that important to anyone else, but it is to me.”
“There’s no guarantee we’ll ever be able to make any sense of it,” Thaddeus said. “But at least now we have a place to start.”
The reinterment of a dead body at the Strangers’ Burying Ground seemed to Luke to be only the final episode in what had been an altogether bizarre evening. How many people lived in Toronto? Thirty thousand perhaps? Maybe more. Streets and streets of shops and factories and houses that stretched as far as the eye could see. And yet he had inadvertently wandered into the home of the one man in the city who might wish him harm.
As he tossed and turned in an effort to find sleep, he went around and around the events that had led him to the Van Hansels’ drawing room. It had seemed a chance encounter. Any stranger might have stopped to assist a young woman in distress. What were the odds that it would be Luke Lewis? He wondered if Van Hansel had known he was in the area, and engineered the circumstances in order to snare him. But he couldn’t see how this could have been done. If Hands knew of Luke’s whereabouts, he had a whole cadre of thugs who would be perfectly happy to waylay him at a street corner and deliver him up for punishment. Besides, it hadn’t been Luke who had fired the shot that night. He was merely present. And it was his father who had written to Anthony Hawke. He was told that Van Hansel was a vindictive man, but would he go that far to exact his revenge?
No. It had to be coincidence that had brought them face to face. “Coincidences as strange happen every day without anyone taking the slightest notice” his father was fond of saying, and Luke supposed he was right. Still, he found it all rather alarming.
Less dangerous, but more disturbing, was his encounter with Perry Biddulph. Luke really couldn’t ascribe any sinister construction to their meeting. The drawing room had been full of people, and Perry had obviously been invited along to accompany the singer. And it was only natural, in a roomful of women, that two young men should seek each other’s company. What Luke did find surprising was Perry’s willingness to lead him to the tavern, and his directness about his designs. Was it so obvious? Was it something in the way Luke walked or talked or presented himself that signalled what he was? Ben had known. And so had Perry. Could everyone see it, or just those who were looking for it?
In any event, he had no intention of seeing Perry again. He had closed the door on his history with Ben. That was in the past, and he resolved to keep knowledge of it firmly locked away.
So much for his foray into Toronto’s social life. The two connections he managed to make were both impossible. Perhaps, he thought, it would be best if he stayed in Yorkville only long enough to replenish his coffers and gain a little experience. Then he could return to Huron, where his life had been far simpler. He would look after cows and pigs and horses and farmers and spend his days discussing the price of potash and the year’s yield of wheat with his brothers, and give no one reason to speculate about why the local doctor remained so firmly a bachelor.
And with that decided, he finally fell into a deep sleep.
The second incident at the Burying Ground dominated the breakfast-table talk the next morning. Luke was grateful that Christie’s attention was diverted from asking about the Van Hansels’ party, but he did think that Christie’s questions about the disturbed grave took an odd turn.
“Did you see the corpse?” he asked. “Were there just bones, or was there still flesh on it?”
“I didn’t look at it any more than I had to,” Thaddeus said as he took advantage of the doctor’s momentary distraction to make a dive for the bacon. “We left that to Luke.”
“A great deal of the flesh was still intact,” Luke said. “Enough, at any rate, to tell that he was coloured.”
“An African? Really?”
“He’d also been dissected. The incisions were unmistakable.”
“Which brings me to a question you might be able to answer for us,” Thaddeus said. “Do you know if the medical schools keep records of their cadavers?”
“Do you mean in terms of where they were obtained?” Christie snatched the last two pieces of toast from the plate. “I‘m not sure. There would be records of any felons who were sent on, of course, but those may well be kept at the jail. The same would hold for unclaimed bodies delivered from the hospitals, but if the corpse arrived by any other means it would be madness for them to write anything down. There would be a vested interest in making sure that there was no written account of any body that was illegally obtained.”
“Would it be worth asking? There was very little information about either body in the ledger that’s kept at the Burying Ground.”
Christie shrugged. “You can always ask, but don’t be surprised if you get no answer.”
He turned to Luke. “Tell me more about the state of the body,” he said. “I’ve never seen coloured bones. Are they different from ours?”
“Not that I could see,” Luke replied. “Same composition. Same colour. Except for a scrap of intact skin and what was left of his hair, there was little to distinguish him from anyone else.”
“Did y
ou look at the whole body?”
“Well, no,” Luke said. “The grave clothes had become disarranged and we had to put them back together, that’s all. I wasn’t there to make a full examination.”
“Unfortunate,” Christie said. “I’d have been very interested in the condition of a body that had been buried for that period of time. Perhaps, should it happen again, you might come and fetch me so I could have a look?”
“I don’t think so,” Thaddeus said firmly. “It would just be a further violation of the poor soul.”
Christie seemed not at all put out by this. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Pity. So there was nothing in common between the two corpses except that someone had tampered with their graves?”
“None that I can find, other than the fact that they both died several years ago and there was a longish stretch of time between their deaths and their burials. I’m heading up Yonge Street this morning, but when I get back I’ll ask about them at the Medical School. And at the coloured churches. I’ve been wanting to visit the African Methodist Episcopal Chapel anyway.”
“Excellent idea. They may well be able to tell you something.”
“Only if someone there remembers an Isaiah Marshall.”
“They might,” Christie said. “There’s been an influx recently because of the troubles in the States, of course, but there has always been quite a close-knit coloured population here. When I arrived in the 30s they were already well-established in St. John’s Ward. Industrious bunch. Blacksmiths and carpenters and shoemakers. Far less trouble than the Irish — the coloureds never seem to ask for anything.” Christie chewed a mouthful of toast thoughtfully. “Except once, that I can recall. They petitioned the mayor of Toronto to prevent a circus performance.”
“Why was that?” Luke was intrigued that such a harmless diversion could be a point of contention.
“The circus included a minstrelsy act and the coloureds took offence at the way these shows always portray them as dim-witted and lazy.”
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