Campbell doffed his hat. "Well, I'm grateful to the pair of you. Keep an eye out for me, lads. If I can return the favour sometime, I will."
"Well that's good to hear, but not necessary. Christian duty, and all that. Hard to see a hale old bird spending a night in a cell when there are other places she could be."
William snorted, drawing a curious glance from both officers.
"Don't mind him, sirs. Bounced his own noggin a time or two, I'll wager. Good night to you, officers."
They nodded, gave their thanks again, and turned back the way they had come. Bill looked up the steps. They were on the wrong side of the mount. "Up and over?"
William nodded, and they started back up the stairs. It was hard going with the woman, who almost certainly wasn't called Old Clare, hanging from them like a dead weight. They trooped up in silence. When the steps levelled off outside the Halfway House, he spoke. "I misspoke, Bill. About Nelly."
"Right enough, you did."
"I don't hold it against you. You flying at me. Want you to know that."
"We know where we stand, William. Not a bad thing. All to the good, you could say." He gazed with longing at the doors of the Halfway House as they passed. "Got myself a thirst, all over again."
"Whisky back at the house. We're stocked."
Bill sighed and nodded. "Drinks are on you this night, William."
"That's fair."
"Right then. Let's get this done."
Chapter 24
William Burke
Friday, August 1st, 1828
Bill stood by the entrance to the alley, a jar in each hand, and stared up at the sky. It would be close to midnight before it was dark, and even then it would not turn to pitch this time of the year. They were still in the long days, so different from the claustrophobic gloom of October, when Old Donald died and this had all begun. Less than a year gone, but he could hardly remember himself as the would-be cobbler who first came to Edinburgh on this very street, Wester Portsburgh, in a flood of livestock.
He hiccoughed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was drunk, but in control. He paced himself these days. The grog was a burning need in him, but one that he had reconciled to. It was his medicine, and facing his days without it was unthinkable. Nelly remained convinced that he was doing the Lord's work, and if only he could persuade himself of the truth of that then he could perhaps sleep easy without a bellyful of booze. Until then, he did what he must.
He had played with the idea while they were away. The bodies came back, every time, as revenants. Maybe they really were playing saviour to the innocents who might be killed by the creatures along the way. As tempting as it was to allow the fantasy, he knew there was no truth there. Their victims--so many now that he had lost count--were not revenants in waiting, not if he was right. It was William, the man he had seen spit into a sleeping woman's mouth before they 'burked' her. William put something in them. He didn't even try to deny it. Somehow, William wasn't human anymore. He was a demon.
For all his suspicion, he wanted to be beyond doubt. It had to be tested, and there was only one way to do that. He took a deep breath, and stepped into the alley.
He and Nelly had moved out of the lodging house just days after he and William had come to blows in Fleshmarket Close. Nelly was confused, but far from upset. She had long since tired of the Hares and their company, and finally taking their own place assured her somehow that they were on the right path. Although Bill thought William's promise not to touch Nelly was sincere, he didn't trust Maggie. She was a vile influence on a vile man, and while she might not challenge her husband (he was sure she lived in abject fear of him, for all of her devotion), she could whisper. She'd whispered while they were away in Falkirk, and set William's mind to wandering. There was no other explanation. On his own, William was content as long as the shots kept coming. As long as he could play with his gift.
There was the nub of it again. The weird power they both thought he possessed. God help him, he had to be sure.
Halfway down the alley there was an opening in the tenement wall alongside him, and steps both up and down. Ignoring the upwards route, he took the two steps down into gloom and a narrow passage. He made his way along, past Anne Conway's door, and then stepped through a second door on his right into a narrower corridor still. Fifteen paces on and he was at the door to his own house. He almost walked straight in, but stopped himself with a finger on the handle. He could be wrong. There was still the possibility.
Holding his breath, as though that would make a distance, he pressed his ear to the damp wood of the door. There was nothing to hear but his own erratic pulse. All was still. Just to be certain, he eased the door open and peeked, reassuring himself before stepping in. It was exactly what he expected.
Their single room was luxuriously big after the closet space they had shared at Tanner's Close. On the right was the fireplace, some stools and a rug, and the window to an unused courtyard out back. At night, they pinned a sheet over the window for privacy, though they had never seen anybody out there. The sheet was up now, and a lantern burned on the floor by the fireplace. On the left of the door was their bed.
The whore was as he had left her. She was naked, her skirts and blouse shucked off in a drunken stupor before she had crawled onto the bed and assumed the position. Buttocks up, face down, ready for action. Bill had crawled up behind her, fully dressed, and was not surprised to find her unconscious. She had been all but senseless with drink when he had led her home, and a few cups more had finished the job. He'd pulled her to him and squeezed long and hard. She gave no resistance whatsoever and was suffocated soon enough.
The whisky he had plied her with was the last of a jar he had been drinking at home. William had never touched it. If she turned revenant, then they were both wrong about the things William could do.
The turning was never a precise event. For reasons he would never know, some came back fast and others slow. None had taken as long as Old Donald, the first body they sold, and most were up and about again just a few hours later.
He closed the door behind him and locked it. Nelly had been warned away, and was staying with a distant cousin in Leith. Her unshakeable delusion at least made it easier to clear her out when business needed to be done. She went happily, fretting over his safety like an old wife. William was the worry. If his partner wanted to visit then he wouldn't stand politely outside knocking. He'd just walk in. That would lead to explanations he did not want to give. At the very least, William would assume Bill was moonlighting, cutting him out of the action. That alone might be a stabbing offence. He didn't think it would take much, to earn a stabbing. He wasn't the only one with an eye on the inevitable end of their partnership.
Drawing up a stool, he planted himself by the cold fireplace, his back against the wall, and took off his battered stovepipe hat. He played with his hair for a moment (he had taken to brushing it across his head to conceal a small bald spot Nelly had warned him of) and unstoppered his jar. It was going to be a long night. He had considered locking the body in and paying a visit to William, finding some excuse to doss down in one of their empty beds. The beds were always empty at Tanner's Close these days, and when a lodger did find them, he was almost always destined for the doctor.
Common sense prevailed. If the body did turn, it might make a racket as it battered about the place. With the Conways just a wall away, that would be too much attention drawn. Better to keep an eye on it.
He considered binding its hands and feet, but such was his certainty that he spared himself the effort. He could gaze over her naked body from where he was, keep her in view. Look but don't touch, no harm in that. Her buttocks were a glory, and if he were a single man he might have put them to some use before getting the real business done. She had been willing enough. Peggy, her name was. Peggy Haldane. She'd spent a night on his knee once at The Last Drop, waiting for the pub to close and the night trade to really begin, drinking and laughing. Everyone knew Peg
gy. When he had invited her back she had giggled and asked what had taken him so long. At the house, while she could still talk some sense, she had spoken of her mother. The old woman had been living rough not too long ago, and had been a common sight around the Grassmarket where she would spit at passersby and swear unintelligibly.
Nobody had seen her for months, Peggy said. She had vanished.
Bill wasn't so certain. Among the faces in his shattered memory there was an old woman who he and William had all but fallen over in the stable at Tanner's Close. She had crawled in one April night and dozed off in the straw. She had a long face, not unlike Peggy.
Whatever grief the whore felt for her missing mother, Bill had extinguished it along with everything else. It was a loose end, one that fate had given him opportunity to tie off. They had taken the old thing months ago, and only her daughter wondered where she might have gone. At least Peggy would be missed. Everybody liked Peggy.
Bill did not mind that Peggy would be asked after. That was acceptable. It would all be over soon. Hidden beneath a board in the corner there were a few pounds in a tied leather purse. He'd build on that, until it was enough. Just enough.
How many victims now, with the whore added to the tally? It was impossible to be sure. Too many had vanished into the whisky smog, becoming faces in nightmares, though he must have known their names at some point. He always asked their names. If he closed his eyes he could flick through those nightmare faces, unreliable testament though they were, like a pack of playing cards. He didn't like to do that.
He shook his head, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. It would be madness to doze until he was sure Peggy was staying down. He remembered wrestling Old Donald off William back at Tanner's Close, and the insane strength the old man demonstrated. It made his stomach turn, remembering how close they had come, how deep and savage William's wound was. Donald was the only one he thought had turned revenant without William's help. Perhaps there was something in that. Donald bit William, and now William could ...
He stared at Peggy's body, sure for a moment that it had twitched. Nothing more happened, and he decided it was a trick of light and shadow. Revenants were brainless things, less than beasts. Although they had a wild power, they relied on fear to freeze their prey long enough to bring it to bear. Bill had grappled with enough of them now, as he bundled them into crates or barrels, to have lost that fear. He'd come to know them, a little. If the body on the bed was going to pounce, it wouldn't wait or play cunning games. It wasn't capable of that. Peggy Haldane was still dead.
He got up, stretched, swigged again at the jar, and began to pace from the bed to the window and back. It was good to have enough space to pace.
He tried to work out how many more bodies he needed. Ten, maybe. Fifteen and no more. Peggy was about to show him once and for all that he was no warrior for God, and that meant there was no escape from the things he had done. Ten so far, he thought, if you didn't count Donald. Or was it thirteen?
With his soul damned there was only his time left on this Earth to worry himself about. There was little hope of salvation, not with so much horror to his name. He had considered his options while in Falkirk. It was a smaller city than Edinburgh, more a big town really, and without William Hare guiding him along like some sort of drunk-herder he had breathed properly for the first time in months. The old dream was dead, he realised. There wasn't going to be a shop front of his own. He had done too much damage. What mattered now was that he owned his deeds, and tried to make the ending of his reign of terror something of value. Not to balance the scales, for it was too late for that. Just to be able to face himself in the looking glass again.
All he had to his credit was Nelly, and it was for her sake that he would go on with the foul business for just a little bit longer. Had he been putting money aside, instead of just drinking it away, he would already be able to make an end to things. Backing out wasn't the way to do it, for William was bright enough to know that he could not allow Bill and Nelly to walk away with all they knew. If their scrap had gone a different way, if the watchmen hadn't been in the right place at the right moment, Bill did not think he would have survived that evening. No, there was to be no bowing out. They were each in it to the end.
What would that end be? There, at last, Bill had found something he could have influence over. He would have to be careful, working beyond the edges of what William was built to notice. No direct action. Direct action was William's line, and he was too much the master of it. If Bill tried something and failed, the consequences for Nelly would be unspeakable. If Bill wasn't where he was expected to be, and up to his bloody red wrists in murder, then Nelly would find herself made ravenous and packed into a box for the doctors.
His fist clenched at the thought.
On the bed, Peggy Haldane was still dead.
He sat again, swigged, and rested his head back against the wall.
The end would be soon. All the more need to up the body count and fill that space under the floorboards to bursting with coin.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them and realised it was light outside, he started. The stool bucked under him, pitching him onto his backside. The shock jarred up his spine, pounding on aches and pains still present after his long fall down Fleshmarket Close, but he scrabbled to his feet in panic and checked the bed.
Peggy Haldane was still dead.
He slapped his forehead at his own idiocy. "Dunce," he said to himself. "Addle-headed fool." If he had been wrong then he would be dead or dying now.
But she was dead. A true corpse. He dragged over the tea chest from the corner of the room. He'd wager they'd still be pleased to see her up at the medical school. The price would be down, but with no need to split the sum with Hare he would end up with more than usual. More for the boards. He had to fill the space beneath the boards.
"Are you still dead, Peggy Haldane?" He asked the corpse, prodding her with a toe to be sure.
Peggy Haldane was still dead, though she didn't say so.
"Then you won't mind biding here a time while I go and find Davey Paterson. He's just a street or two over, don't fret. Then it's a trip for you, girl. A trip to the doctor's. I'll make you comfy before I wander off though. Come here with you."
Bill got to work packing.
Chapter 25
Helen M'Dougal
Wednesday, September 17th, 1828
"They're not married you know," Ann shrieked to the room. "They're not married!" Ann fell to giggling, as though she had told the world's most wildly amusing joke. She almost tipped her stool, but caught herself in time.
Nelly gave a brittle smile. Nobody in The White Hart was paying any attention to the five of them, packed around their little table in the corner. Still, Ann was a guest. Courtesy cost nothing. "God hasn't objected yet," she said, trying not to show her irritation. God had gone much further to reward her faith than she could ever have dreamed, but that wasn't something she could admit to out loud. She looked across at Bill, hoping for a glance to acknowledge that they were thinking the same thing, but he was deep in conversation with William. Whatever the mean little troll was whispering, Bill was shaking his head, vehement.
They had bumped into Ann and her husband while they were in Falkirk. The woman was linked to bad memories, being a cousin of her first husband. That was long ago, and her life had moved so far from those dark days as to be unrecognisable. Ann had been kind enough not to mention the man who had once made all of their lives a daily hell, and Nelly wasn't one to tar somebody for the actions of another. At some point they had invited the couple to visit with them in Edinburgh if they ever happened to be coming that way. Neither she nor Bill had meant the offer to be taken up. It was just one of those things you said to be courteous.
Ann had not taken it that way. A few hours earlier she had knocked on the door at Tanner's Close with a bag in hand, not knowing that she and Bill had moved to their own place since the invitation was made. There
was no sign of her husband, and the purpled bruise around the woman's eye hinted at the reason for his absence. Ann had not offered any explanation, and neither she nor Bill had thought to ask.
The Hares had taken it upon themselves to walk Ann round to their new house, and invited themselves in while explanations were made. She could tell Bill was just as unhappy to have a guest foisted upon him as she was, perhaps more so given the impact it would have on his work. That the great task he had undertaken must necessarily be conducted in the shadows was something she had accustomed herself to. Man's laws must be put aside in order to action the Lord's, but explaining that to the authorities would be no mean feat. With a temporary lodger, and she wondered how temporary it really would be if her suspicions about that black eye were true, Bill's options were limited. Though he could still do the things he must at the Hares, his odd hours would surely be noticed, and might be recalled if it came to it.
The Hart was as busy as ever, and people's backsides were crammed up against the edge of their table. It was William who had suggested that they should all head out to celebrate Ann's first night in the city, but he hardly seemed in a celebratory mood even by his own meagre standards. He kept looking at Ann and whispering to Bill, who shook his head and ...
No. It couldn't be. She looked at their guest. She was giggling at Maggie, who was singing a crude song as she banged her empty cup on the table. A timid woman made loud by whisky and raucous company. She did not seem as though she could have a secret face.
Bill slumped, and nodded. "Busy in here," he shouted over the booming laughter of the labourers who had squeezed them in. "What say we take this back to yours, Maggie?"
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