by James McGee
“Come now, Sawney, no need for the long face. The spontaneous nature of your offer showed initiative, not to mention a head for business, even if the gesture was, shall we say, misguided? On this occasion I’m disposed to overlook the matter. I trust, however, you’ll make restitution with your next delivery.”
Sawney wasn’t too sure what that meant exactly, but he nodded nonetheless because he did not want to appear slow-witted. He presumed that Dodd felt he had not fulfilled his side of the bargain. The silver cross was still burning a hole in his pocket and so far Dodd had nothing to show for it, save two unwanted cadavers that were rapidly going off.
“You want me to take ’em off your hands?” Sawney had asked. Might as well show willing, he thought, and maybe make a bit on the side by selling them to someone who wasn’t so fussy about their less-than-pristine condition.
Dodd, however, after contemplating the corpses at length, pursed his lips and said, “That will not be necessary, at least for the time being. While there is, as I have said, a substantial amount of deterioration, further examination may reveal one or two organs that are still suitable for harvest.”
Sawney wasn’t too sure what the doctor meant by “harvest”, so all he could do was look knowledgeable while confirming that he would honour the first part of their arrangement the following night. The next delivery, Sawney promised, would be far superior in quality. Dr Dodd could count on it.
“Oh, I’m sure I can,” Dodd said softly. “I know it would not occur to you to make the same mistake twice.”
Sawney had known exactly what the doctor meant that time. There was no mistaking the emphasis and, by its nature, the implication.
Which was why he was in the middle of a burial ground, freezing his rear end off, while trying to get his accomplice to keep the bloody light still.
Sawney stiffened. He’d almost missed it. Would have too, if Maggett hadn’t stopped buggering about. But there it was, plain as day, caught at the edge of the lantern beam. The snare.
By themselves, the acorns wouldn’t have looked out of place, three inconsequential little pods lying on top of the soil, no different to the thousands of others that lay scattered around the graveyard, as common as rabbit droppings. Except these ones were in a straight line, each of them two fingers’ width apart, an arm’s length from the small wooden cross that marked the head of the grave. Sawney knew it was two fingers and an arm’s length because he measured it out. Nice try, he thought, but some people never learnt.
It needn’t have been acorns; it could just as easily have been shells, a strategically placed stone, a couple of twigs, or perhaps a flower, placed on the grave in such a way as to detect if any interference had taken place. Many anxious relatives had adopted the practice of late.
An amateur might not have noticed, but Sawney, with his experience, had known what to look out for and he knew how to get around it.
Carefully, Sawney lifted the acorns from the soil with his fingertips, placed them in his pocket, and got to his feet. “All right, let’s do it. Sharply now, we ain’t got all bleedin’ night!”
Maggett set the lantern on the ground and immediately the two men standing beside him stepped forward. Both carried short-handled wooden shovels, the oval blades bearing closer resemblance to a paddle than a digging tool. From a sack across his shoulder, Maggett drew out a roll of canvas and laid it alongside the grave, at the same time removing from its inner folds some loose sacking and two butcher’s hooks.
Sawney, blowing on his hands in a vain attempt to generate warmth, took a look around. The burial ground was hemmed in on all sides; to the east by the church and to the north and south by the backs of houses. To the west was the rest of the graveyard, which was separated from the road beyond by a shoulder-high wall.
“Shift yourself, Maggsie,” Sawney hissed. “Let the dogs see the bleedin’ bone.”
Lemuel Ragg rested the shovel against his right knee and spat on his hands. His brother Samuel did the same. Then, trading knowing grins, they picked up their tools and began to transfer the soil from the grave to the canvas sheet.
The Ragg brothers were similar in looks and physique and had often been mistaken for twins, which they were not. Lemuel was the older by two years. Dark-haired and sallow-skinned, they were neither tall nor brawny, being both shorter and smaller in stature than Sawney, but what they lacked in height and breadth they made up for in raw cunning. Insult one Ragg boy and you insulted his brother by default; anyone foolish enough to do so risked dire, usually fatal, consequences.
The brothers worked fast. The undertaker had advised that the coffin was buried deeper than normal, supposedly as a deterrent to disinterment, which meant that there was, potentially, a larger than average amount of soil to remove. The Raggs, however, took this as a personal challenge, with the result that the excavation became a contest between them.
The grave had only been filled that morning and, despite the rime-glazed surface, the earth immediately below the topsoil was still loose and not yet compacted, which made the removal of the soil relatively easy.
The Raggs dug like men possessed. Shovels dipped. Earth flew. The hole deepened and the mound of soil on top of the canvas grew steadily higher. Occasionally, the edge of a shovel would strike a stone, but the wooden blade ensured the sound was no louder than a dull thud. It was the reason body stealers favoured wooden shovels over metal ones. Sawney checked his pocket watch by the lantern light. They’d been on site for ten minutes. They were making good progress.
The sound of wood striking wood came suddenly, accompanied by an excited hiss from Samuel, his shovel having been the one that had made contact. The brothers moved back. Sawney lifted the lantern and held it over the excavation, grunting with satisfaction when he saw that the head of the coffin had been exposed. He signalled to the waiting Maggett. Grabbing the sacking and the hooks, the big man stepped into the grave.
And from the darkness beyond the edge of the light came the sound of a low cough.
The men froze, then ducked down. Quick as a flash, Sawney blew out the lantern flame.
The sound came again, closer this time. The hairs on the back of Sawney’s neck prickled. He could feel his heart pounding like hoof beats inside his chest. He peered around him, but the mist had thickened into a solid layer a foot deep that hovered above the ground like cannon smoke, impenetrable to probing eyes.
Then, at the edge of Sawney’s field of vision, a shape appeared. It was low down, approaching quickly. Sawney’s hand eased towards the knife in his belt. Beside him, he sensed Lemuel Ragg reach inside his jacket, extract a six-inch length of tortoiseshell and, with practised ease, flick open the wafer-thin razor blade.
The fox padded past them with a vulpine look of disdain, silent as a wraith.
Sawney let out his breath. He relit the lantern using a tinderbox and a sulphur-dipped cord. “Well, don’t just sit there with your gob open, Maggsie,” he said. “Tick-tock.”
Maggett draped the loose sacking over the head of the coffin exposed by the digging. The rest of the coffin was still covered and weighted down by soil. Standing on the tail end, Maggett inserted the point of each hook beneath the sacking and under either side of the coffin lid. Then, gripping the T-bar of each hook, he heaved upwards. With Maggett’s bulk and the weight of the earth on the rest of the lid acting as a counter-weight, there could only be one outcome. The coffin lid snapped across. The sacking had been put down to deaden the sound of the breaking wood, but the noise still rang out like a distant pistol shot.
Sawney’s crew, however, did not pause. They were now racing against the clock.
Tossing the hooks aside, Maggett reached down, pulled back the splintered lid and grasped the corpse under the shoulders. Unfortunately, it didn’t want to come. Maggett’s shoulder muscles bulged. He tried again. He felt a sharp tug inside the coffin. The burial shroud was snagged. Maggett swore, put his back into it and pulled hard. This time his efforts were rewarded, accompanied by t
he sound of cloth tearing. The corpse came out of the coffin like a pale grey moth emerging from a pupal sac, with the remains of the shroud clinging to it like folded wings.
Maggett laid the corpse on the ground and, without pausing, removed what was left of the torn cloth and tossed it back into the open coffin. The four men stared down at the body. It was female and shapely, with dark, matted hair, skin ghostly pale against the dirt and grass.
“Nice tits,” Lemuel murmured appreciatively, his head on one side. “Wouldn’t ’ave minded giving her one.”
Samuel giggled. “Still time, Lemmy. You want us to wait?”
Lemuel grinned and cuffed his brother around the back of the head.
“Enough!” Sawney snapped. Gathering up the sacking from the top of the coffin, he tamped down the broken lid with his boots and climbed out of the grave. “Fill ’er in.”
The brothers picked up their shovels. Sawney collected the two hooks and wrapped them in the sacking, leaving Maggett to attend to the body.
Maggett knelt down and removed from his pocket three rolls of dirty bandage, two short and one long. His broad face betrayed no emotion as he concentrated on using one of the shorter rolls to bind the corpse’s ankles. He used the second short roll on the corpse’s wrists.
Maggett prodded the corpse, testing the consistency of the dead flesh. The smell coming off the body was like wet leaves. Death – the result of a convulsive attack, according to the undertaker – had taken place only the day before; long enough, Maggett knew, for rigor to have worn off, though with some corpses that could vary. Sometimes it passed off within ten hours, other times it took as long as two days.
Maggett grunted with satisfaction. This one wasn’t going to be a problem. He wouldn’t have to break any joints. Pinioning the bound wrists between the corpse’s knees, Maggett pressed the legs back towards the chest, trapping the arms. Taking the last strip of bandage, he tied it round the compressed legs and torso, cinching it tightly until the bound corpse resembled a plucked and trussed chicken. Then, after a quick check to make sure the knots were secure, he went and retrieved the sack. Stuffing the corpse inside it was easy.
Maggett finished tying off the sack at the same time as Lemuel Ragg shovelled the last heap of earth on to the top of the grave. Sawney removed the three acorns from his pocket and placed them in their original positions in the soil. Due to the digging, no frost remained on the top of the grave. The absence was noticeable compared to the rest of the terrain, but Sawney knew it wouldn’t take long for a new coating to form over the disturbed patch. Come the morning, it would all look the same. He gathered up the canvas sheet, mindful to shake the last granules of soil back on top of the grave. Then, placing the sacking containing the hooks within the canvas, he rolled the lot into a bundle and hoisted it on to his shoulder. He looked again at his watch. The removal had taken exactly sixteen minutes. He gave a satisfied grunt, looked at the others and nodded. “Let’s go.”
The four men left the gravesite and headed towards the church. Their footsteps made soft crunching sounds in the crisp frost.
They could hear the snoring from twenty paces away. There was a small, wooden hut nestling against the church’s wall. The reverberations were coming from inside.
“Hope that’s not Sal sleepin’ on the job,” Lemuel Ragg whispered.
Samuel let go a snort of laughter, quickly suppressed by the warning look on Sawney’s face.
“I heard that,” Sal said softly. She emerged from the open doorway, a shawl over her shoulders, and stuck out her tongue. “Cheeky sod.”
Sawney said nothing but looked past her into the hut. There wasn’t a great deal to see; a small, rough wooden table and an upturned keg for use as a chair. On the table sat a lantern, an earthenware jug and a grubby square of muslin, upon which rested a slab of sweaty cheese, a bruised apple and a hunk of dry bread. Seated on the keg, wedged against the wall, head tipped back, mouth open, was a beery-looking man with a pockmarked face, bushy side-whiskers and bad teeth. Sawney gazed down at the snoring man with contempt. The man’s breeches were open, he noticed. His eyes moved to the side. Resting against the wall, butt to the floor, was a rusting musket. Next to it was a small cudgel and a rattle. So much for the bloody watchman, he thought. He turned to Sal. “Give you any trouble?”
Sal shook her head. “Good as gold. Didn’t take long. The grog was enough. I didn’t even ’ave to show my titties.”
“Showed you ’is gun though, did ’e, Sal?” Peering over Sawney’s shoulder, Lemuel Ragg leered suggestively. “’Ave a big barrel, did it?”
“At least ’e’s got a gun, Lemmy,” Sal said, and winked.
Lemuel’s face flushed red. His jaw tightened. His brother sniggered.
Sawney looked at Sal and nodded towards the sleeping man’s lap and the unbuttoned trouser flap. “Been practising,’ ave we?”
“Don’t need the practice.” Sal ran her tongue along her teeth. “You should know. But I do like to keep my hand in.” She grinned wickedly.
Sawney felt his loins stir.
“Should I do ’im, Rufus?” Lemuel had the razor in his hand. His thumb played a silent tattoo along the side of the open blade.
Sawney shook his head. “Not this time. Let the bugger dream. He’ll wake up with ’is buttons open and he’ll remember Sal and think he had a really good night. He doesn’t know we’ve been here. No one does. Might as well keep it that way.”
“Spoilsport,” Ragg muttered, putting the blade away.
“Take this,” Sawney said, passing him the canvas roll. “Maggsie and I’ll deliver the goods. We’ll see you back at the Dog. And you –” he turned to Sal “– keep your bleedin’ ’ands to yourself.”
“Only ’til you get back,” Sal said, thrusting out her chest and pouting prettily.
Lemuel beckoned to his brother, who was taking a piss against the outside wall of the hut. Samuel shook himself dry, wiped his hands on his breeches and trotted over to join them. Sal blew Sawney a kiss and then headed off with the Raggs in the direction of Church Street and Seven Dials.
Sawney and Maggett watched them go. Maggett adjusted the sack on his shoulder, hawked up a gobbet of phlegm, and spat into the dirt. “Dunno why you let ’er talk to you like that, Rufus. It ain’t respectful.”
Sawney waited until Sal and the brothers had been swallowed up by the darkness then turned to Maggett and grinned. “’Cos she’s got the face of an angel and an arse like a peach, Maggsie. Now stop moanin’ like an old woman, we’ve still got an errand to run.” He nodded towards the sack. “An’ mind you don’t go dropping the merchandise. Our man’s paid good money for that, an’ from what I know of ’im so far, best not to keep him waiting.”
They didn’t have far to go. Which was just as well because two men walking in the dead of night, one of them with an oddly bulging sack over his shoulder, might have attracted some unwelcome attention. True, there were not many people on the streets and those that were about were more than likely involved in dubious activities of their own, but the last thing Sawney needed was a run-in with an enthusiastic member of the Watch or a constable hoping to make his mark in the annals of criminal detection. So they stayed in the shadows and by using the maze of side passages and alleyways that crisscrossed their route, they were able to arrive at their destination without incident.
Crouched beneath an archway, the two men waited. Everything looked quiet. Somewhere, out of sight, a dog barked. Instinctively, they shrank back. The commotion passed and peace resumed.
With its plain front door and peeling façade, the four-storeyed house didn’t look much different to the ones lining the rest of the grimy, rubbish-strewn street, save for one unusual feature. Maggett eased the sack off his shoulder and stared at the darkened building.
“Still don’t look like no school, Rufus,” he murmured.
Maggett had expressed the same thought the previous night when they’d delivered the first two cadavers. Sawney was inclined to agr
ee, but he saw nothing suspicious in a private anatomy school choosing not to advertise its purpose.
Although various alternatives had been tried, ranging from wax effigies to animals and papier-mâché models, there was no substitute for the dissection of real cadavers in the teaching of anatomy. Hospital schools could count on an almost constant supply, courtesy of former patients who’d died in their wards. Indeed, it was a widely held belief that most of the coffins consigned to the burial grounds of the capital’s hospitals were empty, their occupants having been diverted to the anatomists’ tables. The private schools, however, were forced to rely on the resurrection men to provide specimens for their dissection tables. And the last thing they wanted was for the neighbours to find out they were living next door to an establishment involved in the receipt, rendering and dismemberment of stolen corpses.
The drawbridge was interesting, though.
It was the one thing that set the house apart from the rest of the street. Suspended above a ramp to the right of the front door, it was slightly wider than a carriage width. Once lowered, it allowed access down the ramp to underground stabling. Raised, it denied entry, transforming the house into a small fortress. Cut into the drawbridge was a smaller door, through which pedestrians could gain entry to the subterranean coach house.
Sawney checked the building for signs of life. The wooden window shutters on the ground floor were all closed. He thought he’d seen a light earlier, through a gap in the curtains at one of the top-floor windows, but he couldn’t be sure. There was only one way to find out. Casting a wary glance around him, he tapped Maggett on the shoulder. The big man hefted the sack once more and followed Sawney across the street at a lumbering jog. There was a bell-pull set in the wall by the door. Sawney tugged it. Deep within the house, he heard a faint jangle.
Sawney had half-expected the drawbridge to be lowered, as it had been the night before when they’d had the cart, but it was the smaller, pedestrian door that opened. Dodd stood framed in the gap, a candle held high in his hand. He was dressed informally in an open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled above the elbow. His lower half was concealed behind what had, presumably, been a once-white apron but which was now stained dark. His intimidating gaze moved between them, taking in Maggett and the sack he was carrying. His eyes moved briefly to the unlit street beyond, before he stepped back to allow them to enter. There were no formalities, no greetings exchanged, as the door closed behind them.