The Resurrection Fireplace

by Hiroko Minagawa

  “Do you suppose he is dreaming about being bitten by a dog?” asked Clarence.

  “By Charlie or by Bess?” said Ben mindlessly.

  “An allegory for the violence of men against the ferocity of women?”

  “Folly incarnate.”

  “Man’s greatest folly is pouring a lifetime of love into a woman’s backside.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Me, just now.”

  While his pupils bantered, Barton wiped the inflamed wound with a piece of cloth soaked in alcohol, then applied a new bandage. “What the lance cannot heal,” he said, “time will.”

  Returning to the ground floor, they found that Sir John had arrived, flanked by his assistant and his assistant’s assistant.

  “The other judge is sitting in court today, leaving me free to concentrate on this case. I could hardly summon an injured man to my office, so here I am instead. How is Mr. Turner? Is he able to answer questions?”

  “He is asleep due to an anaesthetic, so please address your questions to me,” said Nigel. “I must warn you, however, that I have little to say about yesterday’s events that Mr. Abbott did not see for himself.”

  “As to the assailant…”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Mr. Hart—may I call you Nigel? I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “I am doing so.”

  “I wonder.”

  Nigel’s lips thinned. If Abbott was an iron trap, Nigel was a rattan snare at best.

  “Allow me to explain,” said the Professor.

  His two best pupils must not be attacked again. Even if it meant the end of the anatomy school, he was determined to protect them. So he told all he knew: what Hume had told him about Robert and Evans; what Edward and Nigel had found out about Cullen’s forgery and its connection to Evans and Harrington; the cloud of suspicion over his brother; and their conclusion that yesterday’s assailant was acting on Evans’s orders.

  Sir John listened to the end of this faltering tale before asking, “Do you intend to bring charges against Mr. Evans and your brother, I wonder?”

  Barton fell silent for a moment. “All this is inference,” he said finally. “There is no solid proof.” He explained that the anatomy school depended on Robert’s financial support, and that if his brother were accused of a crime, the school would be closed and his own research would come to an end. Accordingly, he certainly did not want Robert brought low.

  “Circumstances do seem to point to the two of them,” said the magistrate, “but there is not a scrap of decisive evidence. There is also one thing that bothers me. As you tell it, after he escaped from Evans, Cullen ran to your school hoping for help from Mr. Turner and Mr. Hart, only to be killed by the school’s owner. How could the latter have known he would come, and waited for him?”

  “That occurred to us also,” said Clarence, and explained their theory about Robert’s pet dog being used to give the alert.

  “Edward thought it out,” said Al. “He told Nigel, who passed it on to us.”

  “Then I shall investigate both Mr. Guy Evans and Dr. Robert Barton further. Should I discover overwhelming evidence, will you bring charges, Professor?”

  Barton sighed. “I suppose I must.”

  “The trial would be in the Central Court,” said Sir John, with his hand on a piece of paper lying on one of the workbenches.

  “Ah—that is the record of Edward’s injury,” said Al. “We took notes when we examined him.” He gave a quick summary of it.

  “Autopsy practice,” said Clarence. “Detailed records are always of later use. As I said before, leave the autopsies to us. Living clients also accepted.”

  “Sir John, I have a request,” said Al. “Please ensure that Evans does not realize he is being investigated. He has the ear of the Lord Mayor and members of the House of Lords, and he disposes of those who interfere with his designs. There is no saying what he might do if he senses us nosing about.”

  “Also, Dr. Barton has done wrong in the past,” said Clarence. “It is simply a fact. He took the Professor’s and Edward’s research and passed it off as his own.”

  “I cannot be partial to you in my approach,” said Sir John. “You have said a good deal; now it must be proven—particularly after the parade of falsehoods offered by Messrs. Turner and Hart until now. The rest of you, too—claiming that a body found in the flue was lying on a dissecting table, and so on. There is no evidence even for your claim that Cullen was imprisoned by Evans, then ran here after his escape.”

  “That is not so,” said Nigel. “We do have evidence: a letter Nathan wrote to us. It is in our bedroom—I shall go and fetch it.”

  “I believe I shall come with you. Anne, your assistance, please. Abbott, you wait here.”

  Telling the other three pupils to remain where they were as well, Barton accompanied Nigel, the magistrate, and Miss Moore upstairs.

  “Edward!” called Nigel, knocking on the door. “We are coming in. Sir John and Professor Barton are with me. Miss Moore, also.”

  Moore led Sir John towards Edward’s bed. “I hear you have been treated roughly,” the magistrate said. “May I touch your forehead, Mr. Turner?”

  “Of course.”

  “You seem to have a fever.”

  Nigel then placed several folded sheets of paper in the magistrate’s hand. “This is the letter. It was in Nathan’s pocket. But we did not think it was for us, and had much to attend to—”

  “Making the scene look more like a murder, for example.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. In any case, when we read the letter that night, we learnt about his confinement at the hands of Evans, the matter of the forgery, and the rest.”

  “Anne, please read it to us.” Sir John let Nigel lead him to a chair and lowered himself onto it.

  As Moore read the missive aloud, Barton noticed her pausing to observe Edward and Nigel closely, examining their expressions and movements. The contents of the letter did indeed back their claims.

  “Mr. Turner,” said Sir John when she had finished. “I see no point in questioning you, I think. You have proved yourself a vigorous liar already.”

  “Not for his own sake,” protested Barton again. “It was all to protect me, my preparations, and the anatomy school.”

  “Professor, may I speak to you in private?”

  “Let us repair to my study. There are things I wish to say, too. Miss Moore, I must ask you to absent yourself from our discussion. I shall guide Sir John.”

  “Do as he requests, Anne.”

  “What about me, Professor?” asked Nigel.

  “Stay with Edward or go downstairs—whichever you prefer.” He then took Sir John by the arm and led him away.

  “Let us begin with what you wished to say,” said the magistrate once they were inside the study.

  “You must forgive Edward’s refractory behaviour,” said Barton. “His distrust of the courts will not easily be overcome. You see, in the town near Southampton where he was born, his father, who was a clergyman’s servant…” Barton retold the story, ending with Edward’s mother moving the family to London, unable to bear life in their home town any longer, only to fall ill and die soon afterwards.

  “The poor woman,” Sir John said, the words barely audible from his full lips.

  “He does not wish these matters to be widely known, which is why I asked Miss Moore to stay behind.”

  “And yet I shall tell Anne myself. She is part of me—my eyes. What I learn I am bound to share with her.”

  “If it must be so. But please remember that this tale is painful for my pupil.”

  “I shall bear it in mind. Now—about his injury.”

  “You noticed as well?”

  “His attacker did not intend to kill him.”

  “I agree.”

 
“The notes were quite instructive. The skin around the wound had opened outwards. In other words, the blade of the knife—as I take the weapon to be—was not directed inwards. It merely tore the skin. No one with intent to kill would hold their weapon in that way. The fact that the blade was horizontal might suggest that the assailant lacked intent even to wound, one is tempted to say.”

  Barton was unable to answer immediately, because he had felt the same doubts looking over the record himself.

  “In other words, Turner had an acquaintance do it in order to place himself above suspicion. The attacker meant only to give him a scratch, but slipped and inflicted a deeper wound than expected.”

  “Above suspicion? Suspicion of what, pray?” Barton did not notice his voice growing sharper.

  “You already know what I mean, I think. The suspicion that Turner was on the side of the perpetrators throughout this series of events. It is not uncommon for those in such a position to adopt the guise of victim.”

  “Impossible.” Even as he dismissed the notion, however, Barton could not discard a last trace of doubt. Recent events had already forced him to recognize that Edward could be a shrewd schemer, and was rather too eager to hide things.

  “If Anne’s account is accurate, Turner is rather fortunate in terms of looks.”

  “I do not think that overstates the case.”

  “I, of course, am blessed with immunity to appearances. Let me be frank: I find the man tiresome—quite unbearably so. That is the effect he has on me.”

  “I cannot blame you for feeling that way, after his many half-truths and concealments—but I would urge you to try to see his good side too. Surely the injury was a threat from Evans. The latter may already have had my brother kill two men. The order to murder my two pupils as well would be going too far, so Evans is warning them to keep quiet about Cullen’s flair for forgery, as revealed in the letter.”

  “Ah, yes, the letter. Was it really written by Cullen? We have no way to determine the truth. It may be a forgery itself.”

  “It is not in the hand of either Edward or Nigel, at least. Evans should still have the manuscript of that poem that Cullen was working on, the Elegy. The letter could be compared with it. Only… that would clearly inform Evans that he was under suspicion… .”

  “You are working on the assumption that Evans forced your brother to murder Harrington and the boy. However, as I said earlier, I am in no position to decide such things in the absence of solid evidence. Until I have such evidence, I must treat both sides impartially. Turner is still hiding something.”

  “Until Edward recovers, I hope you will refrain from questioning him further.”

  “His father was executed for a crime he did not commit. This you told me just now. Might Evans have been involved in that incident?”

  “I had never heard of the man before Hume, my banker, mentioned him to me.”

  “If Evans did in fact have Harrington and Nathan Cullen murdered to conceal the forgery, there is a simple way to prevent further criminal acts. We need only reveal to the world that his ‘mediaeval poems’ are, in practice, fraudulent.”

  Barton thought for a moment. “However, neither Cullen nor Harrington, our two witnesses in the matter, are still with us. If we do not first prove the supposition that Evans had Robert kill them—I say supposition, for it is not certain yet, although I think it likely myself—Evans might sue us for libel.”

  “Cullen’s family must know his handwriting.”

  “Quite so. Have you made contact with his relatives?”

  “We sent a letter by stage-coach to the mayor of Sherbourne, since we had no specific address. We urged him to inquire with the priest of each parish until Cullen’s family was identified, then to inform them of their son’s death and ask them to come and retrieve his body. The matter will take some days yet.”

  “Whatever protests Evans might make, if we made the matter public, he would have to keep his hands off Edward and Nigel, would he not?”

  “I am sure he would refrain from pursuing the matter actively, yes.”

  “But what method to use to make it public?… A newspaper, I suppose. Hume might have some clients connected with reputable newspapers. Would they print an article with no backing, however?… But I must be bold and ask. This is no time to sit with arms folded. As for evidence… finding it is your concern. All I ask is that you decide correctly.”

  “The final verdict will be made by the judges and jurors of the Old Bailey, but I shall do my utmost to gather evidence sound enough to leave the jurors no choice but to hand down the correct judgement.”

  “I am sure you are right. The matter must not be heard in court before it is resolved. A skilful lawyer can turn black into white.”

  “I shall take this letter with me. I should also like to borrow something in the hand of Messrs. Turner and Hart, just in case. Additionally—and I hope you will forgive the insult—I need a sample of your own writing, and of your other three pupils’.”

  “Do you suppose that I, or one of them, concocted the letter from Cullen?”

  “You all cooperated in deceiving me about the corpses in the fireplace.”

  “I shall assemble a selection.”

  “Is Robert at home now, I wonder?”

  “I do not know. Shall I summon him?”

  “No, I shall go myself. Perhaps you could call Anne.”

  Barton sighed deeply despite himself. It looked as if the anatomy school would not remain open much longer.

  Chapter 12

  Nathan advanced slowly, cautiously.

  Footsteps approached behind him.

  He froze.

  Chapter 13

  Back at home, Sir John had his dinner and then moved to his private chambers to put his feet up and enjoy a cup of coffee brought in by the maid.

  The chair in which he sat had been in his possession so long that its cushioned parts were moulded to his body, supporting him snugly.

  He heard Anne removing her violin from its case. This was their custom when he was taking his ease. She anticipated his wants before he needed to voice them.

  A minuet by Bach soon filled the air. His late wife had loved to play this piece. Sir John did not know what she had looked like, having gone blind before their marriage. Instead, he knew the touch of her skin, the feel of her hair, her rather low speaking voice and her decorous laugh. His lips remembered every inch of her. When she played the violin, he would sometimes slip his head under her dress and distract her. She would scold him, saying that it was an offence against the music, to which he would reply that he was simply listening in the most agreeable environment. Before long, though, her playing would flow into him, flooding him to a depth beyond words, and he would cease his mischief and only listen. Now he had no one with whom he could behave as intimately.

  Listening now to Anne’s performance, he thought again how astonishing it was that such sweet sounds should come from horse hair scraped across catgut. Those who made violin strings lived near slaughter-houses, to give them easy access to raw materials. These ill-paid artisans would cut open a sheep’s belly, remove yards and yards of intestine, scrape off the fat and muscle and blood vessels, squeeze out the bile, and soak it in cleansing ash solution. The wider end of the gut so processed they put aside to sell for sausage-skin. The narrow end was sliced into fibrous ribbons, which in turn were twisted into strings. All done by people who would most likely never hear a violin played… . These musings came to Sir John unbidden, perhaps inspired by his recent association with the anatomist and his pupils.

  * * *

  His attempt to meet the elder Barton brother that day had been unsuccessful.

  After leaving the anatomy school, rather than go around to the front of Robert’s house, which was in Leicester Square, he simply crossed the courtyard and inquired at the rear entrance in
stead. The servant who answered the door had struggled to conceal his surprise at seeing a magistrate there.

  “I wish to see Dr. Robert Barton. Please tell him that the magistrate John Fielding has business with him.”

  “He is not at home, sir.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but he should be back directly. Bess! Do not lick the magistrate’s shoes.”

  A shabbily dressed man moved past the servant through the door at a crouch, out into the courtyard.

  “Clean the stables while you’re at it!” the servant called after him.

  The man turned. “I ain’t no stable-boy,” he replied, before hurrying away into the rear lane.

  “He comes daily to clean the kennel,” explained the servant with a grimace. “If only you had called at the front entrance, sir, you might have been spared that encounter.”

  “I suppose that Dr. Barton has a personal carriage?”

  “Yes, sir. His medical practice requires as much. His driver drinks, however, and is nothing but trouble.”

  “When Dr. Barton does return, pray have him call on me at my office in Bow Street.”

  Sir John had then returned there on his own, given instructions to two or three officers who were waiting for them, and decided to take a short break before having Anne read him the reports that had arrived in his absence.

  As he was asking her to read one particular thing again, they were interrupted by a visitor: City Marshal Charles Hitchin.

  “I have no business in particular, but happened to be in the neighbourhood,” said Hitchin, almost apologetically. Sir John was on cordial terms with him professionally, but they had no special friendship. “I understand that Sir Saunders is sitting in court today, and thought you might be free.”

  “I am not, in fact,” Sir John said bluntly. “Though not at court, I have more things to do than hours to do them in.”

  “In that case, please accept my apologies.” He turned to leave.

  “Was it about the pamphlet?”

  An anonymous document attacking Hitchin was currently in circulation. A copy had been delivered to the magistrate’s office some days before.