He walked through the dining room to the parlour. He would be unlikely to find any books that were specifically for children on the shelves, but he knew that there were numerous volumes put out by the Edinburgh Cabinet Library. He had read a number of them himself, particularly enjoying the tales of polar exploration and an account of the travels of Marco Polo.
Thaddeus was sitting in the parlour, staring at a piece of paper.
“It appears that Dr. Christie wrote to his colleague after all,” he said when Luke appeared at the door. He waved the letter he held in his hand. “This came in the morning mail. It confirms that both Abraham Jenkins and Isaiah Marshall died in hospital and that both their bodies were sent for dissection when no one claimed them. There’s not much information beyond that. I’m not sure that it helps much.”
“It helps exonerate Christie,” Luke pointed out. “And I intend to clear him entirely.”
He ran his finger along the spines of books, head tilted to read the titles. Halfway along the row he found Lives and Voyages of Drake, Cavendish and Dampier, Including a History of the Buccaneers. Perfect. The twins could play at swashbuckling pirates. And then he found another small volume tucked behind two of the adjacent books: The Tales of Aesop. The perfect moral counter to rapine on the high seas.
“I’ll ask if you can take these to the Spicers,” he said to Thaddeus. “Wait here and I’ll fill you in on what I find.”
Books in hand, Luke walked through to the kitchen, but to his surprise there was no sign of Christie. There was no tell-tale carcass on the table, either, although the trace of a musky smell lingered in the room.
He opened a door to his right. It was the pantry, full of jars of preserves and vegetables set on racks. He returned to the kitchen. There was another door to his left, but he knew that it led to the office. It was this door that Christie had burst through the day Luke had been so immersed in a book that he hadn’t heard the Holden boy knocking. There was a third door on the rear wall, which under ordinary circumstances he would have assumed led to the large lean-to woodshed at the rear of the house, and beyond that to the small yard outside. The shed was no longer needed for wood, he knew, since Christie had switched to coal, the fuel delivered once a month by a rumbling cart that dumped its black load directly into the cellar through a ground-floor hatch. He opened the door. The use to which Christie had converted his shed was astonishing.
The room was full of bones. Not bones like the ones that had been disturbed at the Strangers’ Burying Ground, stained and worn from their time in the earth. These bones were uniformly white and carefully reassembled, their relationships charted, their joint articulations noted and recreated, and then displayed as if the flesh and muscle had magically melted away, the organs banished and the fundamental nature of each animal laid bare. He recognized a rat, a frog, a rabbit. A bird, which from its size Luke knew must be an eagle, perched on a rafter, its wings spread wide. A tiny turtle skeleton clung to its shell, the long spine of a snake spread its S shape across a polished wooden board; a bat hung from wires in the ceiling, the leathery wings gone, only the elongated fingers spread out as if it were in mid-flight. Each animal had been meticulously pared down to its essential being, its identity evident at a glance, but minus the fur and the skin and the sinew that masked its structure.
Evident in all but one case, that is. One skeleton was only half-assembled, its head attached to its backbone, but a wooden packing case had been substituted for its hindquarters. It was impossible at this juncture to tell what it was, except that Luke felt that there was something familiar in the way the back curved, something recognizable in the head, even though the teeth had not yet been returned to the jaw.
“It’s a pig,” said a voice from over by the large window that had been set into the back wall of the shed. Luke whirled to find Dr. Christie smiling out from behind an easel. “Hard to tell when they’re only half put together, isn’t it? Believe it or not, domestic animals are harder to come by than wild ones. Hunters and trappers often bring me carcasses, but pigs go straight to the butcher. I was lucky that this one sickened and died of something-or-other first. The butcher said it wasn’t fit to eat.”
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Luke said, “but I wondered if I could borrow these books for the Spicer twins.”
“Of course,” Christie said. “And it’s no intrusion, no intrusion at all. If I’d known you were interested, I’d have shown you long since. Fascinating hobby, the putting together of bones. You learn so much. Started with old Mul-Sack, been going ever since, whenever I got the time.”
Luke walked over to the hanging bat. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” he said. “The bones look like fingers.”
Christie beamed. “They do, don’t they? Nature is a wondrous thing. It was delicate work, getting them down correctly. Tell me what you think of the finished product.” He nodded toward a workbench that ran along one side of the shed. “I did it recently. It should be at the top.”
Puzzled, Luke walked over to a pile of large papers that were stacked neatly on one corner of the bench. He selected the topmost and turned it over, and there was the bat, its skeletal remains faithfully depicted in pen and ink. It was a fastidious work, each articulation clear, each small joint transcribed. In spite of the fact that flesh and muscle were absent, it looked to Luke as though it could fly off the page.
He turned over the next paper and there was the turtle, then the snake, the rabbit, and all the other animals that had been boiled to bone.
“These are beautiful,” he said.
“I rather think the rabbit is a bit of a failure. I didn’t get her back together in quite the right way. Didn’t really capture the way she moves. I’ll have another go at it. They’re easy enough to come by.”
“But….” Luke wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Why seemed a foolish thing to ask. He could understand why. He had the same fascination with the structures that lay under the flesh. It was the reason, really, that he decided to become a doctor.
“I know, it seems a very odd occupation, doesn’t it? But I’ve been fascinated for years. I’m trying to convince myself that the sketches are good enough to be published some day, perhaps in a folio or some such arrangement.”
“I would be fascinated by such a book,” Luke said.
“Really? Do you think so? Very kind of you to say. More success with the actual bones, I think, than with the illustrations. The trick, of course, is not to over-boil the carcasses. They can sometimes turn to mush. And then, of course, I like to whiten them up with magnesium carbonate before I put them back together again. Makes a nicer display, I think, and helps disperse any oil still left in them.”
“I wondered why you asked me to get such a large supply from the apothecary.”
“Oh yes, I suppose I should have explained,” Christie said. “Had you asked, I would have. But you didn’t seem very curious, not even about poor old Mul-Sack, so I didn’t pursue it.”
Mul-Sack and Aniseed Robin. His intention in seeking out Christie had been to prove that he was no grave robber, but maybe Luke could discover the significance of the highwayman’s story as well. He willed his hands not to shake.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “Mul-Sack kind of bothers me.”
“What? Really? Oh, my dear boy, he’s not there to bother you. He’s there to bother me.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Christie stared at Luke for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind to speak. “I’m glad you came in here this morning, Luke. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about for some time, but I wasn’t just sure how to approach it. Bit of a delicate subject, if you know what I mean.”
Luke’s hands seemed to have taken on a life of their own. He placed the illustrations back on the bench so the shaking wouldn’t be so noticeable.
Christie sighed. “I don’t tell many people this story, and it’s painful for me to talk about it, but I think you’ll understand when y
ou hear it. Mrs. Dunphy is my cousin, you know. She very kindly came here to look after my household when my dear wife died. Flora — Mrs. Dunphy that is — had a younger brother, Alan. The Gods must have been in a jocular mood when they created Alan and Flora. You may have noticed, Luke, that she is rather an unprepossessing woman — no, much as I love her, it’s true,” he said when Luke made a polite sound of disagreement. “And as big and clumsy and homely as poor Flora is, Alan was her opposite: handsome and graceful and full of life. We all grew up together. They were my brother and sister, in my eyes. As he grew into a man, Alan was coveted by every young woman who met him, but it was impossible to be put out by this because he was such a modest and good-natured chap. And, as it turned out, he hadn’t the least interest in girls.”
Luke thought he was going to be sick. He clenched the side of the bench with both hands and bowed his head so that he could catch a breath.
Christie appeared not to notice. “I never gave it much thought until he came to the university. I was older and occupied with my studies. I didn’t look after him as I should have. He was found out one night and his fellow students stripped him naked and doused him in a cattle trough — harmless enough, I suppose, though humiliating. But his life was a misery from that night on. Everywhere he went he was sniggered at and whispered about. His professors would barely acknowledge his existence. A couple of times he was caught by some of the ruffians in the town and beaten rather badly. It was too much for him.”
“What happened?” Luke’s question was a whisper. He already knew what had happened.
“I did nothing,” Christie went on. “I was afraid that the taint would rub off on me. I had only a year and a bit to finish my studies and I thought that if anyone knew that Alan was my cousin, I, too, would be beaten in the town and shunned at the university. So I ignored him. And then one night he went to his rooms and hanged himself. A month later I acquired Mul-Sack. I boiled him down and put his bones back together in such a way that he would always remind me that bigotry can only lead to a bad end. But most of all I keep him around to remind me of my own treachery.”
“The pointing finger,” Luke said. “I thought it was pointing at me.”
“Really? Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t realize you would take it that way. But don’t worry, I know all about you.”
Luke willed himself to keep breathing while he waited for Christie’s next words.
“I’ve known from the start,” Christie said. “Your Professor Brown, at the university, was no friend to you. When you expressed an interest in joining this practice he wrote me a rather nasty letter. He claimed that you were unsuitable for the position due to your suspect morals, and that it was well known in the city that you were in an unnatural relationship with a local bookseller. He did his very best to scuttle your career before it even started.”
It had been a mistake to call in Brown. Luke had known it at the time, but he had been so distraught over Ben that he would have done anything to try to save him.
“As soon as I received that letter, I decided that you were the one I wanted. You were by no means the most qualified applicant. Some of your classmates had sterling recommendations and far better marks. But I took it as an opportunity to atone, at least a little, for what I failed to do for Alan.”
Luke was astonished. He didn’t know what to say. Finally he stammered out an almost inaudible and completely inadequate “Thank you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to do with you, boy, although I must admit that so far I’m not sorry about my choice. I’ve been watching you. You’ve proved yourself to be a good doctor. People like you. No, the thing that really decided it was the way Brown did his filthy business behind your back. Cowards like that should be hanged.”
This last, ludicrously typical addendum to the most generous thing anyone had ever done for him released a torrent of pent-up tension and anxiety in Luke. He began to laugh, and he couldn’t stop it, any more than he had ever been able to control the shaking of his hands.
Christie looked at him with puzzlement.
“I’m sorry,” Luke said. “I just didn’t expect this. Do you want to know why I came in here this morning? Because my father thinks that you’re the one who has been digging up the graves at the Burying Ground. I said I’d prove him wrong, but I didn’t know that he was as wrong as it’s possible to be.”
“Me? He thought it was me?”
“Aided and abetted by Mrs. Dunphy, dressed as a man.”
Christie began to laugh then, too. “Brilliant!” he said. “Flora dressed up as a bone digger. Oh my goodness, the mental image that conjures up is priceless.” Then he subsided somewhat and added, “You mustn’t ever tell her. She’s all too aware that she’s an ugly duckling.”
“I won’t breathe a word,” Luke promised.
“Yes, I think enough has been said on all counts, don’t you? We both know where we stand. Now, are you going to hang around here all morning or do you have some patients to see?”
Luke smiled. “I’ll leave you to it.”
But just as he reached the door, Christie spoke again. “Mind you, what you do about telling your father is up to you.” And then he settled himself happily at the easel again, humming a tune to himself, off-key and punctuated by the occasional “dum-de-de-dum.”
Thaddeus was in the dining room pretending to read a newspaper. He looked up when Luke came from the kitchen.
“Well?” he whispered.
“It’s not Christie,” Luke said. “Go see for yourself.” And then he grabbed his leather satchel and walked out the door, leaving Thaddeus sitting open-mouthed at the table.
Chapter 20
It had been grey and cloudy, threatening rain all day, and that evening, just as Mrs. Dunphy served up a plate of sausages and fried potatoes, Luke heard a patter against the window as a sprinkle of raindrops began to fall. As he reached for a sausage, his father said “I think I should go to the Burying Ground tonight.”
“Do you have some sort of presentiment or something?” Luke asked.
“No. It’s just that there’s a half-moon tonight, and it’s cloudy. I’d like to test my lunar cycle theory.”
“It’s more than cloudy,” Luke said. “It’s actively raining.”
Thaddeus looked unconcerned. “Oh, don’t worry, this is just a shower. It’ll clear up later.”
“Maybe I’ll come with you,” Luke said. He would tag along with his father and try to get a look at the cemetery ledger, although neither Thaddeus nor Morgan Spicer seemed to think that there was anything to see other than the simple recording of burials.
“The more the merrier,” Thaddeus said. He looked pleased. “Would you like to come along as well, sir?” he said to Dr. Christie.
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Christie said. “Don’t fancy standing around in the rain. Unless, of course, another grave is dug up in spite of your efforts. If that occurs, you might come and get me so I can have a look.”
“I think one human skeleton is enough for anybody.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I don’t intend to spirit it away. I just want to look. I’ve always felt that I didn’t get the shoulder articulation quite right on poor old Mul-Sack.”
“We’ll let you know,” Luke said. It was amazing how much more comfortable he felt with Christie after their startling conversation among the bones. He had been shy about joining the mealtime banter before. Now he felt perfectly at ease with it. Part of the reason, he realized, was that the most worrying of his problems was resolved. He could disregard Lavinia’s threat, at least as far as he was personally concerned. He felt, for the first time, that he had the advantage in the situation, and he was determined to use it, somehow, to extricate Perry. Luke once again felt a stab of guilt and regret at the accusation he had made, but he could see no clear way to undo it. He could only, like Christie, atone after the fact.
Thaddeus was correct in his weather prediction. By the time they were ready to leave, the rain had stopped, although the
sky was still dark and cloudy. They were only a few steps down the street when Luke saw Andrew Holden limping toward them. He grinned when he saw Luke.
“Oh look, it’s the quack out for an evening stroll.”
Thaddeus looked surprised at the flippancy of the greeting, but Luke grinned at Holden in return. “Andrew Holden, this is my father, Thaddeus Lewis.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir. I’d shake your hand, but mine got a little muddy finding this fellow.” He showed them what he was carrying. It was a dead salamander, quite a large one, blue-black with irregular splotches of yellow splashed across its back and tail.
“It’s beautiful,” Luke said. “Where did you get it?”
“Down by the brewery pond,” Holden said. “He was lying in some brush. I reckon a hawk or something got him and then dropped him. He was already dead when I found him.”
“You’re not going to eat him, are you? Salamander stew for supper?”
“Hmmm, I hadn’t thought of that. But I reckon he’s not too tasty. I’ll take him to Christie instead.”
“Do you supply Dr. Christie with a lot of animals?” Thaddeus asked.
“We all do,” Holden said, “but it’s getting harder to find things he’ll pay for. He never wants the same thing twice. I sold him a big bullfrog in the spring, but then it got so dry everything disappeared. I spent a lot of time grubbing around in the pond looking for things, but all I got was muddy.”
“Glad to hear that business has picked up,” Luke said. “And you’ll make Christie’s day with that fellow.”
“Your Dr. Christie certainly has a fascination with bones, doesn’t he?” Thaddeus said when they had walked on.
“He probably should have been a surgeon, or a scientist or something, rather than a jack-of-all-trades doctor in a small town,” Luke said. “A waste, really. He’s so knowledgeable.”
The Burying Ground Page 22