‘Dozens,’ bragged Johnson. ‘I am far more popular than that scoundrel Wiseman, because I do not regard patients as subjects for wild experiments.’
‘I can see why that would have an appeal,’ agreed Chaloner.
‘Some people even prefer me to Lisle,’ Johnson went on. ‘Despite the fact that he is much loved in London. The problem with Lisle is that he is a bit too free with the truth. Who wants to know he is going to die? It is better to tell a man he is going to get better. Also, patients tend to be more generous with the fees when you give them good news, so there is always that to consider, too.’
‘The Earl of Clarendon,’ said Chaloner innocently. ‘Have you ever tended him? In his offices?’
Johnson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Certainly not! He has set himself against poor Bristol, you know. I like Bristol, because he got me my Court post. He and I are going to invent a revolutionary new chewing machine for men with no teeth. It will make us a good deal of money.’
The clerk looked concerned. ‘We are already rich, so should not draw attention to ourselves with odd inventions – we do not want a reputation like Wiseman’s. It is better to maintain a low profile.’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.
Reynell’s expression was unreadable. ‘Once people know you, they start to pry into matters that are none of their concern. Fame is not a desirable condition.’
‘Piffle,’ countered Johnson. He turned to the spy. ‘We were talking about me and my battle with the Devil’s familiar.’
‘Clarendon?’
‘The parrot,’ said Johnson impatiently. Chaloner regarded him coolly. He liked birds, but he had not taken to Johnson; if the surgeon had done anything unsporting, he was ready to extract revenge on the creature’s behalf. ‘After our tussle, it flew out of the window. The last I heard was that it has made friends with the Bishop of London, and refuses to leave his shoulder. Since it raced to save that crucifix, I can only conclude that the bishop is also of the Roman persuasion, and that the parrot has recognised one of its own – an agent of Satan.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, wondering what it was about religion that turned men into drooling fanatics. He addressed Reynell, keen to change the subject. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘Long enough,’ replied Reynell cagily. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Chaloner did not want to know; he was just making conversation. He tried again, ‘I have never been here before, but I understand your Anatomical Theatre was designed by Inigo Jones.’
‘Jones was an architect,’ announced Johnson, as if he imagined Chaloner was a half-wit. ‘He threw up the Banqueting House, and … and a few other places, too. We asked him to do us a new Anatomical Theatre because the public kept looking through the windows of the old one, wanting to know what we were up to. So, Jones built us one with windows that are unreachable by nosy ghouls.’
‘Would you like to see it?’ asked Reynell.
Chaloner was not seized with any particular desire to inspect a place where corpses were dismembered, but he had raised the subject and felt he had no choice but to accept. He followed them towards an oval building, inside of which were four tiers of cedar-wood seats, placed so every spectator would have an unimpeded view of the large dissecting table in the centre of the room. The walls were graced with statues of the Seven Liberal Sciences, and for some inexplicable reason, the signs of the zodiac were painted above them. Dominating all was a painting by Hans Holbein, depicting King Henry VIII handing the barbers and the surgeons the warrant that made them an official city guild.
The spy was disconcerted to see the table occupied by a cadaver, because Wiseman had told him Public Anatomies only took place four times a year. The body was covered by a sheet, but a pair of yellow feet protruded from the bottom. There was a faint pink stain over the area of the heart, and Chaloner was not sure why, but he was suddenly seized by the absolute conviction that the corpse belonged to Fitz-Simons, shot in the chest by May. He moved closer, wanting to know for certain.
‘My speciality is pumping wax into a corpse’s veins,’ announced Johnson, flicking up the sheet to reveal two plump, greyish legs. The major blood vessels in the groin had been exposed, and one partially removed, so it could be attached to a bowl by means of a pipe. Chaloner also noticed grazes on the corpse’s knees, as if the man had fallen as he had died. ‘For the demonstration of the venous system. It is a skilled business, and you will not be surprised to learn that I am extremely good at it.’
Chaloner nodded. He was not particularly squeamish, but there was something about the cold, dispassionate treatment of the body in Chyrurgeons’ Hall that unsettled him. Surreptitiously, he edged towards the sheet, intending to tweak it off ‘by accident’, then take his leave as soon as he had his answer.
‘Stand back,’ ordered Johnson. ‘Bodies are delicate, not to be pawed by non-members.’
‘I will not touch it, I assure you,’ said Chaloner fervently, wondering what sort of ‘pawing’ was enjoyed by the elite who were members.
Johnson raised a cynical eyebrow, apparently of the belief that onlookers would be unable to help themselves.
‘Laymen can be very salacious,’ explained Reynell. He started to sniff. ‘Does this room smell? I have been among the odours of the trade for so long that I can no longer tell.’
Chaloner nodded. The corpse stank and, since he assumed it was being prepared for the Public Anatomy the following Saturday, he was glad he would not be around when the demonstration started; by then, it would be overpowering to the point of noxious. He was surprised Fitz-Simons had grown rank so quickly, and wondered if he had been left in a warm place. ‘I doubt surgeons will mind,’ he said. ‘They must be used to it.’
‘We are not concerned about surgeons,’ said Johnson. ‘This particular anatomy is to be private.’
Chaloner regarded him blankly, but Johnson did not seem to think the statement required further clarification, and turned back to his charge, covering the legs with the sheet and patting it tight around the edges in a macabre parody of tucking someone into bed. It was Reynell who explained.
‘We perform two types of anatomy: private and public. The latter are major events, and Company members are permitted to invite guests. Afterwards, because it is a well-known medical fact that watching dissections makes men hungry, we have dinner together with plenty of wine. It is always very jolly.’
‘Jolly?’ Chaloner was not sure he would feel ‘jolly’ after enduring such a spectacle.
Reynell nodded keenly. ‘There are four Public Anatomies a year, and we are assigned executed felons for that express purpose. Of course, it is not always easy to lay claim to them, because sometimes the families get there first. Or the spectators at the scaffold.’
‘Witches try to steal the fingers,’ elaborated Johnson. ‘And the ears, and sometimes the–’
‘We also perform Private Anatomies,’ Reynell went on. ‘Often, a surgeon may want to demonstrate some aspect of physiology to students, or perhaps test a novel theory. In addition, we conduct Private Anatomies for interested amateurs, because the founding of the Royal Society has precipitated an insatiable demand for scientific learning. This body is for a Private Anatomy, which will be this afternoon.’
‘On a Sunday?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Is that allowed?’
‘We have special dispensation, on the grounds that sometimes corpses cannot wait,’ said Reynell darkly. ‘However, all these new religious laws may mean a curtailing of our activities in the future. We shall go the way of the Puritans, and all Sabbath-day pleasure will be banned.’
‘Dissections come under the definition of “pleasure” do they?’ asked Chaloner, amused.