‘Not so extraordinary. Do you know who was dissected for Temple’s edification? Webb, murdered while walking home from the Guinea Company dinner. He was no felon.’
‘You are mistaken,’ said Wiseman, regarding him in astonishment. Then his face resumed its customary arrogance. ‘Of course, cadavers change their appearance after death and laymen are easily confused. Johnson probably told Temple it was Webb, but it will have been a joke, although not one in particularly good taste.’
‘I have seen my share of corpses, too, and Webb was—’
Wiseman’s eyes narrowed suddenly and he snapped his fingers. ‘Hah! I understand why you think he was anatomised – it was you Johnson saw sneaking around the other day. I thought I had seen you off the premises, but you obviously came back. There was no need – if you had told me you were experiencing a desire to drool over corpses, I would have arranged a private viewing.’
‘You are too kind. But Webb was the corpse. And I also know for a fact that he is not in his tomb in St Paul’s Cathedral. So, how did he end up in your Anatomical Theatre?’
Wiseman shrugged. ‘If you are right – and I do not believe it for a moment – then there will have been a silly mistake. Gravediggers and vergers can be shockingly careless – it makes one yearn for immortality.’ He saw Chaloner’s scepticism. ‘Come with me now, and I shall show you our procedures. There is nothing untoward, I assure you.’
It was not an appealing invitation, but Chaloner accepted anyway. He had no idea whether Willys’s murder was connected to the Webb case, but it was as good a place as any to start an investigation.
The ride to Chyrurgeons’ Hall was an uncomfortable one for Chaloner. He was daunted by the prospect of unravelling the twists and turns associated with the various murders he had been charged to solve, and disturbed by his growing conviction that Holles could not be trusted. He was used to working under the assumption that everyone was an enemy, but was disappointed in the colonel nonetheless. Wiseman sang all the way, pleased with himself and his performance at the guardhouse, and Chaloner might have enjoyed his rich bass, had the surgeon not chosen to warble a ballad by the composer–lutenist John Dowland, in which a bitter man contemplated different ways to dispatch his rivals.
When they arrived, students were already beginning to flock to the Anatomical Theatre. Wiseman muttered venomously that they were an hour early, although Chaloner sensed he was flattered; their enthusiasm was testament to the veneration in which he was held. All wore the uniform gowns and hats that marked them as Company apprentices, and there was an atmosphere of scholarly anticipation as they walked in twos and threes towards the door. Wiseman stopped humming abruptly when he saw Johnson arrive in another carriage, accompanied by Lisle. The pair were immediately waylaid by Clerk Reynell, who was gesticulating in an agitated manner. Johnson’s face darkened as he listened, then he turned and made a beeline for Wiseman.
‘Reynell says you plan to use four corpses for your demonstration today,’ he shouted furiously. ‘The fresh one that came this morning, plus three old ones from last month. What are you thinking of ? The stench of rotting entrails will linger in the theatre for days, and it will spoil our guests’ appetites for the dinner after the Public Anatomy on Saturday.’
‘If they cannot stomach a little odour, then they do not deserve to eat,’ retorted Wiseman. His expression was malicious – he was delighted to be causing problems. ‘I need four cadavers for comparative purposes, or our students will go away thinking all people’s innards are the same.’
Johnson regarded him with dislike. ‘Important men will be present on Saturday, ones who make donations. If you destroy our hopes in that direction, I shall invite them all to another dissection the following week: yours.’
Wiseman sneered. ‘Then I hope they will not come with the hope of learning anything – not if you are to do the honours.’
Chaloner stepped back, anticipating fireworks, but Johnson displayed admirable restraint. ‘Just try not to make too much of a mess. We do not want Reynell scrubbing all day tomorrow, when he should be polishing the ceremonial silver. Incidentally, I have invited an acquaintance to watch you this afternoon. In return, he will give us a pair of silver spoons.’
‘You have done what?’ exploded Wiseman. ‘You invited laymen to my dissection? How dare you! It is for students and colleagues only.’
Johnson pointed at Chaloner. ‘He is not a student or a colleague, but you have invited him. And our records show that he has not yet settled his account for the treatment you gave him last Saturday, so obviously he is not going to give us any silver spoons. Or did you pay him, for letting you experiment on his limbs? Lisle says he will never regain the use of his fingers.’
Lisle heard his name brayed, and hurried forward to pour oil on troubled waters. Reynell was with him, and Chaloner was again struck by the clerk’s handsome clothes. Close up, however, he saw they had been marred by some very unpleasant stains, and supposed it was impractical, if not impossible, to maintain an air of sartorial elegance while working for the barber-surgeons.
‘Gentlemen, please!’ said Lisle wearily. ‘Not in front of the apprentices.’
‘Did you say I botched Heyden’s treatment?’ demanded Wiseman dangerously. ‘And have you offered to rectify it for him?’
‘Of course not,’ said Lisle soothingly, not looking at Chaloner. ‘Although I would offer to make amends, if I thought a member of my Company was guilty of malpractice. However, this is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. Let Johnson’s friend watch you today, Wiseman. He may learn something, and silver spoons will not go amiss. Meanwhile, perhaps Johnson would be kind enough to test the syllabub for Saturday. We all know he is an expert on such matters.’
‘True,’ agreed Wiseman contemptuously. ‘God has given every man a unique skill with which to walk the Earth. Mine is surgery and his is scoffing syllabubs.’
‘I think it needs to be stored in a cooler place,’ said Lisle, before Johnson could respond. ‘In fact, I want you to inspect it now. I shall come with you.’
‘And afterwards, you had better supervise Wiseman,’ snapped Johnson, trying unsuccessfully to resist as Lisle pulled him away. ‘The last time he performed, he could not locate the gall bladder.’
‘Because it was withered with disease,’ bellowed Wiseman after him. He lowered his voice to a more moderate level, although it was still loud enough to be heard by passing students. ‘Pompous ass! He would not know a gall bladder if it came up and introduced itself to him.’
‘You should go inside now,’ said Reynell to Chaloner. ‘The theatre is almost full already, and if you leave it too long, you will not get a seat.’
‘He is not here for that,’ said Wiseman. ‘He has convinced himself that Webb was anatomised here, so I offered to show him our procedure for collecting bodies. Then he will see for himself that such a notion is preposterous.’
The clerk regarded Chaloner in astonishment. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion? Webb hated the medical profession, and wanted nothing to do with our Company – he ruined Wiseman with slanderous accusations, he took Lisle to court over the cost of a phlebotomy, and he threatened to sue the lot of us for postponing the Private Anatomy he had commissioned.’
Chaloner resisted the temptation to state the obvious – that Webb would hardly be in a position to prevent his corpse from being misused once he was dead. ‘If Webb disliked surgeons so much, then why did he want to come here and watch a dissection?’ he asked instead.
‘Because it is the current fashion at Court to do so,’ explained Wiseman disapprovingly. ‘The King expressed an interest in the workings of the human body, so now everyone is fascinated by the subject. Webb was a shallow fellow, who thought buying a performance would prove he had good taste. I, for one, am grateful he died before he could use our profession in a shabby attempt to advance himself.’
‘Lisle did want to refuse Webb,’ added Reynell, ‘but Johnson was afraid
he might make trouble if we did. Webb was spiteful and vindictive, and I am sure Johnson was right.’
A clock struck the hour and Wiseman took a breath. ‘I must go and prepare for my lecture. I always read my notes before I start, lest I omit something important. Not that I make mistakes, you understand. My demonstrations are always perfect.’
‘Of course,’ said Reynell, when the surgeon paused for him to agree.
‘Then you will not mind showing Heyden how we prepare cadavers for teaching and research. It is a job for a clerk, after all, not a busy and important surgeon.’
Reynell sighed his resignation as Wiseman strode away. ‘I am afraid we shall have to be quick, Mr Heyden. I am very busy with preparations for Saturday. What do you want to know?’
‘Start from the beginning,’ suggested Chaloner, unable to think of a question that would move the discussion directly to Webb.
Reynell flapped a vague hand towards the north of the barber-surgeons’ domain. ‘The bodies arrive from the prisons by cart, and we receive them through that little door at the end of our garden. We do not use the main gate, obviously, because it might look ghoulish to passers-by.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner, suspecting it looked worse to sneak them in through the back. He followed the clerk to the Anatomical Theatre, which had a small, discreet entrance at the side. It was locked, but Reynell opened it to reveal a flight of steps that was dark, damp and covered in ominous stains.
‘The theatre has a special basement,’ Reynell explained, lighting a lamp. ‘So, when bodies arrive, we take them down there for preparation. Watch your footing. Those spillages can be very slippery.’
Reluctantly – he did not like the look of the stairs or the sound of the vault – Chaloner descended, wrinkling his nose at the eye-watering stench of decay and mould. The cellar was a low-ceilinged chamber, lit by several hanging lanterns that sent eerie shadows around thick supporting pillars. There were no windows, and the only door was the one through which they had entered. The walls were bare brick, and the dank space was used to keep samples as well as corpses, because rows of jars contained all manner of objects. Chaloner saw a tiny human foetus in one, and looked away before he could identify anything else.
‘How many of these dissections do you perform?’ he asked. Five sheeted figures lay on crude wooden benches, and he realised it was quite an industry.
‘Four public ones annually, and a variable number of private,’ replied Reynell. His voice was defensive, as if he had detected distaste in the question. ‘We are due to receive a freshly hanged felon for the event on Saturday – we cannot use anything but a new cadaver for that, or our guests will not fancy their dinner afterwards.’
‘Who are these others?’ asked Chaloner, gesturing around.
‘The ones we have finished with – or should have finished with. By rights, they should be in their graves by now, but Wiseman wants to use them to illustrate anatomical variation in bladders. I shall have to dispose of them before Saturday, though, because Johnson will complain if their reek wafts upstairs. That is the agreement, you see – we get the corpses, and in return, we pay for their burial in St Olave’s churchyard.’
‘Can I see them?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Their faces, I mean.’
Reynell regarded him oddly. ‘What for? I assure you Webb is not here. I was told he was interred with great pomp in St Paul’s Cathedral.’
‘Then you will not mind humouring me,’ said Chaloner, indicating the nearest body.
The clerk shrugged. ‘I suppose it is all right, although it is not a very nice thing to ask.’
He lifted the cover, and Chaloner was hard-pressed to prevent himself from recoiling. The face had not been immune from the anatomists’ knives, and had been peeled away to reveal the skull underneath. The torso had been crudely stitched back together, but the single rapier hole in the skin of the chest was still identifiable, and so were the grazes on the knees. Webb was still above ground, and Reynell was wrong in declaring otherwise.
‘Do you have a name for this man?’ Chaloner asked.
Reynell consulted a ledger. ‘Martin Webster from Ludgate Gaol – brained by a fellow inmate while awaiting trial for burglary. You can check with the warden, if you do not believe me.’
Martin Webster, Matthew Webb. Chaloner supposed a clerical error might have seen the wrong man delivered to Chyrurgeons’ Hall. Webb would have been kept in his house from his death to his burial, so the hiccup must have occurred after the funeral: the vergers had allowed the mourners to leave before tipping Webb from his casket and squashing him inside the bishop’s sarcopha gus. Ludgate was close to St Paul’s, so it was possible that Martin Webster had been granted a religious ceremony in the cathedral before being shipped off to the surgeons – and the bodies had been confused at that point. But surely the vergers could tell the difference between a plump merchant and an emaciated prisoner? Or had they just thought that Webster would be an easier fit in a small space, and had made a decision based on the fact that no one was ever likely to know?
Reynell covered the body. ‘You see? Just a felon.’
‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, keeping his conclusions to himself. He lifted the sheet from the next corpse – because Reynell did not know he had already identified Webb, he was obliged to inspect the rest for appearance’s sake – but the subject had been dissected so thoroughly that there was nothing left but bones and a mess of pale organs. The same was true of the next two, but when Chaloner moved towards the last one, the clerk turned away.
It was Fitz-Simons, complete with a hole in his chest that had been made by the ball from a gun. Chaloner glanced him over briefly, but could see no other marks, and he knew from the wars that such a large wound so near the heart would have been instantly fatal. So, Fitz-Simons had not disappeared after all, but had died when May had shot him.
‘Richard Fitz-Simons was a good friend,’ said Reynell softly. ‘And a member of the Company.’
‘How does he come to be here?’
Reynell’s face was a mask of anguish. ‘Because Wiseman managed to inspect the body of the “beggar” everyone was calling an assassin, and recognised it as Fitz-Simons’s. We were terrified that someone would identify him, and that his actions – whatever they were – would reflect badly on the whole Company. So we spirited him away without anyone knowing. Will you tell May?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘Why is he not buried? Surely it is safer to put him in the ground?’
‘Because his last will and testament specified that his cadaver was to be used for education.’ Reynell’s voice cracked; he grieved for the man. ‘We plan to hold a special dissection next week. Lisle will give a new lecture on the lungs, Wiseman will expound on the bladder, and Johnson will take the musculature. They have vowed to lay their differences aside and do justice to Fitz-Simons’s generous spirit. We shall revere his memory, and our apprentices will never forget him.’
Chaloner was sure he was right. ‘Wiseman told me surgeons do not dissect their colleagues.’
Reynell gave a humourless smile. ‘What would you expect him to say? That any dead medicus who wills us his corpse is eagerly received? We would lose our royal charter!’
It all sounded very gruesome to Chaloner. He walked back up the stairs and into the daylight with considerable relief, Reynell following. ‘Did you ever meet Webb?’
Reynell nodded. ‘Several times, all when he was threatening members of the Company with legal action. He was an odious man. Wiseman in particular despised him, and they had a blazing row on the night Webb was killed.’
‘Did they?’ asked Chaloner encouragingly. He wondered whether there was anyone in London who had not argued with the merchant that fateful night.
Reynell nodded again. ‘At the Guinea Company dinner. I was invited because my brother is a member, and Webb and Wiseman had some sort of disagreement over the morality of slavery.’
‘Wiseman was at the dinner? He told me he was not.’
Reyne
ll became flustered. ‘Did he? Perhaps I am mistaken, then. Yes! It must have been another evening, and not the day Webb died. I am always getting confused. Please ignore what I just said, and put it down to fatigue. I have been working my fingers to the bone in readiness for Saturday. You do believe, me, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ hedged Chaloner, supposing he had better tackle Wiseman himself, although it would not be a comfortable discussion – the surgeon would not take kindly to being called a liar.
The Anatomical Theatre was almost full, and the dissection was about to begin. The body to be anatomised lay naked except for a cloth across its face, and Reynell was telling porters where to put the ones that were to be used for comparative purposes. Wiseman was already looming over a podium, while Lisle stood ready to begin cutting on his command. Chaloner loitered in the doorway, watching the surgeons and their audience. He was startled to recognise Behn in the front row, sitting next to Johnson, who looked as though he was giving the merchant a lecture on the theatre’s architecture. Behn looked bored, and handed him something from a bag, clearly as a way to stem the tide of unwanted information. It was a pair of silver spoons.
Wiseman cleared his throat, and an expectant hush fell over the gathering. ‘Today, I shall share with you the mysteries of the bladder,’ he declared. ‘Master Lisle will make the first incision, revealing the distinct layers of the abdominal cavity.’
Chaloner winced as Lisle began to wield a sharp knife, making clean, practised cuts to reveal a layer of pale-yellow fat below the white skin. A film of connective tissue proved difficult to incise, and Lisle was obliged to exert more force. As he did so, the cloth fell away from the corpse’s face and Chaloner gazed in shock when he recognised the small, pinched features of Thomas Sarsfeild the confectioner. There was a red ring around his neck. Like Fanning, he had been strangled.
Chapter 10
There was something about the cool precision with which the surgeons treated the hapless Sarsfeild that disconcerted Chaloner. He had seen wounds and deaths aplenty, but it was not the same as watching a corpse methodically stripped of skin, muscles and whatever lay beneath, and he found he did not like it at all. He left abruptly, and when Reynell reminded him that he was expected at the Public Anatomy in two days’ time, Chaloner only just resisted the urge to tell him to go to Hell.
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 29