The Resurrectionist (11 page)

R
OBERT HAS GOOD REASON
to be distant with me, for in the month that has passed since the day of Craven’s visit and my encounter with Mr Tyne, much has changed. The next morning I woke early, the knowledge of Mr Tyne’s act heavy in me. It would not be long, I knew, and indeed it was barely nine when Robert came to me in the dispensary.

‘Have you seen the body?’ he asked.

I hesitated, tempted to lie. But something in his face made it easier for me to speak the truth.

‘I have,’ I said.

‘What do you know of it?’

A moment slipped by, a heartbeat, nothing more.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘It was intact when we washed her two nights ago.’

‘I saw what had been done this morning.’

‘Why did you not come and tell me of it then?’ Robert was searching for a way he might believe me.

‘I was afraid you would think me responsible.’

‘If you had come to me then I should have thought no such thing.’

Something clenched in my stomach, knotting it tight.

‘And now?’

‘I will have to report this to Mr Poll. But it would be better if this thing were clear between us before he learns of it.’

Briefly I hesitated, wanting to tell him all. But when I lifted my eyes I knew I would not.

‘I can tell you nothing more,’ I said.

Once Robert was gone I sat blindly in the dispensary. I was sick with this thing, not just for fear of what Mr Poll might say, but for having lied to Robert. Some minutes passed, and in the hall outside then there were feet upon the stairs, the murmur of voices. A door opened, and closed; Robert was back.

‘Mr Poll has need of you,’ he said.

Mr Poll stood by the high window in his study, papers spread on the table as if he had been interrupted in his work. Charles was beside him, and as I entered his eyes met mine. In shame I looked away. Robert closed the door behind us. At last Mr Poll turned to me.

‘You have seen the corpse?’ His voice was soft, but tight.

‘I have,’ I said.

‘And you say you know nothing of it?’

‘Only that I saw it this morning and did not report it.’

‘Because you were afraid of becoming the object of suspicion?’

I nodded.

‘Yet you see the difficulty here. To be done the act must have an author.’

Opposite me Charles’s face had closed. All at once I understood – he had guessed the shape of what had occurred, if not its detail. Yet he would not intervene.

‘And you tell me this author was not you?’

I shook my head. ‘I know no more of it than you.’

Mr Poll paused, one finger tapping a slow beat upon the other arm.

‘It is hard to credit, you understand?’

‘I do,’ I said, my words clear in the quiet of the room.

There was something I had not seen before mingled with Mr Poll’s anger, something that stilled the anger I had in me. For a long time he examined my face.

‘I have your word?’ he asked at last. ‘That it was not you who did this thing?’

‘You have.’

With what seemed very like disgust he said, ‘Then go. I have nothing more to say to you.’

E
ACH SUNDAY,
when my work is done, I take paper and pen and write to my guardian. That I should do so was never agreed, but I do it anyway, giving him a catalogue of patients seen and places visited, omitting those details I think it best he not know. My letters are careful, dutiful, all that the letters of one such as I to his guardian should be. And yet they are poor things, their words lying dead upon the page, made stale by repetition, and I am sure they must bring as little joy to read as they do to write.

That this should be is doubly painful to me. For seven years my guardian has treated me as he might his own son. I should be grateful, and so I am, but where I should feel more, I do not; rather I feel only clumsiness, a tangled wound inside that I cannot unpick.

In my letters there is little of any consequence – simply the friends I have made, my affection for Charles and Robert, my admiration for my master’s skill. Of the world to be found here in Charles’s company I say nothing.

Perhaps it would be better to give these evenings to my
books, but I have little taste for them. As the weeks have passed I have found no joy in my studies, no concentration or ease, the things I learn of little use. Something is lost to me, some aptitude.

Those hours I would once have spent with Charles are now spent on my own, walking here and there through the city, searching for diversion, and for something else I cannot find.

By Seven Dials I hear my name and, turning, find May standing there. He looks thinner than when I saw him last, his frame in the black suit more spiderlike.

‘May,’ I begin, taking a step back as he approaches, ‘what are you doing here?’

He smiles, and though the expression is genuine it is shot through with shame.

‘I have business,’ he says, gesturing carelessly. I follow the gesture with my eyes, uncomprehending, until suddenly May laughs his old laugh.

‘The Jews,’ he says, as if admitting to some foible for which he seeks sympathy, ‘I come to see the Jews.’

Understanding now, I nod.

‘I have not seen you of late,’ he says.

I shake my head. ‘I have been busy with my duties…’ and May grins, nodding, though surely he must know the lie for what it is.

‘And Charles? How is he?’

Realising he has not heard, I hesitate. ‘He is to be married.’

‘Married?’ says May. ‘That is happy news.’ But then he falls quiet.

‘And you?’ I ask. ‘You keep well?’

He nods, but then a low door opens behind him, a young Jew framed in it. May lifts a hand as if to stay him.

‘I must go – but visit me, I have missed your company,’ he says, smiling.

For a long time I remain there, staring after him. There is no wrong May has done to me, no unkindness I could name. But I cannot bear his company, cannot bear all that it asks of me.

I know his face at once, though I have not seen him since that day in the park.

Without thinking I look down, but Chifley lifts his arm.

‘Ash,’ he calls, rising from his seat. Opposite me Caswell stares at the table in front of him, and I know at once Chifley has some game planned here.

‘You two have met, I think?’ Chifley asks, drawing a chair towards our table. Looking no better pleased to see me than the last time we met Ash nods agreement.

‘Swift,’ he says.

I rise, thinking to excuse myself, but Chifley puts his hand upon my arm, calling for another glass. And so I sit again, and wait.

It transpires Ash and Chifley have some business about a horse. As it was that day with Arabella and Amy, Ash’s manner is stiff and superior, as if he found himself burdened by our company. Once it is done he stands almost immediately, glancing at his watch.

‘I have business elsewhere,’ he says, barely looking at us as he speaks. Leaning back in his chair Chifley takes a swig from his glass and smiles.

‘I am told her name is Louisa,’ he says.

Ash looks at Chifley.

‘You talk too much, man,’ he says. I think at first he will say more but then he casts a few coins upon the table and turns away. Chifley reaches for his snuffbox.

‘What? You did not know?’

‘Know what?’

‘That silly whore you met is ruined. Ash would have nothing of it.’ I have drunk too much, and my face burns, Chifley looks at me mockingly as I rise to my feet.

‘Why, Sparrow,’ he asks, ‘you do not take our jests amiss?’

I push past them for the door, a cold fury seething in my gut.

The night is warm, the streets are thronged with the Saturday crowds, fiddlers and sailors and soldiers and whores, all jostling and shouting. Not caring where I go I walk along the Strand to Ludgate Hill, then south, towards the river. I think at first to find Ash and teach him a lesson with my fists, for I am filled with a blinding loathing for these men and their ways, yet in the streets beneath St Paul’s, where the watermen and their many brethren dwell, it begins to fade, replaced instead by a sort of shame, not just for my part in this thing but for my cowardice.

T
HE KITCHEN IS DARK
, and so at first I do not see him in the shadows.

‘It is late for you to be about.’

Startled, I jump. He chuckles, leaning forward so I can see the outline of his face. ‘Had you thought yourself alone?’

‘How come you here?’ I hiss.

Lucan makes a noise of derision. ‘You would remove me?’ With a lazy motion he leans back against the wall.

Slowly I edge away from him. Though he comes to the house often now I am not comfortable in his presence, nor do I trust his motives for coming unannounced.

‘I am alone, you need not fear.’

‘What of Mrs Gunn?’ I look towards the door to her little room.

‘She will not wake, I think.’ As he speaks I realise that he is drunk. Then, as if anticipating me, he adds, ‘Nor Tyne either.’

I do not reply.

‘He has wronged you, has he not?’

‘He has.’ Although the room’s full width separates him from me, his presence is like a physical thing.

‘You are afraid of him?’

I do not answer, and he nods.

‘There is no shame in it. He is a man to keep always in one’s sight. I fear it is on my account you have been wronged.’

‘Perhaps,’ I say.

‘Would you have me teach Tyne a lesson on your behalf?’

I hesitate, for the idea is an attractive one, but then I shake my head. Lucan laughs.

‘Good. I admire a man who does not incur debts easily.’ He pauses thoughtfully.

‘They say de Mandeville is to marry your master’s daughter.’

‘He is,’ I say.

For a long moment he lets the statement hang between us.

‘You know more of him, I think, than when last we spoke.’

‘Perhaps,’ I say.

‘Her father but a miller’s son. And he so great a gentleman.’ He comes closer.

‘I do not understand.’

‘No?’ he asks, his voice amused. ‘They say she brings a fortune a better man than he might still desire.’

‘I do not take your meaning,’ I reply, but I feel a chill, for in truth I think I understand.

‘You met an actress once, a child which died.’

I shake my head. ‘I gave my word I would not speak of it.’

‘Nor have you broken it.’

‘He has debts? I ask. Then, with a startling suddenness, Lucan lifts his hand and grasps my face. His grip is almost tender, yet I feel the strength of him, the power which tenses in his hand.

‘Surely you have seen enough of death by now to know something of life?’ he asks, his face so close I feel the heat of his breath. My own comes raggedly, the blood hot in my throat, our bodies caught in this strange embrace.

‘Do not be a fool for them,’ he says at last, then all at once releases me.

D
RIPPING MAY
. Rain everywhere, a week of it. Inside the house everything feels damp, and in the cellar there is water. Then one morning a knock – a boy on our doorstep with an unmarked letter he says is for me, though he will say no more. I open it, afraid. Inside, a note bearing news Amy is taken ill and begging me to bring Charles at once. The ink is spilled upon the paper by the rain. Looking down I see the boy’s frightened face.

‘Wait here,’ I say.

In the dissection room Charles is bent over a body with Mr Poll. Robinson, a seller of hats, dead two days of a strangulation of the bowel. Charles is drawing forth the spilling mess of his guts, a slippery mass which bulges evilly here and there as he scoops it into a pail. The stink clotting the air so I must lift a hand to my face.

‘What is it?’ he asks, and coming closer I hold the note out so he might read it. Barely pausing in his work he scans it quickly, then glances down into the opened cavity of Robinson’s belly. Across the table Mr Poll is waiting. Charles
twists his hand, chivvying the liver free. Then at last he sets his scalpel down and looks at Mr Poll.

‘I am needed,’ he says. Mr Poll regards Charles for a second, perhaps expecting some further explanation. But Charles offers none. Something silent passes between the two of them, then Charles takes a rag and begins to wipe the fat from his hands.

‘Is the messenger still here?’ he asks, and I nod.

‘Say I will be there presently.’

The day is wet, rain falling steadily from heavy skies, and though we walk quickly we are wet before we have gone a hundred feet. Charles’s handsome face is closed.

As soon as we arrive Mary opens the door. She looks less fierce today, I think, her face pale, and scared.

The house is hot, as close and over-warm as the first day I visited. Along a little corridor Mary stops before a door and half-turns to Charles. Her sallow face is tight and grey with worry, yet there is still that mixture of defiance and need I saw in her the first time we met. It seems she means to speak, but cannot find the words. Charles reaches out a hand and places it on her arm, his touch seeming to dissolve whatever it was that burned inside her.

‘Do not fear,’ he says, and Mary nods, letting her hand press upon the door so it swings open.

The room is dark, the curtains drawn against the day. Upon the floor mounds of bedding are tumbled here and there, crumpled and stained with blood. On the bed in the room’s centre Amy lies, her face ashen, her head cradled in Arabella’s lap. Arabella looks up as we enter.

‘Please,’ she says, one hand stroking the tangled mess of
Amy’s hair, ‘help her.’ I am not sure what is worse, the sight of Amy’s blood or the way Arabella’s voice breaks with fear.

‘How long has she been like this?’ Charles asks, setting down his bag and seating himself behind her. Arabella shakes her head.

‘I had a performance last night, and she was in bed by the time I came in. When she did not rise this morning, I came in, and found her.’ Her voice trails off.

Charles nods, placing a hand upon Amy’s brow.

‘It was a woman in Ludgate Hill,’ Arabella says. As she speaks Amy opens her eyes.

‘Charles,’ she says, smiling, and Charles takes her hand.

‘Amy,’ he says, ‘what have you done?’

She shrugs, then seeing me, ‘Mr Swift,’ she says, ‘you did not come to visit.’

I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say, and she smiles.

‘You will not want to, now, I think.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I will come again.’

She laughs raggedly. ‘And your carriage, you will bring your carriage?’

I swallow hard. And then she winces, her body doubling up in pain, and turning aside she closes her eyes and seems to slip away.

‘Tell me you will help her,’ Arabella pleads, but Charles only shakes his head.

‘I will do what I can,’ he says. ‘After that it is in God’s hands.’

From his bag Charles takes a draught to thicken her blood, mixing it with opium and spooning it carefully into her mouth. With the opium her breathing grows slower, more regular. Mary glances at Arabella; this change calms them a bit. But the bleeding does not stop. It is not the first time I have seen a patient haemorrhage, but it is still hard to credit the sheer volume of the blood. Again and again Mary
sops it up with sheets and towels, carrying them away, yet always there seems to be more of it, leaking forth like a tide. At last Arabella bids her stop, her face hopeless. She extends a hand and takes the girl’s in it, the gesture so tender I feel my throat tighten. By the window Charles stands, his face half-turned away; as if he wished only for the end to come.

All afternoon we wait, barely speaking. At some point I seat myself beside Amy, and take her hand. It is cold, and limp, the pulse in it shallow. Then Arabella slips Amy’s head free of her lap and stands, crossing to the door, as if she cannot bear any more to be close to her.

The life in Amy ebbs slowly, her breathing growing softer, less regular, until with a little start it gives out altogether. For a time we remain still, then at last Arabella’s voice breaks the silence.

‘It is over, then?’

Charles kneels, pressing one finger into Amy’s throat, then nods and steps away. Slowly Arabella approaches, and still holding one arm to herself extends the other to touch Amy’s face, arranging the hair upon her brow carefully, as if she were a child. By the door Mary has begun to weep.

Quietly Charles takes up his bag, and head bowed begins to move to the door. I cannot move though. Silently Arabella turns to look at me.

‘Arabella –’ I begin, reaching out for her hand, but she shakes her head, pulling her hand away.

‘No,’ she says, ‘do not say it. I could not bear it.’