Sawbones (7 page)

“Or maybe looking for something.” Jos smiled. “Last night’s dinner?”

“So it was you, Jos! Mr Lashley keeping you hungry, is he?”

“Your wit wants a deal of sharpening, Ez!” Jos fetched a bonesaw. “Oh, and Mr Lashley never opened his chest,” Josiah said, “so he won’t mind if I do it now and save him the trouble.”

Mr Finch had been tall, six foot, Ezra guessed, although once a man was dead you never could tell how he had stood when living: stooped, hunched or proud and tall. He was broad, too, and not too far past his prime; Ezra guessed his age at forty. But his heart – or rather the poor, shrivelled thing that sat inside him – looked incapable of pumping blood around a man half his size. The two boys stared hard.

“Heaven’s name! That is unnatural and no mistake!” Josiah said, shaking his head and whistling low. “I’ve never seen the like…”

“Nor me,” Ezra agreed, looking closer. “Never in all my born days!”

Mrs Gurney’s Lodging House
Clerkenwell Green
London
November 1792

E
zra promised Josiah a drink and a fish supper in return for what remained of Mr Charles Finch. Then he took the wizened little heart away in one of Mr Lashley’s specimen jars and put it into his cloth shoulder bag. Perhaps, he thought as he passed the shining white new museum in Bloomsbury, the condition had affected him for years; perhaps whatever had caused the damage was an illness. Or perhaps it was something else, something as yet undiscovered. Mr McAdam would be most interested to see this heart. All arguments would be forgotten, Ezra was certain.

He called in at an undertaker’s and arranged for Mr Finch’s body to be taken in a sealed coffin to Loveday’s address. Her father would be delivered into the bosom of his family and she would have her funeral. He felt so pleased with himself at the outcome that he went to call on her straight away. She was bound to be glad he had made such progress, and perhaps even forward a half of the two guineas she had promised.

Miss Finch’s lodgings were at Clerkenwell Green, just on the northern edge of the city, in a terrace, some of the houses so old they leant against one another like happy drunks. Ezra wondered if a girl who lived here could afford the two guineas she had promised him or if it were all some wild goose chase. It must be a strange life, he thought to himself, being a performer, a conjuror – moving from town to town, seeing the world but owing one’s existence to pretence and artifice rather than flesh and blood.

There were a couple of newer houses in the row, and he was relieved to find that Number 52 was one of these, not entirely blackened by grime, and with fine oblong windows in the modern style. He looked up, and in the first-floor window he could see Miss Finch staring out. When she saw him she smiled, her sharp features softening. Ezra waved up at her, and saw the winter sunlight glance off what must be a blade in her hand: a rapier or duelling sword. She swished it to and fro and looked as if she could do real damage with the weapon. Ezra decided it would not be to his advantage to mention what he carried in his bag – the only blades he was any use with were the surgeons’ variety.

The woman who answered the door was dressed in pale grey rather than mourning black, hair scraped back under a starched white bonnet. The landlady, Ezra decided, rather than family. Her expression was as sour as a bowl full of lemons.

“I am Mrs Gurney.” She looked Ezra up and down most thoroughly. “And you, I assume, are Ezra McAdam. Miss Finch told me to expect you. Although I do not think it at all right a young lady should admit callers unchaperoned.” Her voice was clipped and cold.

Loveday Finch stood at the top of the stairs, leaning on the banister rail. “Send him up, please, Mrs Gurney,” she called down. “This is none but my own business.”

The landlady pursed her lips and stood back. “I will say nothing, then,” she answered tightly. “Though I do not like foreigners in my house.” And with that she swished away down the basement stairs. Ezra would have liked to tell her he was hardly foreign, having lived more than two-thirds of his life in this city, but he knew there was little point.

“Take no notice,” Loveday Finch said as she led him into the drawing room. Although she wore mourning, Ezra thought she looked more determined than grieving.

“Your leg is healing?” he asked.

“But not my heart, Mr McAdam. I thought you might send word earlier. I have been waiting.”

“It’s not yet noon, Miss Finch.” Ezra was about to tell her the good news but found himself staring at the acid yellow walls of the drawing room.

“Mrs Gurney is fond of bright colours. I do not think a shade like this exists in nature.” Loveday laughed. “I know she is severe but she has been good to us – to me,” she said. “How is your blade hand? I have been practising. I have had nothing to do but think of ways I could have stopped Pa dying. I should have helped him! Done something, surely…” She swished her blade determinedly. Ezra could see she was about to cry. She was an odd girl, he thought: brave and bold on the surface but all tears and strange fancies underneath.

“Miss Finch, please, do not worry so. I have found your father and he will be delivered to you tomorrow. You may proceed with the funeral.”

“Oh! Thank heavens.” Her face relaxed.

“And you should not be on your feet. Your wound needs to heal.” He could see the furniture had been pushed to either side of the room, leaving a considerable clear space in the centre – for her sword practice, Ezra supposed.

“Such welcome news! Mr McAdam, if I offended you last night, forgive me. Oh, Pa is coming home!” She swished the sword again. “I will have to see the rector at St James’s and write to Pa’s friends.” She wiped her face and smiled.

“Here.” She offered him a blade. “I think better when I am doing something.”

Ezra’s hands tightened on his bag; he was loath to put it down just so that Loveday might swing a sword at him. She noticed his hesitation and tapped it with her blade. “What have you in there that you guard it so closely, the crown jewels?”

“I didn’t come here to learn fencing, Miss,” Ezra replied stiffly. “I have been working for you, earning my fee, which I hope you can pay.”

Loveday blanched. For a moment, against the black mourning and the yellow walls, her skin looked so pale as to be almost green, and Ezra regretted the mention of money.

“Excuse me, Miss Finch. I ought not to have spoken so. Please sit down.”

“No, I am quite well. You will have your money, but you may have to wait until his accounts are clear.” She straightened. “Now, a little sport.” She swished her blade and almost keeled over. Ezra steered her towards a seat.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I cannot stand this! Pa always said each of us must make our own future. Now it seems as if I am waiting for the future to decide what it will do with me. You will have to forgive me if I am not used to it.”

She was so pale that Ezra took her hand and felt her pulse, which was racing under the skin at her wrist. She pulled away.

“Miss Finch, I am not some Sunday suitor, I am a doctor.” Ezra pulled her hand back. “You need to rest. It is imperative.”

“But I cannot! I think of nothing but Pa, I swear something happened to him – his death came from the blue. He was quite well; quite healthy. Have you discovered what caused his death? Did those men dispatch him?”

Ezra hesitated for a second. He couldn’t tell her about the heart.

“You think something is fishy about this too, don’t you?”

“Miss Finch, I cannot say…”

“You do! It is written all over your face that you think his death unnatural! You forget I was the Spirit of Truth and can read your thoughts right off your face. I should find those ressurectionists and they should swing for my father. Tell me their names!”

“Miss Finch, stealing a corpse is not an actual crime.”

“Is that the law?” Loveday said, surprised.

Ezra nodded. “And in any case, I have reason to believe it was not resurrectionists who took your father’s body from Bart’s.”

“Who, then?” She made a face. “How did he die?”

“I only saw the cadaver briefly,” he told her. “I could not tell how he died.”

Miss Finch almost gasped. “You saw him! How did he look? Peaceful?”

Ezra looked away in case she really could read his mind. “He was dead, Miss. All the dead are peaceful. I have many questions to ask.”

“Then ask.”

Ezra put the bag on his lap and took out his notebook carefully. “Your father’s heart. Did he complain of pains? Could he walk from here to, say, Covent Garden, without pain?”

“Of course. He never complained of any pain. Ever.”

“You are sure?”

She nodded. “Certainly.”

“Then could you please tell me the events that preceded his death.”

“I told you, he was quite well…”

Ezra shook his head. “No, I need details. I need everything from the day before, from when you first thought he might be ill—”

“You
do
think he was murdered, don’t you!”

“Perhaps, Miss Finch – I cannot commit to an opinion quite yet.”

“Very well. Although nothing happened out of the ordinary. Nothing at all. And how far back should I go? The performance on Monday night? Mrs Gurney’s inexcusable fish paste sandwiches that afternoon? Our return from Constantinople barely a fortnight ago?”

“You were in Turkey recently?” Ezra said, surprised.

“Yes, we travel all about.”

“The sandwiches, then – what was wrong with them? Did you eat them too?”

“Of course. I was hungry. They were awful, though. Mrs Gurney keeps a clean house, but her cook!” Loveday looked at Ezra. “Do you think Pa was—”

“I am endeavouring to keep an open mind,” he cut in. “Now, Miss Finch, the facts!”

“We had tea, sandwiches and seed cake and then took a cab to St James’s Square. It was a private performance at the offices of the Ottoman ambassador, Ali Pasha. You should see the size of the place! I swear only Devonshire House is larger.”

Ezra wrote it all down.

“The performance was a success. I didn’t see much of Pa afterwards, as he was talking to Mr Falcon and the envoy in the reception room. I was engaged in packing up our props. When I think of it now, Pa was already quite pale when we got in the cab to go home. I thought he was tired.”

“And the vomiting began then?” Ezra prompted.

“Yes. He swore blind he was simply tired. He said he’d eaten too many of those pastries – baklava, they’re called. We ate them in Constantinople all the time. Pa loved them. Pistachio nuts and honey.”

“Pistachio nuts,” Ezra said thoughtfully. “Are those the green ones? Did you eat any?”

“They had all gone by the time I came out of the dressing room.” She gasped. “Was it the baklava?”

“I can’t know yet. Please, tell me what happened next.”

“We arrived home after midnight and Pa needed a bucket because of the sickness. I woke Mrs Gurney, who wasn’t pleased. I fetched him some water from the kitchen and he told me to go to bed, said he would be all right.” She sighed.

“And in the morning?”

“We often woke late, but when Pa wasn’t up by ten I knocked on his door…” Her voice trailed off. “That was when I took him to hospital.”

“What was his condition, exactly?” Ezra asked. “Skin tone? Eyes, were they clear? Any difficulty breathing?”

“He was my father, not some kind of specimen!” Loveday Finch’s voice was cracking. She looked at Ezra. “He was ill – very, very ill.”

“I am sorry, Miss Finch, I need to know.”

She said nothing, but stared out of the window for a long time. The sound of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to cut the silence into bars.

“I suppose you do,” she said after a long while. “Do you think it might have been the Turkish pastries?”

“Is there anyone at the Ottoman Embassy…?”

“Not at all. They love Falcon and Finch. In Constantinople we are favourites in the palace, especially with the ladies of the harem. They—”

“But I thought men were not allowed in the harem?” Ezra interrupted.

“Well, it was very strange. We played in a room that was quite empty save for some official. We could hear them – the ladies – but we weren’t allowed to see them. They watched through a screen. They live entirely separate lives, you know, along with the children. In fact, Pa told me the male children, the heirs, have it especially hard. They are shut away in their own part of the palace – they call it the Cage. I know, so dramatic – and then when the old sultan pops it they pluck a new boy out. But sometimes these poor lads have spent so long alone they turn out quite mad.”

“That’s inhuman!” Ezra cried.

“It might just be rumour. Pa said there was so much intrigue at court, but the Turks I met were all as nice as pie. Nicer, indeed.”

“In my experience, if someone is murdered, the murderer is usually someone from their own family.”

Loveday got up. “I find it rather offensive that you assume his family – by which you mean me – has anything to do with Pa’s death.” She was glaring at him now. He stood up too. Perhaps he wouldn’t ask for payment just yet.

“Miss Finch, that is not what I meant, not at all. I’m merely stating the truth, I didn’t mean…”

Loveday glared at him. “Good.”

“We must remember that your father’s death may have been due to an existing illness. A weakness of the heart—”

“I doubt that,” Miss Finch interrupted. “I would put money on it being murder. I feel it in my bones.”

Ezra hid a smile. “I doubt that your bones are capable of such emotion, Miss Finch. Now, if we could see your father’s bedroom.”

“I don’t know how helpful that will be,” Loveday said. “Mrs Gurney has been in there with Gwen, the maid.” But she led the way all the same.

Ezra followed her upstairs. She was so different from any girl he had spoken with – although apart from Anna, that list was not long. He thought that if he was ever murdered he would want someone as bold and tenacious as Miss Finch to make certain justice was done.

Mr Finch’s room was on the floor above. It had been tidied into submission, and not a trace of the man, of any man, remained. Only a good jacket, a couple of hats and a beautifully embroidered cloak, all tulips and roses and blue and red silk, hung up on the hook behind the door.