Johnson regarded him with dislike. ‘Important men will be present on Saturday, ones who make donations. If you destroy our hopes in that direction, I shall invite them all to another dissection the following week: yours.’
Wiseman sneered. ‘Then I hope they will not come with the hope of learning anything – not if you are to do the honours.’
Chaloner stepped back, anticipating fireworks, but Johnson displayed admirable restraint. ‘Just try not to make too much of a mess. We do not want Reynell scrubbing all day tomorrow, when he should be polishing the ceremonial silver. Incidentally, I have invited an acquaintance to watch you this afternoon. In return, he will give us a pair of silver spoons.’
‘You have done what?’ exploded Wiseman. ‘You invited laymen to my dissection? How dare you! It is for students and colleagues only.’
Johnson pointed at Chaloner. ‘He is not a student or a colleague, but you have invited him. And our records show that he has not yet settled his account for the treatment you gave him last Saturday, so obviously he is not going to give us any silver spoons. Or did you pay him, for letting you experiment on his limbs? Lisle says he will never regain the use of his fingers.’
Lisle heard his name brayed, and hurried forward to pour oil on troubled waters. Reynell was with him, and Chaloner was again struck by the clerk’s handsome clothes. Close up, however, he saw they had been marred by some very unpleasant stains, and supposed it was impractical, if not impossible, to maintain an air of sartorial elegance while working for the barber-surgeons.
‘Gentlemen, please!’ said Lisle wearily. ‘Not in front of the apprentices.’
‘Did you say I botched Heyden’s treatment?’ demanded Wiseman dangerously. ‘And have you offered to rectify it for him?’
‘Of course not,’ said Lisle soothingly, not looking at Chaloner. ‘Although I would offer to make amends, if I thought a member of my Company was guilty of malpractice. However, this is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. Let Johnson’s friend watch you today, Wiseman. He may learn something, and silver spoons will not go amiss. Meanwhile, perhaps Johnson would be kind enough to test the syllabub for Saturday. We all know he is an expert on such matters.’
‘True,’ agreed Wiseman contemptuously. ‘God has given every man a unique skill with which to walk the Earth. Mine is surgery and his is scoffing syllabubs.’
‘I think it needs to be stored in a cooler place,’ said Lisle, before Johnson could respond. ‘In fact, I want you to inspect it now. I shall come with you.’
‘And afterwards, you had better supervise Wiseman,’ snapped Johnson, trying unsuccessfully to resist as Lisle pulled him away. ‘The last time he performed, he could not locate the gall bladder.’
‘Because it was withered with disease,’ bellowed Wiseman after him. He lowered his voice to a more moderate level, although it was still loud enough to be heard by passing students. ‘Pompous ass! He would not know a gall bladder if it came up and introduced itself to him.’
‘You should go inside now,’ said Reynell to Chaloner. ‘The theatre is almost full already, and if you leave it too long, you will not get a seat.’
‘He is not here for that,’ said Wiseman. ‘He has convinced himself that Webb was anatomised here, so I offered to show him our procedure for collecting bodies. Then he will see for himself that such a notion is preposterous.’
The clerk regarded Chaloner in astonishment. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion? Webb hated the medical profession, and wanted nothing to do with our Company – he ruined Wiseman with slanderous accusations, he took Lisle to court over the cost of a phlebotomy, and he threatened to sue the lot of us for postponing the Private Anatomy he had commissioned.’
Chaloner resisted the temptation to state the obvious – that Webb would hardly be in a position to prevent his corpse from being misused once he was dead. ‘If Webb disliked surgeons so much, then why did he want to come here and watch a dissection?’ he asked instead.
‘Because it is the current fashion at Court to do so,’ explained Wiseman disapprovingly. ‘The King expressed an interest in the workings of the human body, so now everyone is fascinated by the subject. Webb was a shallow fellow, who thought buying a performance would prove he had good taste. I, for one, am grateful he died before he could use our profession in a shabby attempt to advance himself.’
‘Lisle did want to refuse Webb,’ added Reynell, ‘but Johnson was afraid he might make trouble if we did. Webb was spiteful and vindictive, and I am sure Johnson was right.’
A clock struck the hour and Wiseman took a breath. ‘I must go and prepare for my lecture. I always read my notes before I start, lest I omit something important. Not that I make mistakes, you understand. My demonstrations are always perfect.’
‘Of course,’ said Reynell, when the surgeon paused for him to agree.
‘Then you will not mind showing Heyden how we prepare cadavers for teaching and research. It is a job for a clerk, after all, not a busy and important surgeon.’
Reynell sighed his resignation as Wiseman strode away. ‘I am afraid we shall have to be quick, Mr Heyden. I am very busy with preparations for Saturday. What do you want to know?’
‘Start from the beginning,’ suggested Chaloner, unable to think of a question that would move the discussion directly to Webb.
Reynell flapped a vague hand towards the north of the barber-surgeons’ domain. ‘The bodies arrive from the prisons by cart, and we receive them through that little door at the end of our garden. We do not use the main gate, obviously, because it might look ghoulish to passers-by.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner, suspecting it looked worse to sneak them in through the back. He followed the clerk to the Anatomical Theatre, which had a small, discreet entrance at the side. It was locked, but Reynell opened it to reveal a flight of steps that was dark, damp and covered in ominous stains.
‘The theatre has a special basement,’ Reynell explained, lighting a lamp. ‘So, when bodies arrive, we take them down there for preparation. Watch your footing. Those spillages can be very slippery.’
Reluctantly – he did not like the look of the stairs or the sound of the vault – Chaloner descended, wrinkling his nose at the eye-watering stench of decay and mould. The cellar was a low-ceilinged chamber, lit by several hanging lanterns that sent eerie shadows around thick supporting pillars. There were no windows, and the only door was the one through which they had entered. The walls were bare brick, and the dank space was used to keep samples as well as corpses, because rows of jars contained all manner of objects. Chaloner saw a tiny human foetus in one, and looked away before he could identify anything else.
‘How many of these dissections do you perform?’ he asked. Five sheeted figures lay on crude wooden benches, and he realised it was quite an industry.
‘Four public ones annually, and a variable number of private,’ replied Reynell. His voice was defensive, as if he had detected distaste in the question. ‘We are due to receive a freshly hanged felon for the event on Saturday – we cannot use anything but a new cadaver for that, or our guests will not fancy their dinner afterwards.’
‘Who are these others?’ asked Chaloner, gesturing around.
‘The ones we have finished with – or should have finished with. By rights, they should be in their graves by now, but Wiseman wants to use them to illustrate anatomical variation in bladders. I shall have to dispose of them before Saturday, though, because Johnson will complain if their reek wafts upstairs. That is the agreement, you see – we get the corpses, and in return, we pay for their burial in St Olave’s churchyard.’