Where Shadows Dance (24 page)

“Aye, gov’nor,” said Tom, spanking the reins against the mule’s back. The wagon moved off noiselessly, the axles well greased.

“Ready?” said Sebastian, shifting his grip on the burlap bag.

Gibson shouldered the shovels, their ends wrapped in burlap so they wouldn’t clatter when they knocked against each another. “Fine lot of sack-’em-up boys we make—a one-legged Irishman, a lord dressed like he’s going to the opera, and a gentleman’s gentleman.”

Calhoun laughed.

They plunged between the high walls of the narrow passageway. The wind gusted up, driving the cool rain against their faces and rustling the leaves of the half-dead trees in the graveyard. “Devilish dark back here,” said Calhoun, nearly dropping his end of the burlap sack as he stumbled over the uneven cobbles. “How the blazes are we supposed to see what we’re doing?”

“A lantern would be asking for trouble,” said Sebastian. “Too many houses with windows nearby.”

“Easy for you to say,” grunted Gibson, bringing up the rear. “You’ve got the eyes of a bloody owl.”

The burial ground opened up before them, a vast enclosed square filled with moss-covered gravestones and rusty iron railings overrun with tangled vines and weeds. “It’s here,” said Sebastian, leading the way to a mound of sodden dark earth in the lea of the dead house.

“Lord save us,” said Calhoun, burying his nose in the crook of his arm. “What’s that smell?”

“It’s coming from the dead house,” answered Gibson. “A couple of watermen fished a body out of the river yesterday. I understand it was pretty ripe.” Despite the exclusivity of its neighborhood, the Mount Street mortuary was the destination of all unidentified bodies pulled from the Thames between the bridge and Chelsea.

Calhoun gazed up at the elegant row of houses that backed onto the burial ground. “Imagine being a fine lord, living in one of those great big places, and having to smell
that
every time they pulled somebody out of the river.”

“Maybe they get used to it,” suggested Sebastian, easing Alexander Ross down onto the wet grass beside his empty grave.

Calhoun studied the dark mound of recently turned earth before them. “You don’t think the sexton will notice the grave’s been disturbed when he comes to dig it up in the morning?”

Sebastian spread a tarp to catch the soft dirt. “It hasn’t been that long since he was buried, and the rain will help cover any traces we leave.”

They went to work with the shovels, the rain pattering softly as they threw aside a growing mound of sodden earth. The resurrection men had refined their technique so that they typically dug down only at the head of a coffin, then broke the lid with a pry bar and pulled the body out of its grave with ropes. But since their aim now was to put Alexander Ross back into his grave, they would need to expose the entire casket.

The shovels bit into the wet earth quietly. They were made of wood rather than metal in order to avoid the telltale, ringing clang that could come from a metal spade unexpectedly striking a rock or hitting wood. They were just scraping the dirt off the top of Ross’s smashed coffin lid when Sebastian raised his head, his acute hearing catching the muffled clop of a horse’s hoof, the scuff of furtive footsteps.

“What is it?” asked Gibson, watching him. “Company?”

“Actually, I think we may have competition.” Sebastian slipped the loaded double-barreled flintlock from his pocket. “I’ll take care of them. Just get Ross back where he belongs as quickly as you can.”

Moving soundlessly, he slipped between the tumbled tombstones, toward the mouth of the narrow passage, and flattened himself behind the coarse stone wall of the dead house.

“I tell ye,” he heard a man say in a harsh whisper, moving stealthily toward him along the passageway. “I don’t like the looks o’ that wagon sittin’ in the square. I tell ye, somebody’s poachin’ on our territ’ry, they are.”

“Yer always lookin’ t’ borrow trouble, Finch. That’s yer problem.”

Sebastian could see them now; two men, one small and gently rounded, the other bigger, burlier. They were loaded down with the burlap-wrapped shovels, the pry bar, the rope, the crumpled muddy sack of their trade. Sebastian stepped from behind the mortuary wall and said softly, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

The first body snatcher—the smaller, rounder one—let out a muffled shriek. “ ’Oly ’ell!” He staggered back, his eyes widening until the whites caught the gleam of light from the distant windows. “Ye near scared the shit out o’ me.”

His companion—older, bigger, tougher—took a belligerent step forward but drew up abruptly when Sebastian pulled back the right hammer on his pistol with an audible
click
.

“This is our territ’ry, ye hear?” said the man, his jaw jutting out mulishly. “Ours.”

“Actually,” said Sebastian, casually leaning one shoulder against the wall of the dead house, “if I’m not mistaken, this is Jumpin’ Jack’s lay.”

“Be that as it may, ev’rybody knows Jumpin’ Jack goes to Brighton at the end o’ July. And when he goes,
we
take over.”

Sebastian used the muzzle of his gun to tip back the brim of his hat. “Bad time of year for the resurrection trade, I hear. Bodies don’t last long in the heat. And then, with the medical schools closed, there can’t be much of a market.”

“The prices drop in summer; ain’t no doubt about it,” said the other resurrection man soulfully. “But a man’s got to eat.” He winked. “And support ’is other ’abits, if ye know what I mean.”

Sebastian glanced back toward Alexander Ross’s grave. Between them, Calhoun and Gibson had worked the ropes beneath the empty coffin and lifted it from the grave. Now Calhoun was busy clothing the corpse with his inimitable skill and arranging it in the casket. Bringing his gaze back to the resurrection men, Sebastian said, “The thing of it is, gentlemen, we’re not here to encroach upon your trade.”

“Get on wit’ ye,” said Finch. “What else would ye be doing here?” He squinted at Sebastian through the darkness. “Although ye must be a regular green ’un, dressin’ like that fer this kinda work.”

Sebastian could hear the scrape of ropes, the thump of the now laden casket being lowered back into its grave. “Actually, we’re looking for a skull.”

“A skull?”

The soft thud of quickly tossed shovelfuls of wet earth hitting the top of the casket drifted across the churchyard.

Sebastian said, “Just a skull. For Lady Lennox’s masquerade. You see, I rather fancy the notion of going as the angel of death.”

“The what?”

“The grim reaper. Death personified.”

The two resurrection men exchanged guarded glances. The elder one squinted at Sebastian through the misty rain. “Ye must be foxed—or mad. What are ye, then? Some kind o’ bloody lord?”

“Would a lord be robbing a burial ground?” asked Sebastian, pushing away from the wall as Calhoun and Gibson came up beside him. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we’ll be on our way.”

“Lord love us, I need a drink,” said Calhoun, looking faintly green around the gills as he paused on the flagway in front of the chapel to draw in a deep breath of fresh air. “I’ve dressed many a gentleman in my career—sober, drunk, and even dead. But I must say, this is the first time I’ve ever been called upon to dress one who was
in bits
.”

 

By the next morning, the rain had settled into a steady downpour.

Arriving at the Mount Street burial ground just after eight, Sebastian found Sir Henry Lovejoy standing beside Alexander Ross’s half-opened grave. He had his hat pulled low, his shoulders hunched as he watched a sexton and his young helper struggle to shift the wet, heavy mud.

“Nasty day for it,” said Sebastian, coming up beside him.

“Nasty work, full stop,” said the magistrate.

They stood together in silence, watching the gravediggers. There was a loud scratching as the shovels scraped along wood. One of the men exclaimed, “It don’t look good, Sir ’Enry.”

Lovejoy peered through the pounding rain. “What does that mean?”

“The lid o’ the coffin’s all busted up.”

With a rare oath, Sir Henry ventured closer to the edge of the open grave. “Are you telling me the resurrection men got him?”

The sexton clambered down into the hole with his ropes. “That’s what I was thinkin’ when I first seen it, sir. ’Cept the coffin’s mighty heavy, for all that.”

The sexton’s face turned red as, between them, the two men slipped their ropes beneath the shattered casket and heaved. The coffin came up out of the ground with a sucking plop, the lid bouncing and clattering loosely as it hit the wet grass, hard.

Lovejoy held a thickly folded handkerchief to his nose. “Well?”

“Something’s in here,” said the sexton, cautiously sliding the lid to one side. “Course, it could jist be rocks. I’ve seen ’em do that.”

The lid fell away to reveal Alexander Ross lying nestled in the mud-streaked satin liner of his casket, his death-swollen face now turned a ghastly shade of reddish green, his body clothed with rare skill by one of London’s finest, who’d risen admirably to the occasion despite the considerable handicaps imposed by darkness, the need for speed, and the disjointed nature of the gentleman involved.

“Don’t understand it, sir. ’E’s ’ere, all right. But ’is shroud’s been cut off and left in a muddy wad at ’is feet.”

“Perhaps the sack-’em-up boys were interrupted at their work,” suggested Sir Henry.

“Could be, sir. ’Cept why then was the grave filled back in?”

Sir Henry nodded toward the shell borrowed from the nearby dead house. “The important thing is, he’s here. Move the body to the shell.”

“Why not simply transfer him in his own coffin?” suggested Sebastian.

“We use shells,” said Sir Henry. He turned to the sexton. “Get him out of there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sexton positioned himself at the body’s feet. He and his young helper had a minor argument over the best way to effect the transfer. Then the younger man grasped the body’s shoulders and the sexton seized his ankles.

Sebastian clasped his hands behind his back.

And waited.

O
n the count of three,” said the sexton. “One, two—”

The men heaved. The body’s limbs, held together by nothing more than Calhoun’s artistry, separated from the torso. The sexton, finding himself grasping two loose legs, landed on his backside in the mud. One of the corpse’s arms flopped back into the open grave; the other—formed of wadded cloth owing to Gibson’s inability to retrieve the original—dangled at a disjointed angle.

“What the bloody ’ell?” howled the sexton.

Sir Henry stood quite still. Around them, the rain poured. After a moment, he said quite calmly, “Collect what is left of Mr. Ross and convey the body to Paul Gibson on Tower Hill.” He turned a wooden countenance toward Sebastian. “Or should I perhaps say, convey the body
back
to Mr. Gibson?”

 

 

Hero devoted several hours that morning to the task of interviewing the impoverished distant relative she hoped might serve as companion to Lady Jarvis.

Once, Mrs. Emma Knight had been young, pretty, and headstrong, but those days were behind her. The spirited daughter of a country vicar, she had eloped at the age of nineteen with a dashing but penniless lieutenant. Her father immediately disowned her, and he had never relented, even when the dashing lieutenant got himself blown to pieces by a badly aimed artillery barrage in India.

A hardscrabble life and the need to constantly defer to others had left Emma a little too timid for Hero’s taste. Still, she would do until Hero was able to find someone more suitable.

After that, she spent some time with her mother, who was blissfully consumed by the heady task of deciding What to Wear for the Wedding. Then, her duties as a daughter satisfied, Hero ordered her carriage. Her conversation with Devlin had left her with a number of questions, not all of which her father had been able to resolve.

But Hero knew where to look for some of the answers.

 

 

Her first destination was Montagu House on Portman Square. Once the home of the eighteenth-century queen of the bluestockings, the house now served as the residence of the Turkish Ambassador to the Court of St. James. The Ambassador’s wife, Yasmina Ramadani, received her in an exotic kiosk in the residence’s extensive, high-walled rear gardens. By now the morning’s rain had cleared, leaving the deep blue sky clean and fresh.

“Miss Jarvis,” said Yasmina, taking Hero’s hand to draw her toward the kiosk’s array of plump cushions and exquisite silk carpets. “I’ve been hoping you would visit me again. Please, come join me.”

She was a beautiful woman, fine boned and dusky skinned and green eyed, with a heavy fall of dark hair and a wide, redlipped mouth. She had a way of moving that fascinated Hero— not just graceful but sinuous, each gesture one of fluid beauty. It occurred to Hero that she was utterly at ease in her own body in a way few Englishwomen were. Like a dancer, perhaps.

Or a courtesan.

“The clouds didn’t last long, did they?” said Hero, opening her parasol and positioning it carefully to shade her face from the sunlight.

Watching her, Yasmina leaned back against her cushions and gave a melodious laugh. “Believe me, Miss Jarvis, the English sun is not strong enough to require such vigorous measures to hold it at bay.”

Hero tugged at her skirts. There was obviously a talent to lolling gracefully on cushions, and she didn’t have it. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a tendency to freckle.”

“Ah. For that you must use ... crushed strawberries, is it not? I was reading something about it just the other day.” Her English was enviably fluent, with only a light, deliciously lilting accent. Hero had learned that in addition to Turkish and English, the woman also spoke Greek, Arabic, French, and what she called a “smattering” of Farsi.