The Blood: What secrets lie aboard? (Jem Flockhart Book 3) Read online

  ‘What is it?’ said Will. ‘What did you see?’

  The sun had gone in again now, and the rain was falling in earnest. I was scanning the water, searching for what I had seen, and yet hoping that I had been wrong, that it had been a trick of the light—

  ‘Jem!’

  ‘A face,’ I said. ‘I saw a face. In the water, I’m sure of it.’ At least, I had been sure, just for a moment, as the sun shone down and Deadman’s Basin turned from jet to translucent bronze. A face as pale as marble, the mouth open, the hair tangled, the eyes – oh God, the eyes – and yet perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it was a mistake, for there was no sign of it now. And yet I had been so certain.

  I thought at once of Eliza. She was the daughter of one of St Saviour’s most infamous medical men. She had been my friend, and my lover, though her life had been more cruel and unhappy than anyone had realised. Broken by all that had happened to her, she had vanished into the city’s crowded streets. No one knew where. I had looked for her – I always looked for her, and I could not walk anywhere without scanning the faces that came towards me, hoping one of them might be hers, for I loved her still. I knew I would find her again one day. And yet I dreaded it too, for life on the streets was brutal, for women and children especially. As I stared out at the vile waters of Deadman’s Basin my father’s words, uttered so long ago, whispered in my head: The corpses of men find their way into the river by accident. Women’s arrive there by design—

  All at once Will was beside me. He seized the handle of the windlass. ‘Together,’ he said. ‘One, two . . .’ The spout of water became a thick, swirling mass, thundering against the aged brickwork.

  I stared out over the basin. ‘How long will this take to empty?’

  ‘It depends how deep it is.’ Will tugged at the windlass. The gates shifted another inch and the contents poured into the canal. There was no perceptible decrease in the water level, though currents beneath swirled darkly, releasing bubbles of gas that bobbed to the surface, like frogs’ eyes. A half-submerged barge shifted where it lay, and a horrible, wet, sucking sound echoed from the walls. The dead dog circled lazily, and began drifting towards the gates.

  In the end, it was the rain that guided us, for it washed her face free of the dirt and slime in which she had lain. Her skin glimmered against the substance of her grave, emerging from the cold and dark like a ghost from the shadows. I recognised the pallid fish-belly flesh of the recent dead, her mouth gaping in a black and silent scream, the jaw set wide as the waters slipped away.

  Chapter Three

  Her skin was white-grey, the veins at her temples visible in a bluish tracery. She wore only a chemise, a poor ragged garment that had absorbed the foul matter of her grave and now cleaved to her body, dark and muddy, as though it were fashioned from the essence of London itself. From out of these filthy underclothes her legs protruded, as pale as tallow beneath streaks of brown and black.

  ‘Who is she?’ said Will, his face white in the lamplight.

  The mortuary attendant, crouched at his side like some curious bunch-backed familiar, sniffed, and wiped a droplet of moisture from his nose with his sleeve.

  ‘Girl,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Drowned.’

  ‘Recently too, by the looks of things,’ said Will. He fumbled in his pocket for his salts.

  ‘Drowned?’ I said. ‘What was she doing out there in her chemise?’

  ‘My God,’ muttered Will. ‘What a place to die.’ I put my hand upon his shoulder. ‘Had we not gone there today Lord knows when she might have been found,’ he said. ‘Weeks, perhaps. I suppose we must assume the person who put her there didn’t know the place was to be drained and built upon.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Unless they didn’t care, unless haste, or convenience, were more pressing concerns than finding the perfect grave.’

  The police inspector appeared, brought by the mortuary assistant’s boy. He took one look at the dead girl and shook his head.

  ‘That thoroughfare past Deadman’s Basin, you say, sir? Well, they will insist on using it. Whores mostly. That’s what this girl is, sir, there’s no respectable women round these streets. Any evidence of violence?’

  ‘Not demonstrably,’ I said.

  ‘Was she weighted down, sir? Stones and such?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘There you are then, sir. I wouldn’t worry about it unduly. One less girl on the streets isn’t much to fret about. Fell in drunk, probably. Death by misadventure.’

  ‘“Isn’t much to fret about?”’ said Will. ‘“Death by misadventure?” Is that the only conclusion you’re prepared to consider?’

  ‘It is till the doctor or the magistrate tells me otherwise.’ He shrugged. ‘Dead girls is always a shock, sir. ’Specially young ’uns. But them stones on the passage are slippery. Easy to fall in and drown on a dark and foggy night, an’ we’ve had some thick ’uns these last few weeks, what with the warm weather coming to an end and the cold setting in proper. Most unfortunate, I agree, sir. Still, the anatomy school will be most grateful. I’ve already sent for Dr Graves – from new St Saviour’s, sir. D’you know him?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I closed my eyes. Dr Graves with his long knives and his yellow teeth. He was fast, and skilful, there was no doubt. And yet his gusto in the face of death had always perturbed me.

  ‘He’ll be along soon enough. And I’ve sent for the superintendent from Siren House. That’s the League for Female Redemption, sir—’

  ‘I know what it is,’ said Will.

  ‘Then you’ll know the superintendent is familiar with all the girls, sir. All the girls around here, at any rate.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Pointless, if you ask me, sir, having such a place at all, never mind around here. “Once a whore, always a whore,” as my old dad used to say. Still, it’s Christian to make the effort, I suppose.’

  A shadow appeared in the doorway. It was the constable, a short burly fellow, his belly straining against the buttons of his blue swallow-tail coat. He carried his hat in his hands, which was more than the Inspector had done. Behind him was a woman. I could not see her properly because she was in the shadows, but she was tall, taller than the man who accompanied her. She was wearing a long cloak, the hood drawn up over her hair, her head bowed as if in mourning.

  ‘From Siren House, sir, like you asked,’ said the constable. He led the woman forward.

  ‘Well, miss?’ said the Inspector. ‘D’you recognise this girl?’

  She stood tall and straight, her back to Will and me as if we did not exist. She looked at the girl on the slab for a long time. For a moment, I thought she might faint, for she swayed where she stood. I put my hand upon her arm, but she shook it off. When she spoke her voice was low and calm.

  ‘Her name is Mary Mercer.’

  ‘Street girl.’ The Inspector sounded unconcerned. ‘I suspected as much. Next of kin?’

  ‘None,’ said the woman. ‘At least, none that knew where she was or cared anything about her.’ She put out a gloved hand, and took hold of the dead girl’s fingers.

  ‘Righty-ho, miss.’ He turned to Will and me. ‘Of course, it’s not the dead what worries me, sirs, so much as the living. There’s thieves up at Drake’s Warehouse – again. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. Miss.’ He tugged the edge of his hat. Even with the thing on he was hardly taller than the woman before him.

  ‘Of course, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Don’t let me keep you. Protecting the property of the wealthy is evidently far more important than bringing to book the murderer of a young woman.’

  ‘Murdered?’ I said. ‘You think so? Miss – Miss—’

  ‘I do, sir.’ She did not turn to look at me as she spoke, and did not care to give me her name. It was as if she disdained me, disdained all men.

  ‘Misadventure in all likelihood, miss,’ said the Inspector. ‘Don’t you go upsetting yourself with words like murder. Mr Flockhart here agrees, don’t you, sir?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said
.

  Should I have told him that as the waters receded we had found a thick fold of black oilskin, slimy and blotched, plastered against the lock gates like a great flap of wet flesh? It was my belief that this had lain over the body, concealing it in a shroud that mirrored the waters in which it had lain. Some movement of the refuse in the basin had caused it to shift, so that her face was revealed, and then once the waters had started to move, draining away into the Thames, the current had dragged the covering aside completely. I could think of no more obviously contrived concealment – far more cunningly thought out than crude measures such as stones in pockets. Had we not opened the gates and fished her out of the water the girl would have rotted away to nothing where she lay, concealed and yet in plain sight, her decomposition masked by the stinking environment. But I said nothing. I had no faith in the police and their methods. Twice now I had seen them arrest the wrong person – condemning one to be hanged and consigning the other to a mad house until her mind was all but gone. Death by misadventure would suit the magistrate for now. But it did not suit the woman before me, and as I spoke, her head snapped up. I thought she was going to speak, but she didn’t even look at me. She drew her hood closer, pulling it tight against the mortuary’s chill. I saw her breath, white and furious in the freezing air, and then she was gone.

  We did not have long to ourselves. Already Dr Graves would be racing across town in the wagon he had built especially for conveying bodies from the gallows or the mortuary to his dissecting rooms at St Saviour’s.

  ‘You there,’ I said, turning to the mortuary attendant’s boy. ‘Run up to the Blood and bring any of the doctors that happen to be about. A body found not a hundred yards from the Seaman’s Hospital?’ I said to Will as the boy scampered out. ‘I’m sure any medical man with his wits about him would be sorry to see Dr Graves make off with a corpse found on his own doorstep. Students will pay handsomely to see one anatomised, no matter where, and no matter who’s doing it. Besides,’ I added, ‘it’s probably the only chance we’ll have of making sure the body stays here when it is dissected.’

  ‘There’ll be trouble,’ said Will. ‘Dr Graves will claim her for his own.’

  ‘Very likely,’ I replied. ‘Quick, let’s see what we can find before anyone comes. You there. What’s your name? Bring another lantern, will you?’

  ‘M’name’s Toad, sir. And that there young ’un’s known as Young Toad. There’s been Toads on the waterfront since as long as there’s been a river. But ’old on, sir!’ He stepped forward, his face alarmed. ‘You sure you know what you’re doin’? Ain’t you better wait for Dr Graves?’

  I was bending over the girl, my magnifying glass in my hand. The afternoon was dark now, the skies outside heavy and grey, and the light that filtered through the mortuary’s windows – thick green squares of glass set high in the wall – turned the place sepulchral. I took the man’s lantern and held it up, peering down at the corpse. ‘I don’t take orders from Dr Graves, Toad,’ I said. ‘Bring another lamp. I need light. Quickly now!’

  I could see that my first impression was correct: she had clearly not been in the water for long – the skin was a pale blue-grey in colour, but lacked the bloated, flabby appearance of long immersion. She was thin, small and dark-haired, and beautiful.

  There were bruises on her arms and legs that I could see, but this was a girl from the streets: her bitten-down nails and hollow cheeks betrayed her troubled life, and bruising was only to be expected. There were small round marks on her upper arm – perhaps from the rough grasp of an assailant, perhaps from any number of altercations she might have got into, though there was no sign of bondage at wrist or ankle. I laid my hand on her body. Even through her chemise I could count her ribs, feel the deep concave between her hips.

  There was a bucket of water on the cold stone flags beside the slab, a slimy hank of chamois leather draped over the side. I rinsed the leather and wiped the girl’s arms and legs. Her skin was icy to the touch, softish and pliant, like a lump of raw meat. Here and there small thread veins were visible, where the blood had started to seep through the delicate walls of the smaller vessels, though I was sure that the freezing cold waters of Deadman’s Basin had done something to slow down this process. There was no discolouration of the body’s underside, so she had not lain still in one place after death but had been moved quickly – before she was hidden in the water. I would not have put her death any more than seven days earlier, 20th October. In my pocket was Aberlady’s crumpled note bearing that very date. Come now, Jem, but come ready to face the Devil . . .

  I examined the fingers of her right hand, looking for the calluses of the seamstress, or the ingrained coal dust of the parlour maid. Had she once had an occupation? Many girls turned to prostitution when times were hard, dipping in and out of that desperate profession as the need arose. I looked down at her. How little there was to show us how she had met her end – no trauma to the head, no marks about the neck, no stab wounds.

  And yet there was one thing that gave me pause: on her collar bone, on each side, was a fine neat cut, hardly visible in the gloom, but deep, slicing through the skin and flesh right through to the clavicle. There were similar incisions on the tops of her feet. They were done with precision, the skin around them swollen due to the ingress of water, and they had opened very slightly, like pursed lips.

  ‘What do you see?’ said Will.

  ‘Incisions,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps she cut herself when falling in.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  It was possible. But not probable.

  There was no time to say more for at that moment there was a clattering of boots on the stair. The door burst open and two men strode into the mortuary. Ten excited students followed in their wake.

  ‘Where are they, Toad?’ called the first man, a blond, curly-haired fellow, tall and handsome, with bright, eager blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Even in the yellow light of Toad’s grubby oil lamps he looked healthy. It was unusual for London – most of us looked terrible. ‘Young Toad said there was a girl. Dead and fresh! “Like a drowned angel” I believe were his words, though I admit he was even more garbled than usual—’

  He stopped short when he saw me. I held up my lantern, and I knew that he was looking at my birthmark, lurid and disfiguring in the lamplight.

  ‘Who might you be?’ said the fellow behind him. He was an inch taller than the first, red haired, with dark eyes and a serious expression.

  ‘Where’s Aberlady?’ I said. ‘Still not back?’

  ‘Obviously not,’ said the first man. ‘And he’s not here either, though just about everyone else seems to be. And you are?’

  I made our introductions. He grinned, and held out his hand. ‘Dr Cole,’ he said. ‘Septimus Cole, assistant physician on board the Blood. And this surly fellow here is Antrobus. Come along, Antrobus, shake hands, can’t you? Dr Antrobus is assistant surgeon on the Blood.’ He gestured to the group of young men who were now clustered about the corpse. ‘And these merry men are our students.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Aberlady? About a week ago. I’m sure he’ll come back eventually. He usually does. You were up at the Blood earlier, weren’t you? I’m sure Dr Sackville has already told you all this.’

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me something else.’

  He shrugged. ‘You might try asking down on Spyglass Lane. He often takes a pipe there.’ He saw my surprise, and raised his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t you know? Look, I hope I’ve not broken a confidence. Everyone knows – well, Antrobus and I do, at least. It’s nothing he can’t manage, though I’d not let on to Sackville about it. Nor Birdwhistle. Especially not to Birdwhistle. He’s convinced Aberlady’s the root of all evil, even without knowing he’s a regular at the Golden Swan down on Spyglass—’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, my heart heavy. ‘Yes, I did know.’ And yet I had not realised my old friend had sunk so low. Laudanum was one thing, and the black drop might be got i
n any strength he chose – he might make the stuff up himself, for the recipe was simple enough: two ounces of opium dissolved in a pint of port wine and fortified with cloves and cinnamon. But an opium den? Such places were dangerous, filthy caverns frequented by wretched, lost souls.

  ‘Oh, never mind all that,’ said Dr Antrobus. ‘Let’s get started. Aberlady can look after himself.’ He turned to the door at the sound of more footsteps and clicked his tongue. ‘Who is it now?’

  ‘Oh, come along, Antrobus,’ cried Dr Cole. He slapped his companion on the back. ‘The more the merrier, what? Dr Graves!’ He sprang forward, his hands outstretched. ‘What a great pleasure, sir, a great pleasure indeed. Will you not come in, sir? It seems we have a treat in store, and something of a welcoming party too!’

  ‘I came for the body,’ said Dr Graves, who had arrived in his gallows wagon with two henchmen, both of whom loomed behind him in the shadows. ‘She’s mine now.’ He glowered at Will and me, his disappointment evident at finding the mortuary filled with the living as well as the dead. He stood back from the crowd of students, his arms swinging, his posture, as usual, slightly crouched, as if he were about to spring onto the slab beside the dead girl like an orang-utan.

  Dr Antrobus, who had clearly hoped to take the lead amongst his students, tried to hide his annoyance. ‘But no, sir,’ he said. ‘This is our body. It is for the Blood, and her students, and we cannot permit you to take it away, not before we have done our duty as medical men.’

  ‘She’s mine,’ repeated Dr Graves. ‘I was sent for,’ and he made as if to lift the corpse there and then, and carry her off over his shoulder.

  Dr Antrobus sprang forward to stop him, and a brief tussle ensued. ‘Good God, gentlemen,’ cried Will, as the girl’s head knocked against the slab. ‘Have you no respect?’

  ‘I must protest, sir,’ said Dr Cole, stepping forward. ‘Dr Antrobus is quite right. Dr Graves, this corpse belongs to the Blood and her students and we cannot let you take it away. However, we would be honoured to work with you. If you might be kind enough to share your expertise and experience?’