‘There were some problems.’ Reynell did not elaborate, and Chaloner did not really want to be regaled with a grisly story, so they walked to the theatre in silence. Reynell glanced around a little furtively as they reached the stairs, as if he did not want to be seen.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Chaloner, immediately wary.
‘We cannot let Wiseman know what we are doing. This is not the first time Lisle has been obliged to rectify his mistakes, and he is apt to be nasty about it. Lisle cannot afford a confrontation – not today, of all days – but no one is looking, so we are all right.’
Chaloner followed him down the stairs to the gloomy vault. This time, only four bodies were present. One did not have a sheet, and Chaloner recognised the thin, wan features of Sarsfeild. Shirt laces still bit into the confectioner’s throat, because Wiseman’s dissection had focused on the abdomen, and the head and neck had so far been left alone.
‘There you are, Heyden,’ said Lisle, smiling genially. ‘Come in, come in. I hope you do not mind me tending you in here, but I am terribly busy today, and this will save time.’
Chaloner was about to sit in the chair Lisle indicated, when the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and all his instincts warned him that he was being watched. He hesitated, and the covert glance passed between Lisle and his clerk confirmed that something was amiss. He began to back away, aiming for the door. He did not get far before Reynell produced the gun he had kept hidden under his coat, pointing it at Chaloner with a hand that was far from steady. Then came the sound of the door being closed, and Chaloner glanced around to see Johnson. He carried a sword, and the fact that its blade was stained red with blood suggested it was not the first time he had used it that day.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Lisle unhappily. ‘I was hoping there would be no need for histrionics. Please sit down, Heyden. We will make this as fast and painless as possible.’
Johnson gripped his rapier in both hands, muttering something about the unruly mob he had been obliged to fend off at Tyburn. Meanwhile, Lisle held an implement that might have had a surgical application, but that he brandished like a cudgel, and Reynell cocked his weapon; it trembled in a way that was dangerous. Deftly, Lisle removed the sword and daggers from Chaloner’s belt. He found the one in his sleeve, too, while the one from his boot had been confiscated at White Hall. Chaloner was weaponless, although not, he hoped, defenceless.
‘There is no point in yelling for help,’ said Lisle, smiling again. ‘No one will hear you. The theatre will not be occupied for at least another two hours, and the walls to this basement are very thick. They were built that way to keep it cool for specimens, but they also serve to dampen sounds.’
Chaloner had no intention of wasting energy with howls for assistance. He assessed his chances of dodging around Johnson and reaching the door, and decided they were fair; the man did not look agile, although he was probably strong. The problem lay with Reynell and his shaking dag.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, speaking to give himself time to consider his options.
‘You,’ said Lisle simply. ‘We want you.’
Chaloner was mystified, but then he understood. ‘For your Private Anatomies?’
Lisle nodded, and suddenly his grin did not seem so genial. ‘There is a great demand for them these days. The prisons cannot supply our needs, because we require decent corpses, not ones that are emaciated and covered in scabs. So, we are obliged to go elsewhere for material. You will be perfect.’
‘And we shall have the reward from the Dutch,’ added Johnson. ‘You murdered an upholsterer, and the Netherlanders have offered a thousand pounds for your head.’
‘Is this why you wanted me to come today and not earlier?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You need me fresh?’
‘Yes,’ replied Lisle. ‘I hope you did as I asked, and told no one else about our appointment.’
‘I mentioned it to several friends,’ countered Chaloner immediately. ‘Men who are used to unravelling mysteries. They will certainly learn what you have done.’
Lisle shrugged. ‘You would say that, but it is immaterial anyway. Johnson and Reynell will support me in saying that you went home after I removed the splint. I have also taken the precaution of giving you reason to despair – by telling everyone that your hand will never mend and that your viol-playing days are over. I will swear you left in low spirits, and you will not be the first to hurl yourself in the river, never to be seen again.’
Johnson addressed Lisle. ‘You do realise that my friend will not be very pleased about his death? It will spoil his plans, and Reynell and I went to some trouble with … well, you know.’
‘With what?’ demanded Chaloner.
Lisle ignored him. ‘What he wants is irrelevant. He asked for the favour to which you have just alluded, and he wanted documents signed and sealed. We have done all that, so our obligations to him are complete.’
‘True, but he is in an excellent position to procure us corpses,’ argued Johnson. ‘I do not want to incur his displeasure when he might prove useful to us in the future. I dislike being forced to kill people, just because we are short of a good body, and he might provide us with an alternative source of material.’
Chaloner regarded him in distaste. ‘You just go out and pick someone when you need a corpse?’
‘We have no choice,’ snapped Johnson. ‘We tried using those of our patients who died from natural causes, but their families kept declining to let us have them, even when we offered to pay. We cannot disappoint powerful courtiers, so we have no alternative but to hasten the end of a few nobodies.’
Lisle rolled his eyes. ‘We can hardly oblige your friend by letting Heyden live now you have told him all that, Johnson! Hurry up and make an end of this – there is a lot to do before the dissection this afternoon, and we cannot afford to waste time.’
Chaloner’s mind was working fast. ‘Did you arrange for Fitz-Simons to be killed, because you wanted his body?’
‘Of course not!’ cried Reynell, shocked. ‘What do you think we are? He was a friend – a barber-surgeon.’
‘Then why is there a different body in your charnel house, marked with his name?’
‘We have already told you,’ replied Reynell impatiently. ‘Wiseman realised Fitz-Simons was the so-called “assassin” shot by May, and we could not allow his misguided actions to bring our Company into disrepute, so we were obliged to snatch him from White Hall before anyone could identify him.’
‘I put another corpse in the charnel house, to deflect any awkward enquiries,’ added Johnson, pleased with himself for considering all eventualities. ‘But my precautions were unnecessary, because no one has come. And, before you ask, he really did bequeath us his corpse, to be used for the edification of our apprentices.’
‘And what about Webb? Was he murdered to provide you with a specimen?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Johnson indignantly. ‘I have just told you we only take nobodies.’
‘You exchanged his fat body for a waif from the prisons, though,’ surmised Chaloner, not sure whether to believe him. ‘I imagine you made the swap in St Paul’s, while Webb was waiting to be jammed into the tiny space allotted to him.’
‘The vergers we bribed were relieved when we offered a solution to their predicament,’ gloated Johnson. ‘Little Martin Webster slipped into Bishop Stratford’s tomb a lot more easily than the portly Webb would have done. Everyone was a winner in that bargain.’
‘Except Webb. Does Silence know?’
‘Goodness me, no!’ exclaimed Lisle. ‘She would be furious – and might even demand a share of our profits. You will die today, Heyden, so you may as well go quietly. Come and sit down, and let Johnson bring an end to this unsavoury business. He is a surgeon and knows how to do it quickly. There will be very little pain, I promise.’