Eve Silver (25 page)

The resurrectionists had returned.

Chapter Thirteen

A chill curled icy tendrils around Darcie’s heart as she wondered what business the resurrectionists had here on this grave night. Hidden by the voluptuous folds of the velvet drapery, she watched, unseen by those on the street. Reaching into the cart, the two men hefted the familiar trunk and lowered it to the ground. They looked up and down the street as though to confirm their solitude. Apparently satisfied, they lifted the trunk between them and proceeded from her line of sight at a slow and unsteady pace, their progress hampered by the heavy bulk of the chest, which caused them to stagger this way and that. Or perhaps their gait reflected drunkenness. She could not discount the possibility.

Darcie whirled away from the window, her thoughts a maelstrom of confusion. She could not help but wonder if the appearance of those men on this night was some portent of doom, a harbinger of tragedy. She froze, unsure if she should follow, perhaps even confront them and demand to see the contents of that chest. The thought of facing down the two unsavory characters, alone, in the dead of night, brought a twisting knot of panic to her belly.

“Dr. Grammercy,” she whispered urgently, then spoke more loudly when there came no reply. “Dr. Grammercy.”

He groaned and shifted to one side, but did not awaken.

She moved to stand beside him, intending to shake him awake. But she had no proof that there was anything sinister in that trunk. Plagued by indecision, she hesitated.

She shivered as another possibility begged consideration. It was common knowledge that anatomists regularly paid good coin for fresh cadavers, but that did not make the process acceptable. If there
was
something to fear in that trunk, something that implicated Damien, did she want Dr. Grammercy to bear witness to whatever she might find?

Determined to seek out the answer to at least one question this night, Darcie marched resolutely toward the door.

Heart pounding, she crept through the darkened house. The sound of a board creaking overhead stopped her in her tracks. She froze, waiting, wondering at the madness that had taken hold of her, for surely it was madness to follow those men to the carriage house. She knew it with certainty, yet was unable to choose a different path. She felt an inescapable compulsion to learn the contents of that trunk, a burning need to solve the riddle at hand, to be in control of one small factor in her life.

A moment passed and she heard no further sound. Darcie continued on her way, hastening on silent feet to the servants’ entrance. Carefully, she slid the bolt and let herself out. Up the narrow flight of stairs she went, to the wrought iron gate that led to the road. It groaned eerily as she pushed it open.

 Every sense alert lest the two men return unannounced, Darcie stole toward the cart. Peering over the wooden slats that formed the sidewall, she saw the gouged and uneven boards that served as the floor of the cart. The boards bore a large irregular stain, darkened to a deep russet brown. Then the smell hit her full force, damp rot, and the distinctive sweetly rank odor of old blood. Revulsion rose in her throat, and she gagged.

Whirling away, she pressed the back of her hand to her lips as she struggled to overcome the dizzying nausea that threatened her self-control. A hideous image of rivulets of blood, glistening and slick, leaking from the bottom of the chest to stain the floor of the cart filled her mind.

Here was her evidence, then, but it was not enough. She needed to see with her own eyes the contents of that chest, for her instinct whispered that it had some important secret to tell, though whether for good or for ill she could not be certain.

Gathering herself, she walked woodenly to the side of the house and along the drive. The moon was a bright, flat disc against the backdrop of endless night. Darcie surveyed the shifting shadows as she crept forward, ever watchful. She much preferred to come upon the two resurrectionists, rather than have them leap out at her unannounced.

A part of her wanted to flee, to run back to the safety of the parlor. She touched her scar, memories of the past rearing up, threatening the thin thread of her composure. On the night of Steppy’s death, she had fled the clutches of two unsavory men, barely escaping with her life. Why then was she seeking out this peril, choosing to pursue these rough and frightening characters?

It was sheer lunacy to confront them. And it was madness to let the opportunity pass. A conundrum.

The need to learn the truth twisted like a live thing inside of her. Darcie stiffened her resolve. Hugging the shadows, she crept forward. As she reached the far end of the wall, she drew up short. Directly in front of her were the resurrectionists, sitting close together on the top of the trunk at the foot of the carriage house stairs. Even as she saw them, they looked up in unison and saw her. Their faces mirrored their surprise.

The tall man sat gawping at her while his stout companion leaped to his feet.

Fear surged. He would be upon her in seconds.
Run, girl, run.
Steppy’s warning from a lifetime ago. Darcie let out a choked cry and stumbled back, losing her footing. Her arms flailing, she struggled to right herself.

A rough hand grasped her upper arm, holding her upright. Blind panic clawed its way to the fore. Struggling to pull free, she kicked back at the man who held her, her heel connecting with some part of his lower limb.

“Gor! What you go and do that for?” The short man let go his hold and hopped about on one foot.

Darcie staggered backward, her breasts heaving with exertion and fear. She did not scream, for her time on the streets of Whitechapel had taught her that a cry for help might bring a worse fate upon her, drawing the attention of an accomplice rather than a rescuer. She had learned to fend for herself and she was prepared to hit low and hard.

“Ye flippin’ mad, Robbie?” the second man barked. “Get yer mawleys off her!”

“They’re off, Jack. You can see I’m not holding her no more. I was only tryin’ to stop her fall.”

The temptation to flee was nearly overwhelming, but Darcie held her ground, for she yet to find the answers she sought. And the man’s words gave her pause. He had been trying to stop her fall? Why come to her aid if he meant to harm her?

“What do you want here?” she demanded in what she hoped was a stern and forbidding manner. “I shall call the constable if you do not state your business at once.”

“Here now, Robbie. Looks as though the doctor got himself a
trouble and strife.
”

“Naw, Jack. He ain’t married. You know it.”

Darcie shook her head as she recognized the rhyming street cant often heard in Whitechapel.
Trouble and strife
was a slang term for wife. She looked from one to the other, the feeling of menace dissipating somewhat as they made no move to approach her.

“State your business,” she repeated.

“We got the swag an’ Dr. Cole always pays us ready gilt,” said the one called Jack, punctuating his statement with a brisk nod of his head.

Darcie turned to the shorter man, Robbie, hoping for a translation. From the way he was eyeing her warily, she had the distinct impression that he was as mistrustful of her as she was of him. The thought was somewhat heartening.

Snatching off his hat and twisting it nervously in his hands, Robbie bobbed his head at Darcie. “We brought our weekly delivery. The doctor always pays cash money.”

“You come here every week?” She wondered how she could have been unaware of a fresh cadaver being delivered each week. Where on earth had Damien been keeping all those bodies? The only human organ she had seen was the heart that Dr. Grammercy had given to Damien.

“Every week, like clockwork,” Robbie assured her proudly. Then his face fell. “Though lately, he hasn’t seemed to have as much need for us. I’m wondering if he’s using someone else.”

“We do a slap job,” Jack piped up eagerly.

A slap job of what? she wondered. Grave-robbing, or something more sinister? Darcie shot him a sidelong glance. He stood with one foot resting on the large trunk. She winced at the casual pose. It was as though he was resting his foot on a coffin.

“Is it in there?” She gestured in the direction of the trunk, a mixture of fear and revulsion coiling within her.

“Right enough, it is.” Jack grinned, revealing several dark gaps where his teeth had once been.

Darcie realized he was older than she had originally thought. The man looked to be positively ancient. Her fear cooled to a low simmer.

“The doctor is unavailable to meet with you gentlemen right now,” she said stiffly. “Perhaps you could return another time.”

“No troubles. We’ll just carry it up the
apples and pears,
and come back for the ready another time.”

“Apples and pears?” Darcie echoed, mystified.

“The stairs. We’ll just carry it up the stairs,” Robbie clarified, “and the doctor can pay us next time.”

Darcie couldn’t imagine unloading the body from the trunk and leaving it unattended in Damien’s laboratory. She had no idea if he carried out some special preparation on it, or even how long it could be kept. No, this wouldn’t do at all.

“The laboratory is locked and I have no key.” She shook her head, imagining the two of them hauling the body away and leaving it in the trunk until Damien’s return. The thought was ghastly. “Perhaps you could take it elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere?” Jack parroted, looking confused.

Robbie rubbed his palm along his grizzled chin. His expression brightened. “We could leave it in the kitchen.”

“Ugh!” A startled cry escaped her. “
This
kitchen? I think not!”

“Why not? It’s clean.” Jack gestured toward the trunk.

“You wash it?” Darcie asked incredulously, feeling as though she had stumbled into a strange dream. These two men wanted to leave a freshly washed cadaver in the kitchen. She pressed the back of her hand to her lips, trying to make sense of it all.

“Well, that’s the point, ain’t it?” Robbie cackled, a hoarse rasping sound that made Darcie nervous.

“What point?” This conversation was as slippery as an eel wriggling from her grasp. She held up her hand, putting a halt to the flow of words. “Wait. Please. Explain why you wash the body.”

Robbie and Jack looked at each other strangely. “What body?”

“The body in the trunk.”

“She’s a bit tetched in the head,” Robbie said sagely, tapping his temple with his forefinger.

“Like my Aunt Gertie,” Jack replied.

“We don’t wash no body. We wash the linens from Dr. Cole’s laboratory and from the surgery in Whitechapel. Or, at least, my wife washes ‘em. And then we bring ‘em back. Dr. Cole says that the last time he gave the bloody linen to the maid, she fainted. We been taking it away for nigh on two years now. Don’t know where he sends the linens from his surgery here. Wouldn’t mind if he gave us that too.” Robbie leaned closer and lowered his voice as though imparting some great confidence. “Tell you the truth, we can use the blunt. I’ve got nine grandchildren now, and I like to help out when I can.”

He wasn’t delivering bodies. He was delivering linen to support his grandchildren. Darcie felt her sense of reality shift and tilt.

Jack gestured to the trunk. “So can we leave ‘em in the kitchen?”

“No!” Darcie cried.

Jack looked disappointed, but Robbie shrugged fatalistically. “Right, then. We’ll be back next week. Tell Dr. Cole that he’ll have to make do with the linens he has. Come on, Jack.”

The two men hefted the trunk between them and staggered toward the front of the house.

“Wait, please.” Darcie hurried after them. She could not simply accept their word at face value. “I want to see what is in that trunk.”

“Right, then,” Robbie said. “Put it down, Jack.”

They set the chest on the ground and flipped open the lid. Darcie stared at the stack of folded linens. Slowly she leaned forward and touched the top of the pile. Her mind circled around the possibilities. Was a chest of linens truly heavy enough to make two men stagger about so, even two men clearly past their prime?

“What else is in here?” she demanded.

Robbie shrugged. “Man’s got to make a living. We do a bit of delivery work for a particular gent.” He winked. “French brandy that ain’t exactly legal. Don’t like to leave it unattended in the cart, so we carry it with us till our next stop.”

“I see.” Darcie took a moment to assimilate that information. “Does Dr. Cole purchase your brandy?”

Jack sent Robbie a sly look. “A man’s got to have his secrets.”

The two men lifted the chest once more and moved haltingly toward the cart. Darcie followed.

“Your cart,” she said, watching as they loaded the trunk in back. “It bears the distinct smell of blood.”

“That it does,” Robbie said jovially. “During the day we do deliveries for the butcher. We tried lye and salt and even vinegar. But it still smells of the slaughterhouse.” He peered at her hopefully. “Don’t suppose you know a remedy?”

Darcie shook her head mutely.

He shrugged, and raised a hand in a farewell salute. “Well, good-bye.”

Darcie stood on the street long after they had disappeared, pondering the astonishing fact that the two men she had long-assumed to be resurrectionists were nothing more than a laundry deliverymen.

Rather than damning evidence that proved that Damien paid coin for fresh bodies ripped from the grave, she had found only proof of his kindness. He hired those men and paid them for a job he could easily have instructed the laundry maid to do.

After making her way back to the gate that led to the servant’s entrance, Darcie paused, her hand resting on the railing. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and rose. Nervously, she glanced over her shoulder, but only shadows greeted her. The street was deserted. Still, she could not ignore the feeling that she was no longer alone.

She shuddered, acutely conscious of the fact that she had been painfully foolish to chase Robbie and Jack out into the night. They could have proven to be dangerous, violent thugs. Glancing about once more, she saw no one about, but the feeling that she was being watched did not resolve. The sensation was chilling, and she recalled the long-ago night when she had hurried through the back alleys of the East End, and hidden in a shadowed niche from a black-cloaked figure.