There was a yawning gap between the two brothers’ view of their relationship. Robert believed that, as long as he provided the necessary funding, the results of Barton’s research and experimentation were his rightful property. This included everything in the specimen room, about which, apparently, he felt not a twinge of compunction.
And yet, if not for Robert, who was eight years older than him, he might have ended his days a drunkard in the same Scottish village he had grown up in. Robert’s urgent quest for social advancement had taken him to Edinburgh University, where he studied medicine and anatomy and became a licensed gynaecologist and surgeon. He had then moved to London and qualified as a physician. Opening a private practice, he had used the social graces he had acquired to insinuate himself among the upper ranks of society. On a visit to Paris he had witnessed a dissection and realized how far his own country had fallen behind in the study of anatomy. Upon his return, therefore, he had established a school of anatomy alongside his private practice, and sent for his brother to help run it. Barton’s first responsibility had been the procurement of cadavers.
Barton had always enjoyed analysing the living—and dead—things around him. He assisted his brother, gradually began to perform surgical and gynaecological work, and eventually became an expert in anatomy and the art of creating preparations, despite being almost entirely self-educated. At the universities, the study of medicine still chiefly implied lectures on the classic medical works, which were of course riddled with errors.
Your preparations are at risk of falling into somebody else’s hands.
Edward’s words came back to him again and again.
Feeling the claret and laudanum begin to take effect, Barton headed for his bedroom upstairs. As he passed Edward and Nigel’s room, he was seized by the urge to knock. Perhaps he could discuss things with Edward one more time.
He heard voices inside, but their tone was too low to make out what they were saying through the door.
Laughter?
Without warning, the door swung open.
“Professor Barton, can we help you?”
“Ah! Edward!”
“We heard your footsteps pause outside the door.”
“Nothing important,” said Barton, while Nigel poked his head around the door, looking worried.
“If it is the matter we discussed earlier that concerns you, I shall see Mr. Hume tomorrow and learn the truth in full. We shall make sure that your preparations are absolutely safe.”
“Thank you.” He bade them goodnight, then trudged into his room.
Removing his clothes, he collapsed across the bed.
Geese with tarred feet tramped around him, and he fell asleep chasing them with shoes.
He had overslept. It was past ten o’clock. There had been too much laudanum in it after all. Head heavy with the lingering effect, he made his way downstairs to find his pupils already present. Four of them, at least.
“Where is Edward?”
“He went to the Temple Bank,” said Nigel.
Nelly prepared a simple breakfast for him. He did not feel strong enough mentally to grill her about Norma.
The problem of the cadavers could be left to Sir John. Barton’s most important task was to protect his work from his brother’s creditors.
“I am off to the Temple Bank, too,” he told them as he gathered his things.
“Wait for Edward’s return, if you would,” said Nigel.
“The trouble is my own. I cannot leave everything to him.”
“Professor, please—he can be trusted with the matter.”
“Oh, I know! For things of this nature he is more to be counted on than I am. But I must learn for myself how matters lie.”
“What is all this about?” asked Clarence.
“I shall tell you later,” said Barton. “Now—we had a bumper crop of cadavers yesterday, but today our cupboard, so to speak, is bare. Accordingly, there will be no dissections. Let us call today a holiday.”
“But something may be brought in. We should be waiting, just in case.”
“It is already far too light for that to happen.”
“Sir John may send some news about yesterday’s events.”
His pupils were rather too lively, Barton felt. Excited by recent incidents, no doubt.
“Professor, what did you discuss with the magistrate yesterday?” asked Clarence. “Please tell us, too. Edward had already left when we arrived, and Nigel refuses to say anything without your permission.”
How much could he divulge? It would be irresponsible to mention the cloud over Robert. After giving it some thought, he said, “You must wait just a little longer. Nigel, will you accompany me?”
Left behind, Nigel would face a barrage of questions from his fellow students, none of them easy to answer. Nigel’s gratitude showed in his expression.
“Professor,” protested Clarence. “We are your pupils too. Edward and Nigel are our friends. Edward claimed that he knew who the dead boy was. He also said that he would tell us after discussing the matter with you. You have since had that discussion, I believe. I beg you, tell us what you know.”
Barton glanced at Nigel, a question in his eyes.
Without looking up, the latter nodded very slightly… or so it seemed to Barton.
“The boy was a mutual friend of Edward and Nigel’s,” he said. “His name was Nathan Cullen. A writer of great talent, I gather. The rest I am sure Edward shall report once our business at the bank is settled. Wait until then. Oh—and please put the catalogue of preparations in order.”
Barton and Nigel walked along the Strand towards Temple Bar without speaking. The uneven cobblestones breathed in the summer sun and exhaled heat, and the smell of the horses that pulled the carriages and cabs was distinctly stronger here. The cries of the vendors were as loud as ever. In a square, they saw a woman leaning against a mucky cow and selling its milk by the cup. Barton asked for two cups of syllabub. The woman poured some wine into a pair of mugs, added sugar and spice, then crouched down to hold them under the cow’s udders as she milked it. When she handed them over, they were full to the brim and as warm as the animal itself.
Barton also bought a muffin from the stall next door. “I ate just before we left, but your meal was some time ago,” he said to Nigel. “We do not want your stomach rumbling at the bank.” In truth, he hoped to cheer up his miserable-looking pupil; syllabub and a muffin were the best he could think of.
“You fuss like a grandmother, sir,” said Nigel. He looked half-way between laughter and tears. “But I was feeling thirsty.”
If Edward had been thirsty, Barton thought, he would have asked for a drink straight out.
They returned their empty mugs to the woman’s stall and went on their way.
“Thank you,” said Nigel, a few minutes later. “For bringing me with you. I would have been questioned mercilessly had I remained there. And I find the circumstances surrounding the amputation very painful still to speak about. Nor do I know if it would be right to repeat to others the suspicions that Edward voiced about your brother.”
The sound of hooves came from behind. They turned to see two mounted figures approaching—Anne Moore on a chestnut horse, Abbott on a bay. They stopped and waited for them to dismount.
“Sir John says that he wishes to see you, Mr. Barton,” said Moore. “We called at your residence first, but that talkative student of yours—Clarence, was it?—informed us that you were headed to the Temple Bank. It was easier than I expected to catch up.”
“Am I under suspicion?” asked Barton.
“By no means. And this is not a summons as a witness, either. He merely has some questions regarding the identity of the cadaver whose face was destroyed. He and Sir Saunders Welch sit as judges on alternate days, as you may know, and today happens to be Sir John’s day. He must be in court
for the afternoon session, but he hopes to interview you before then. If your business at the bank is not too pressing, will you not accompany us first to the magistrate’s office?”
She spoke politely, but there was a certain force in her manner nonetheless. Barton sensed a conscious projection of authority—presumably a reaction against the general tendency to dismiss or mock her due to her gender.
“Very well,” said Barton. He did wish to see Hume quite urgently, but he could not ignore the magistrate’s request.
At Abbott’s urging, he mounted the bay horse. Barton had little experience of riding, but relaxed when Abbott took the reins.
“Shall I go ahead to Mr. Hume’s?” asked Nigel. “I could tell him that you shall be along later. We would not want him to leave the bank for some reason in the meantime.”
Barton turned to Moore. “How long will this conversation with Sir John take, I wonder?”
“Perhaps an hour. The court will be in session after that.”
“Nigel, tell Mr. Hume that I will be with him in no more than an hour and a half.”
Nigel’s face showed visible relief.
To be summoned by the magistrate did not promote peace of mind even among those whose consciences were clear. Nigel had concealed what he knew about the boy’s identity and the reasons for his amputated limbs, which, Barton surmised, made him even less inclined to meet Sir John. And Nigel was someone inclined to hide in Edward’s shadow, anyway.
Arriving at Sir John’s residence, Barton was shown into the dining room.
“My apologies for imposing upon you again—and while I am at my meal yet,” said Sir John. The magistrate’s eyes today were covered by the strip of black cloth, and in his voice Barton sensed both strictness and genuine warmth. “On the days I must sit as judge, my only free moments are at luncheon.”
He told the maid to lay a place for his visitor, but Barton demurred on the grounds of having just eaten. Not, however, without some regret—the cooking appeared to be in an entirely different class from Nelly’s.
“As you wish,” said Sir John. “I am just finishing myself.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and instructed the maid to serve the coffee in the sitting room. “Or perhaps Professor Barton would prefer tea?”
Which do I prefer? Barton wondered as if for the first time, before concluding that he had no preference either way. “Coffee, thank you,” he said.
They repaired to the same room as yesterday. At home, the Blind Beak could move as confidently as any sighted man, requiring no assistance. Even so, Miss Moore remained by his side.
The maid brought in a silver tray with three cups of coffee, then quietly withdrew.
“Our time is limited,” Sir John said. “Let us begin with the main matter: the results of Dr. Osborne’s autopsies. First, the faceless man. Professor, are you acquainted with a man called Thomas Harrington?”
“I am not.”
“Do you read the Public Journal?”
“I have never heard of it before.”
“You are fortunate, then. It is a vile publication. I am pleased, incidentally, to detect no insincerity in your answers.”
“Is it true, then, that you can distinguish truth from falsehood in people’s speech alone?”
“I will be franker with you than most, Professor. It is true that my sense of hearing is far more sensitive than the average man’s. Still, it is not infallible, and sometimes I fail to detect even a barefaced lie. No, I am not quite as fearsome as popular opinion would have it—although I refrain from correcting the record on that account, as it is useful for striking fear into the criminal heart. In any case, it was an easy matter for me to determine that you spoke truthfully just now.”
“Who is this Thomas Paddington?— No, Harrington, was it?”
“Harrington is the man who publishes the Public Journal.”
“A vile publication, you said.”
“It is an indefatigable opponent of oligarchy, but largely to increase sales. The rest of its pages are filled with writing barely worthy of the name ‘prattle.’ It has also been used to promote fraudulent schemes. What concerns us now, however, is why its editor’s corpse was found in your fireplace.”
“You managed to identify him even with no face?”
“You may recall that I ordered a list prepared of people reported missing or otherwise absent from home.”
“I heard the list read aloud yesterday. Was the name Harrington among them? I confess I do not recall them all individually.”
“No. The investigation continued after your departure. My officers being overwhelmed with work, I engaged the services of private citizens as well, who are still asking questions and gathering information today. Among the information we acquired was the news that the Public Journal’s offices have been closed for several days and Harrington’s whereabouts unknown. He had two employees, it seems, one of whom reported him missing. The faceless cadaver was entrusted to Dr. Osborne for an autopsy, so I had both of Harrington’s employees go to the doctor’s address. The condition of the face was regrettable. Dr. Osborne had prepared the body against putrefaction as best he could, but the process was already well under way. As a result, neither of Harrington’s employees could identify the body with certainty, but both agreed that its proportions certainly suggested their employer. I was unable to attend the inspection myself, but upon receiving their report I summoned them here and ended the morning court session early to question them. I was not able to extract much of value from either, but there must have been many who wanted Thomas Harrington dead.”
“For what reason?”
“His muck-raking offended a great many people. His custom was to blackmail his victims, demanding money in exchange for not running an article. And then there was the matter of the Pacific Company.”
“Which was…?”
“Have you ever dabbled in speculation, Professor?”
“I’m afraid the stock-market is quite outside my realm of expertise.”
“Yes, you do give that impression. However, the corpse was concealed in your fireplace—not a hiding place commonly resorted to. Hence my asking you here, but I suspect that you have little to do even with investment, let alone speculation.”
“To be honest, Sir John, I do have an interest in money. My research could always benefit from more funding. If someone I trusted made the right proposal to me, I might well take him up on it. For better or worse, however, I count no such persons among my acquaintance.”
As he spoke, Barton could not help remembering what Edward had told him.
“According to Dr. Osborne,” the magistrate continued, “Harrington was strangled.”
“The culprit was a man of some strength, then,” said Barton, still somewhat distracted.
“There are no signs of a struggle. But by using ether or laudanum to render him senseless and doing it in his sleep, even a weak person could have committed the murder, I would have thought.”
“For ether to be forcibly administered, the victim’s movements would have to be constrained,” Barton said. “This would be difficult for someone of little strength. Unless he had accomplices, I suppose. Laudanum, however, is essentially diluted opium. If the circumstances did not arouse the victim’s suspicion, I suppose it could be mixed into their drink without difficulty.”
“Your pupils, Professor Barton, knew the structure of the fireplace. But since all five of them knew, it seems unlikely that just one would have hidden the body there and risked discovery by the others. Unless all five were in on the enterprise, that is.”
“Edward and Nigel discovered the body. It follows that they were not the ones who concealed it. Accordingly, the hypothesis that the five of them conspired together will not stand, either.”
“Whoever used the fireplace as a hiding place knew its structure. They believed, however, that the secret w
as theirs and theirs alone. Does this suggest anyone you know, Professor?”
That Robert was apprised of the fireplace’s design and therefore a suspect was something even Al had realized. Almost certainly, the same had occurred to the magistrate. And it was more than likely that Robert underestimated what the others knew about the fireplace. He fitted the description perfectly.
Beads of sweat formed on Barton’s forehead. If Robert were tried and condemned, the school would founder. Robert’s wife hated dissection. She would close the school, sell the building, and return to the comfort of her family’s manor house. The preparations would all be seized to cover his brother’s debts.
How he hoped Robert was innocent!
Was it not possible that someone had learnt about the fireplace from Robert, and made use of the space on his own initiative?
“Putting aside the Harrington case… ,” said the magistrate. Barton was relieved at the change of subject, but this quickly evaporated when the next topic proved even more awkward. “I am struck by the extent of the falsehood in what your prized pupils Edward Turner and Nigel Hart initially said.”
“Let me offer my sincere apologies on their behalf. It was all done for my sake.”
“Were the boy’s limbs amputated for your sake too?”
“No, as they said, they did that to ensure that he could be buried on hallowed ground.”
“Indeed, that is what they said. But I can think of one other reason why they might have done it.”
The magistrate fell silent. Barton had the distinct impression of a sharp gaze from open eyes behind the black cloth.
After a moment, Sir John continued.
“If some clue to the culprit’s identity had remained on one of the limbs…”
“Was there not such a clue on the boy’s chest?”
“Ah, but if that were a ruse to conceal the truth…”
“A rather overelaborate one, surely.”
“Mr. Turner said he threw the legs into the Thames. He may have wanted us not to examine them. Some evidence implicating either him, Mr. Hart, or the pair together in the boy’s murder may have remained on the legs. He removed them, but did not have time to properly dispose of them.”
The Resurrection Fireplace Page 19