“The same, I suppose, would apply if I were to sustain some injury to my head and lose the power of reason, then.”
“I am sorry, but my answer is the same. I know it is cold-blooded, but I cannot say otherwise.”
“In other words, Professor, it is our talent that you value; without it, our lives have little worth.”
“Your questions are distressing,” Barton said. “In all frankness, however, that is probably true.”
“A child would give a more assuring answer,” said Edward with a smile that belied his years. “Or no—a child would sense the desired answer and be sure to give it. Whatever his real feelings were.”
He fell silent for a moment before continuing.
“On the question of suicide. There is not one line in the Bible condemning it as a sin. St. Augustine had to adopt Plato’s argument that to kill oneself is to kill the image of God. In other words, suicides are heretics.”
Barton had never seen Edward speak with such intensity before. Usually, his pupil was not very talkative. Now, however, he seemed driven by some pressing urge, much like Barton himself when describing the common ignorance of the importance of anatomical studies.
“The person who decisively labelled it a sin was Thomas Aquinas—in fact, a triple sin.” He began to count on his fingers, in what seemed to Barton a rather childlike way.
Edward began to count on his fingers, in what seemed to Barton a rather childlike way.
“A sin against God, who gave him life. A sin against the laws of society. And a sin against human nature—the inborn instinct for self-preservation.”
The wine made Barton’s head spin slightly. Edward’s exposition felt almost like an invitation to the act.
“Thus self-murder was formally condemned. In Dante’s Divine Comedy, suicides are below even heretics and murderers in Hell. The deed was considered an affront not only to life but also to death. Soon suicides were not even permitted burial in churchyards. In fact, their remains were buried at crossroads, with a stake through the heart, so that everyone who passed by would tread on them and help keep their spirits pinned in place. Suicide was made an absolute evil by the Church in its patriarchal role. It was an act of rebellion against their authority, which they recast as treason against God. Whether a man lives or dies, they argued, was for God to decide.”
“Theological disputation is of little interest to me,” Barton confessed. “But suicide, for those left behind, brings on despair. I speak hypothetically, as I am fortunate enough never to have had personal experience of it, yet if you or Nigel were to commit that act, it would be worse than any physical pain. The fate you spoke of earlier—losing the ability to draw, or think—would be quite different.”
“Nathan Cullen,” said Edward. “That was the boy’s name. It was Nigel who wanted to amputate Nathan’s forearm.”
Barton was stunned speechless. “Wait,” he said finally. “Not ‘amputated’ but ‘wanted to amputate’?”
“The work was only completed with my assistance,” said Edward. “We are used to such operations. Cut at the joint and it is easily done.”
“Why do such a thing?”
“To remove the signs of suicide.”
Barton poured himself another cup of claret. “I don’t understand,” he said, staring into the dark liquid. “Why had they to be removed?”
“Nathan was brilliant. He came to London from a country village to make the most of his talents. Nigel and I enjoy your high praise, Professor, but there was no such patron here for him. I think we were the only people in the city with whom he could share his innermost thoughts. At least, Nigel was. I was somewhat envious of Nathan. His gift was as a writer, a very different field from my own, but still… Nigel, though, is more modest. He offered his admiration as readily as a puppy.”
Barton threw back his drink, then refilled the cup. He was prone to perspiration. A drop fell from his forehead into the crimson wine, but he drained the goblet without noticing. Edward’s eyes followed his teacher’s actions absently.
“What I saw,” he continued, “was Nathan Cullen lying face-up on the dissecting table with Nigel beside him attempting to amputate his left forearm. Nathan had cut deeply into the arteries of his wrist on that side, even immersing the wound in a bowl of water to ensure that the blood did not stop flowing. Nigel met my eyes. ‘Nathan should not be a suicide,’ he said. And if we did not make sure that others saw it that way, too, he would be denied burial in a church graveyard.”
“Which was why Nigel…?”
“Nathan was seventeen. Many who reach that age become sceptical of religion, particularly if they have some intelligence. But he relied on God to the point of naïvety. It was hard to credit.”
“You speak like an atheist.”
“I am not strong-minded enough for that. To deny the existence of God is to lose the reason for life. But the Church is not God, even if Nathan viewed them as one and the same. Professor, when I die, I will gladly donate my body for the advancement of science. Let my fat feed Charlie, my bones be put on display; neither prospect bothers me. Better—infinitely better—to be of some use than to be food for worms.
“Nathan believed that a churchyard was a place of peace. He also believed that the Church’s position was indisputable. A suicide was unfit for hallowed ground. To him, this position was not something one accepted or not—it was an injunction. And yet he killed himself. Nigel was trying to disguise it as a murder to ensure that he would be buried in a proper graveyard. He only meant to detach Nathan’s left arm, but I advised him otherwise. Remove one arm only, and someone might see through the deception. Remove both arms and legs too, and who would ever arrive at the truth?”
“Why did you conceal the body in the fireplace?”
“We intended to smuggle him out at night and leave him where he would be discovered in the morning. I thought the local graveyard might be suitable. Someone would be likely to find him if we left him at the base of a cypress tree. His case would be taken as murder, his identity investigated, his body sent back to his family and buried in the parish’s cemetery. So thinking, we used the winch to conceal him behind the fire door. We did not expect to have to conceal another body there as well. Let alone discover a third.”
“My fireplace has a way of multiplying corpses, it seems… . This boy, Nathan—what was it again?”
“Cullen.”
“Nathan Cullen. Why was ink poured on his chest?”
“I don’t know. Without asking the dead, I don’t think anyone can.”
Barton’s hearing was not as sharp as Sir John’s, but in the tone of his star pupil he detected something amiss. What his voice sounded like when he was lying the Professor could not say. Edward had never lied to him before—or perhaps he had simply never noticed… . When Edward had denied knowing anything about the boy in reply to the magistrate’s questioning, that had been untrue; yet his voice at the time had seemed unchanged to Barton’s ears. In his I don’t know of just now, however, there had been something subtly different.
“‘Asking the dead’—you mean the boy did it himself? Before slitting his wrist?”
“I believe so… . May I go and see Nigel now? Nathan’s death came as a great shock to him. He also feels guilty about the amputations, done for Nathan’s sake or not. He needs some support.”
“You feel no guilt yourself?”
“About what?”
“Mutilating the body of a friend after his death.”
“I see no reason for guilt on that score.”
“What was the cause of Nathan Cullen’s suicide?”
“I do not know.”
“Perhaps I had better see Nigel too. To tell him not to blame himself.”
“No,” said Edward. “Please. Not yet. Give him some time.”
There was a short silence.
“Did you s
ave the blade with which the boy cut his wrist?” Barton inquired.
“Yes. A razor was on the floor. I have it in my room.”
“Let us take the razor to Bow Street together. It will go best for us if we tell Sir John the whole truth. We do not want him to waste his time searching for a culprit when there is none.”
“But then all our good intentions for Nathan’s sake will be for nothing.”
“Disguising a suicide as a murder is unlikely to lead to court proceedings.”
“I am speaking of his burial.”
“Sir John will surely take that into consideration too… . What family did the boy have?”
“His father died when he was young, and his only relations appear to have been his mother and elder brother. It seems that his brother—and the brother’s wife—were not well-disposed to him. His mother felt bound to take their side, and this was one of his reasons for leaving home.”
“Once we know that Sir John understands, you must make amends to the family. It will be painful, I imagine. You may become a target for invective and affront. Suicide and mutilation of the body will be difficult for them to abide. With no other outlet for their distress, they may direct it at you, reshaped into anger. Also, their bias against the act of dissection is probably quite strong. However well-meaning your motivation, I doubt his family will understand. So I shall accompany you, and share their censure. And no, I shall not launch into one of my sermons, only apologize. If the parish priest will not permit it, we may have no choice but to abandon the idea of a church burial.”
“I shall present it as something I did alone, without Nigel’s involvement.”
“Very well. I do have one more question: what was Al speaking furtively about earlier?”
“It was… Well…”
“Something you cannot tell me?”
“Something difficult to tell you. Al felt the same way. He left the decision to me.”
“What is it? I shall not be upset. Tell me.”
“We believe there may be one other who knew how the fireplace is constructed.”
“Who?”
Suddenly, there was a loud knocking at the door, which then swung open before Edward could reply. The red-faced man who stormed in was Barton’s elder brother and the owner of the anatomy school: the physician Robert Barton.
Unlike his potato of a brother, Robert was handsome and refined. In his curled wig and fashionable, striped, navy-blue jacket, he could have been on his way to the Palace. Physicians were, in fact, permitted audiences with His Majesty, like the nobility and officers in the Army and Navy. Surgeons, however, were considered on a par with barbers and not allowed even to enter the Palace.
“What have you done to me, Dan?” Robert demanded.
“Done? I don’t… ,” Barton stammered.
The latter had been indebted to his brother since they were young, and still relied on his assistance today. It was he who paid for the cadavers the grave-robbers brought in. Al kept all the records relating to dissection and research, and Robert audited the books closely each month.
Of course, in exchange for his financial support, Robert helped himself to the preparations his younger brother went to such pains to create, adding them to his collection freely.
When Edward was noticed in the room, he was immediately waved out.
As soon as he left, Robert opened the door to confirm that no one was in the corridor before voicing his complaints.
“You have undone a great deal of work!”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know full well. How could you steal the body of Miss Roughhead?”
“I did not steal it.”
“You bought it from grave-robbers. There is no difference.”
“You gave your blessing to my dealings with grave-robbers. Running this school would be impossible without them.”
“No one complains when the corpses are indigents or beggars,” Robert said, echoing the magistrate’s observation. “We are speaking of the daughter of a distinguished family!”
“An unmarried daughter who was six months pregnant. Quite scandalous, I should say.”
“Yes, you fool! Therein lies the problem! I am their chief physician!”
“Is that so?” the younger Barton said lamely. He knew that his brother counted many important people among his patients, but not who they were. He had no interest in the matter.
“They say you detected arsenic as well?”
“Ah! I meant to tell you. We have invented a revolutionary test apparatus.”
Barton had kept the device secret to prevent his brother publishing its details first as his own invention. Robert had already stolen much from him in this way. Barton was not a worldly man, but even he had noticed that he did the hard work and his brother reaped the glory. It was not a pleasant thought. Even worse, the test apparatus was Edward’s invention. He could not allow his brother to steal Edward’s research too.
“You have no idea what problems your meddling has caused.”
“Who poisoned her?”
“She poisoned herself. Her father had become aware of her condition. Not knowing what to do after he reprehended her, she took arsenic.”
“Poor woman! She must have suffered. If only she had known how painful arsenic poisoning is, she would surely have chosen a different method.”
“Sir Charles came to me for advice, still reeling from the shock. I saw at once that the cause of death was acute arsenic poisoning. But suicide would mean… even you must know this?”
“The Church denounces it. She would be barred from burial in a church graveyard.”
“And so I simulated a death from illness. But now you have… I am just back from Bow Street where I was summoned by the magistrate. Sir John, at a meeting with Sir Charles, had told him he intended to investigate whether his daughter’s death was murder or suicide. Sir Charles had no choice but to reveal the truth and beg that the suicide be kept secret. Hence my own summons. I also told Sir John the truth. He understood the situation. The family’s shame will not be made public. But I have been humiliated in the Roughheads’ eyes! That my own brother could do this to me… The trust I establish with my patients is vital to my work. I have sacrificed much to achieve my position. My connections to good society are—”
He broke off. “I heard there was also an unidentified young male cadaver,” he now said. “One whose limbs, moreover, had all been severed. What is this about? Who dismembered the boy?”
“I do not know. That one took me by surprise as well.” Barton decided to keep his pupils’ doings to himself.
“And there is one more corpse, a third.”
“Correct.”
“Is it true that it was found on a dissecting table?” demanded Robert, sounding like a public prosecutor.
“Yes.”
“What was it doing there?”
“I do not know.”
“Whose body was it?”
“I do not know. His face was crushed, and he was naked.”
“I understand the magistrate asked Dr. Osborne to perform the autopsies.”
“Correct.”
“Will he share the results with you?”
“A good question.”
“Bah! I leave London for a few days and everything is turned upside down. If you hear anything new, be sure to tell me. Be sure!”
“I shall.”
“And handle Miss Roughhead’s body with care,” he ordered irritably. “In fact, since I arrived by carriage, I shall take it to the Roughheads myself. Wrap the body up so that my driver does not see it.”
At the magistrate’s office on Bow Street, Daniel Barton and Edward were shown through into Sir John’s chambers. They found him relaxing in an elbow-chair, wig off, with the strip of black cloth raised above his eyebrows. His eyes r
emained closed.
The room had no carpet, perhaps to allow him to distinguish better between footsteps.
Two life-sized portraits in gilt frames hung on one of the walls. The first was of Sir John himself. He was depicted from the waist up, seated, dressed in black velvet with gold trim. His right hand rested on two books placed on the desk beside him. The narrow blindfold was above his eyebrows, just as it looked now. His expression was mild and friendly, but with a certain spirit to it.
The other picture showed a woman of elegant bearing in the middle years of her life. This, no doubt, was Sir John’s wife, now deceased. The artist’s signature could be made out as “Gainsborough,” a popular painter at the time.
“Has Miss Roughhead been safely restored to her rightful place?”
“My brother conveyed her there.”
“I heard from Robert that she committed suicide. That is one problem resolved.”
“Have you discovered the identity of the other two bodies?”
“I have assigned investigators, but no reports have come in yet.”
“Where are Miss Moore and Mr. Abbott?”
“Looking into the case of the faceless man. Officials in each district have been asked to check their records for runaways or missing persons meeting the cadaver’s description, and Anne is collating their reports.” Sir John sensed that Barton was about to speak, and raised his hand slightly to stop him. “I know what you wish to say. How can I assign tasks of this sort to a woman? It would be far from the first time I had received such criticism. Even His Majesty the King rebuked me when word of the matter reached his ears. There are many who would like to bring me low, and this would be a convenient pretext. But losing Anne now would be like losing my sight all over again. She is my niece by marriage—the daughter of my late wife’s younger sister. After she lost both her parents in a carriage accident, I fell into the habit of allowing her to accompany me in my work. She is exceedingly perceptive and capable. Finding me without Anne at my side—as indeed you do now—is to find me without my eyes… . Please, sit wherever you wish. What have you come to talk about?” he asked, turning to face Edward. Barton began to speak, but the magistrate interrupted him. “No, I should like to hear from Mr. Turner directly.”
The Resurrection Fireplace Page 10