Anatomy: A Love Story(74)

“And this boy is—?”

“He’s a resurrection man. A body snatcher who sold corpses from graveyards to physicians and anatomists to study from. I bought from him. To study for the examination. But he’s a respectable man—he is. He works at Le Grand Leon. He’s a good man.”

Bernard nodded, showing no reaction on his face but never looking away from Hazel. He remained silent for a full minute, and so Hazel began again.

“Bernard,” Hazel said, her voice grave. “Something serious is going on. Something real. I don’t know how many are dead or how many are going to die or be hurt still by Dr. Beecham. I need you to go to the police constable about it, or tell your father about it, but you need to be the one to do it. They’ll believe you; they have to believe you. You’re a viscount.”

“Son of a viscount.”

“It doesn’t matter. You know it doesn’t matter. I tried to talk to the constable, and he all but ignored me. But now I’ve seen it with my own eyes, Bernard, I swear it’s true. You believe me, don’t you? He gave Baron Wolford a new eye today! Next time you see Baron Wolford, he’ll have a new eye! Tell me you believe me.”

“I believe you, Hazel,” Bernard said. “After all, you’re my fiancée. You and I are supposed to trust each other.” He stood stiffly. “I’ll go then, and see you soon.” He kissed Hazel dryly on the cheek. “Until then, my love.”

Hazel didn’t take her eyes off Jack. If she had, she might have seen the thing that raged like smoking coals behind Bernard’s eyes.





35




IT WAS TWO DAYS BEFORE JACK felt well enough to travel by carriage to Hawthornden Castle, and another week—of Cook’s porridge and Hazel’s attentive bandage changes—before he felt well enough to walk. The stab wound scabbed over without infection, and the day after Jack had managed a slow amble around the castle gardens without doubling over in pain, he told Hazel it was time for him to go back to Le Grand Leon.

“Just to check on some of my things,” Jack said. He had a few pounds safely hidden in a knothole in the ceiling boards, and two clean shirts—though Hazel had cleaned and scoured the one he’d had on when he was stabbed, it was still stained pink with blood at the breast, and he was never comfortable in the itchy fine fabrics of the shirts he borrowed from Hazel’s brother, the one who died. Hazel agreed, so long as he promised to return that evening.

“You need a fresh dressing and bandages if you’re going to heal properly. Just what you’d need, to deal with an infection at this stage.”

“Ay, fair enough.” He hesitated, then leaned as if he were going to kiss her. But instead he blinked quickly a few times and clenched and released his fist. “Goodbye, then,” he said, and turned before Hazel could respond.

Hazel watched from the window as Jack and the carriage disappeared around the bend, where the few brittle leaves that had clung to the trees against the winter frost blocked it from view.



* * *



JACK HADN’T THOUGHT HOW DIFFICULT IT would be to climb up to the nest he had built for himself in the rafters of the theater while trying to keep his chest stitches from splitting. Halfway up the ladder, he had to pause and catch his breath. He was just contemplating whether it was worth it to continue up when he heard a knock on the theater’s front door.

The knocking was hard and persistent. Strange. The theater had been closed for months. Jack had come in the stage entrance, through the alley, and Mr. Anthony had all the other keys to the place. There was no one knocking at the front door who had any business being at Le Grand Leon.

Jack waited, listening to the sounds of the building shifting in place, wood creaking and cold air whistling through the places in the ceiling where the beams didn’t quite come together. The knocking came again, the stern cracking knock of determined knuckles. The knocking didn’t stop, and so Jack shuffled through the dust-strewn lobby to reach the front door, pocketing a small knife and keeping his fingers wrapped around the handle just in case.

“Jeanette? That you?” he called. There was no answer.

He pulled open the door to reveal the police constable, two guardsmen, and the magistrate. On instinct, Jack tried to run. The constable pulled Jack into a rough grip with his hands behind his back.

“Hey!” Jack shouted. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Penelope Harkness, Robert Paul, Mary McFadden, and Amelia Yarrow. And no doubt countless others. Sickening.” The constable spat on Jack’s boots.

“There’s some mistake. I’m telling you, there’s some mistake.”

One of the guardsmen found the knife in Jack’s pocket. He brought it out and displayed it for the magistrate, and then put it in his own pocket, shaking his head in disgust.

“Hey, that’s mine! Give it here!”

The magistrate cleared his throat and looked down over his nose at Jack, although they were the same height. “We were told we might find you here. Seems some of your little friends at the close on Fleshmarket aren’t so trustworthy as you might want to admit. Thieves, murderers, betrayers. God have mercy on all your souls.”

“You’re lying,” Jack said, wriggling against the grip. “You’re lying. This is a joke! Why would I murder anyone?”