Chaloner made a sudden lunge for Reynell’s gun. The clerk shrieked in alarm, and the weapon discharged, making everyone duck. Chaloner emerged the victor, but the dag had been fired, so was useless until it could be reloaded. He lobbed it hard at Lisle, but the man flinched away, and it cracked harmlessly into the wall behind him. Johnson advanced with his sword, but Reynell, desperate to arm himself, got in his way as he dived towards Lisle’s tray of surgical implements. Their momentary tangle allowed Chaloner to grab a broom.
Lisle sighed. ‘There is no point bucking against the inevitable, so just let us do our business. You will not be missed. You have no family in the city, and when you disappear, your colleagues will assume you could not bear the thought of a life without music. So be reasonable, Heyden. Do not make this harder for all of us.’
‘How many people have you killed?’ asked Chaloner, backing away quickly when Reynell laid hold of a long knife. He managed to reach the tables on which the bodies lay, using them as a barrier between him and the relentless advance of his three assailants.
‘Do not tell him,’ advised Reynell, feeling his knife’s blade and wincing when he cut himself. ‘It is none of his business, and he is only trying to distract us.’
But Johnson was of a mind to be garrulous, presumably because it was not often that he had the opportunity to brag about his achievements. ‘I cannot recall, precisely. It has been about six months since we started, but we avoid slaughter when we can. I have put it about that we receive corpses with no questions asked, and people have been very obliging.’
‘We anatomise them, then give them a decent burial in St Olave’s Church,’ elaborated Lisle. ‘It is only right that the subject gets something out of the arrangement.’
‘Very noble,’ said Chaloner. ‘Then tell me how many people you have killed this week, if you cannot recall all the poor souls you have dispatched over the last half year.’
‘You will be our fourth,’ said Johnson. He glanced up at the ceiling, counting on his fingers. ‘Yes, just three others this week.’
‘Fanning and Sarsfeild,’ said Chaloner in disgust. ‘Men in prison, unable to defend themselves.’
‘Fanning, yes, Sarsfeild no,’ said Johnson. ‘May let slip that he was going to help Fanning escape from Newgate, you see. We could not afford to lose such a good, strong specimen, so I bribed a warden to let me at him first. Then I bribed him a second time to record a verdict of gaol-fever.’
‘Was it the same warden who later had an “accident”? He was hit by a cart?’
Johnson was defensive. ‘He took our money, then started telling everyone that Fanning had a cord around his neck. He could not be trusted, so I dispatched him. We would have added him to our collection, too, but he was too badly mangled.’
‘So, Fanning and the warden are two,’ said Chaloner. ‘Who is your third victim?’
‘We plan to dissect him this afternoon,’ said Lisle comfortably. ‘For the Public Anatomy.’
‘I thought Dillon was–’
‘Dillon is too fresh, and will bleed,’ said Lisle impatiently. ‘Our guests do not want to see that sort of thing, so we procured another fellow yesterday.’
Chaloner ripped the sheet from one of the cadavers, evading a wild blow from Johnson’s sword at the same time. A squat man lay there, with an old scar on his neck. Blood had pooled on the table beneath him; the fatal injury had been to his back. Chaloner’s thoughts tumbled in confusion. He matched the description of the man Scot had seen visiting Behn after dark, and whose corpse Eaffrey had discovered in Behn’s office. Now Chaloner knew what had happened to it. The surgeons had evidently been pleased to get it, because the limbs had already been detached, probably for students.
Chaloner jerked away from Johnson’s blade a second time, and tore the cover from the next subject. Willys’s waxen face stared at him. ‘How did you get–?’
‘Holles was kind enough to ask me to deliver him to his own parish,’ said Johnson, pleased with himself. ‘A scrofulous beggar is now in Willys’s grave, and we have a fine, disease-free subject to dissect for Brodrick, although we shall have to keep his face covered, as they knew each other.’
Chaloner dragged the sheet away from the last body, expecting to see Dillon, but what he saw made his stomach lurch in horror. William Scot lay there, peaceful and relaxed in death. Chaloner felt the walls closing in around him, and for a moment was aware of nothing but the pounding of his own heart.
‘Dear God, no!’ he whispered.
‘It is the scientific gentleman from Ireland,’ explained Lisle. ‘Peter Terrell. For some inexplicable reason, he came here last night, so Johnson dispatched him with a blow to the head. It is a good way to kill, because it does not damage anything we need for our dissections.’
Shock had allowed Chaloner’s guard to slip, and Johnson managed to grab his arm before he came to his senses and repelled him with a punch to the jaw. The surgeon reeled away, while Chaloner’s numbed mind worked feverishly to analyse the information. He had told Scot that Lisle planned to remove his splint, and somehow Scot had learned Lisle was not the kindly healer he appeared to be and had come to investigate. They had killed him, and intended to use him for their grotesque dissection that afternoon. Chaloner gazed at his friend’s still face, and made up his mind that it would not happen, no matter what the cost.
‘Is your entire Company complicit in this monstrous plot?’ he demanded, stepping briskly around the table to avoid Reynell’s knife. His wits were suddenly sharp and clear, as they always were in desperate situations. He removed his hat – the one he had used to steal Prynne’s gunpowder – and hurled it, ostensibly at Lisle, but it landed on the lamp. Flames licked towards it. ‘Or just you three?’
‘The “entire Company” does not bear the responsibility of securing its future,’ replied Lisle tartly. ‘Arrogant fellows like Wiseman sit back and enjoy the benefits of belonging to a licensed guild, but it does not run on air. It is my duty, as Master, to ensure we are solvent. These Private Anatomies are an excellent way to achieve our aim, and I salute Reynell’s ingenuity in devising such a plan.’
‘You keep some of the profit for yourselves, though,’ said Chaloner. ‘Wiseman has noticed your sudden upturns in fortune – your generosity in donating implements to the hospitals, Johnson moving in expensive Court circles, and Reynell’s suspiciously fine clothes.’
Reynell was becoming unsettled by the amount of time that was passing. ‘We should hurry. I keep thinking Wiseman might come, wanting to know whether this afternoon’s corpse is ready.’
‘He will not stop us,’ said Lisle. ‘He is poor, because Webb’s scurrilous lies have destroyed his medical practice – his silence can be bought.’
‘And if he proves awkward, then there are always uses for a large cadaver like this,’ added Johnson, a little longingly.
‘Where is Dillon?’ asked Chaloner. Smoke was curling from his hat. ‘Did he escape after all?’
‘Do not answer – just dispatch him,’ begged Reynell. ‘People will start to arrive for the Public Anatomy soon – they always come early, to get good seats – and it would be awkward if someone came down here by mistake and saw us chatting to a future subject.’
‘We shall dissect you for Lady Castlemaine,’ said Lisle with his pleasant smile. ‘It will be the first time a woman has requisitioned a performance, and you are sure to please her.’
‘Then she is going to be disappointed,’ said Chaloner, launching himself forward and bowling Reynell from his feet. When the clerk tried to stand, Chaloner hit him under the chin with his knee, forcing his head back against a wooden table with a dull thump.