“Just so, sir.”
“And for his trouble he is no doubt regarded as something of a pariah.”
Then did Constable Cowley speak up right sharply: “I ain’t sure what you mean by that, sir. But I can tell you that there’s some horrible tales told of him.”
“Tales of what sort?” asked Mr. Donnelly.
“Well, it’s said that him and his sister never want for meat — if you get my meaning.”
“Has anything ever been — ”
Mr. Donnelly’s query was cut short by a sudden commotion in the yard surrounding the barn. The two skeletal, spavined nags that pulled the Raker’s wagon, usually so utterly still, were thrown into disorder by our approach; they whinnied and clopped awkwardly about, throwing their narrow heads this way and that. Our livery team also went a bit restive, but Constable Cowley stood high on the wagon box and held them down, urging them ahead.
Just then a figure appeared, outlined dimly in the open barn door. It was the square, squat form of the Raker. In his hands was something long, yet too thick to be a broom; he held it most menacingly.
”Who is out there?” he called. “Halt where you are, or you’ll get what’s in this fowling piece.”
Mr. Cowley reined in the horses. All was silent for a moment. I realized it fell to me to identify us and make known our purpose.
“Tis I, Jeremy Proctor,” I called out to him. “We’ve come with an order from Sir John.”
“Well, come ahead then, but leave that wagon and team where it’s at. My horses ain’t fond of their kind about this place at night.”
We had no choice but to do as he directed. Mr. Cowley remained with the wagon as Mr. Donnelly and I climbed down and started toward the barn. The Raker remained at his station, the fowling piece now held a bit less menacingly tucked under his arm.
“Is it always so with him?” asked Mr. Donnelly in a tone not much more than a whisper.
“I’ve never come at night before,” said I, “never wanted to.”
Then called the Raker to us: “I must ask you to climb the fence. In the state they’re in, my horses would be out in a trice, if you was to open the gate.”
Mr. Donnelly grunted his assent and scrambled over without much difficulty, and I did so with my customary step-step-hop. The two horses shied from us and moved at a clumsy trot to the far end of the yard. Once there, they settled into their usual pose, necks bent and heads low, altogether stationary.
“Watch where you step. I ain’t cleaned up around here in a while, I ain’t.”
There was still moon enough to see us safe across the yard. Yet as we approached, the Raker left his post and retreated from the door into the interior of the barn. We followed him in, and I found myself wondering just what Mr. Gabriel Donnelly would make of this place.
The Raker’s barn served London as the mortuary for the poor, the unclaimed, and the unknown. I had visited it far oftener than I would have liked during the past two years, yet the place never really changed. In summer it smelled far worse than it did the rest of the year, but summer or winter the dead had their places, men on the right and women on the left, a piece of canvas thrown over each. Right and left, too, were piles of clothing removed from the dead. It was said he made a pretty penny selling off these garments to those who made a pretty penny selling them to the living.
The medico surveyed the scene with a dark frown of disapproval, and the Raker, for his part, had a frown for him, too. The single lantern that lit the place did little to cheer it. I sensed an immediate strong antipathy between them both.
“And what might you want?” asked the Raker. It was more than a question, it was a challenge. He took a step or two towards Mr. Donnelly and studied him close. Though his eyes were not well mated (the left being distinctly smaller than the right), he saw well enough from both. He had no need to come so close; it seemed likely he hoped to intimidate.
Mr. Donnelly, however, was not intimidated. “I have an order here” — he produced the letter from his pocket — “from Sir John Fielding, who is known to you as Magistrate of the Bow Street Court, empowering me to remove the body of one Teresa O’Reilly for purposes of medical examination.”
The Raker broke the seal and opened the letter. His eyes roamed indifferently over the page. I was certain he could not read. He handed it back to Mr. Donnelly.
“Who’s she?” He growled it out in a most hostile manner.
“She it was you hauled off earlier on this evening from New Broad Court,” said I.
He threw me a look that seemed to treat the information I had supplied as an irrelevant interruption. Then he turned back to Mr. Donnelly.
“And who’re you?”
“I am the surgeon who will perform the medical examination.”
“So I thought. And I suppose you’ll be doing your examination in front of a whole troupe of medico students, and you’ll be makin’ jokes as you cut open the body and put the innards on display. I don’t like my ladies or gents used for such purposes. Seems every week or near it some saw-your-bones comes by try in’ to buy one of these good people. These people ain’t for buyin’.”
“I understand. I assure you, sir, I have no students. I have no apprentices. The medical examination will be conducted in the privacy of my surgery.”
Having had his say, the Raker relaxed a bit, in fact took a step back and cast his eyes down as if giving the matter consideration.
“Well,” said he at last, “it’s as you say then, and Sir John hisself has given the order.” Then to me: “There be no arguin’ with Sir John, ain’t that right, boy?”
“I fear so,” said I in sober agreement.
With a wheezing sigh, he turned, beckoning us to follow, and led the way on his short, bandy legs to the farthest mound of canvas on the left. He bent down and in a single motion ripped the cover from the body. Then he walked away, folding the sheet of canvas as he went.
“Go ahead,” said he, “take her.”
Mr. Donnelly and I managed as best we could. I ran after the Raker and begged from him some clothes to cover her. He found those she had come in at the top of the great pile and tossed them to me. The stiffness of death had begun to set her limbs and trunk. This made her more difficult to dress, which we managed only after a fashion, but easier to carry once we had done. The only help given us by the Raker was to walk with us to the fence and light our way with his lantern. He remained as Mr. Cowley brought the wagon forward. I cast a glance over my shoulder at the two horses at the back of the yard; there was not a move from them. They seemed soundly asleep. With Mr. Cowley’s help we loaded the corpus into the wagon. The Raker remained, saying not a word until the job was done. He then turned and walked back to the barn.
We three remained silent until we were past the cottage and had crossed the field. When Mr. Cowley reined in at the gate, I jumped down and bounded over to open it. And then — why particularly then I cannot say — Mr. Donnelly suddenly exploded forth with a torrent of verbal abuse directed at none other than the Raker. By the time I climbed back into the wagon and took my place next Teresa O’Reilly, the good doctor was fairly shouting his complaints out to the darkness.
“By Jesus and by all the saints, I do believe that man is mad! He presides there in that barn as if he thought he were king and it were his kingdom. Calls them ‘his people,’ he does, as if those poor forgotten cadavers were his subjects. And that charnel house of a barn! The next great plague of London will start there. Mark my words! Such filth, the place alive with all manner of vermin, the floor littered with horse shite and who knows what else! Never in Dublin, no place in Europe, have I seen such… such…”
And so he continued for minutes more.
THREE
It was evident that Sir John’s letter for Captain Conger had been received. I cannot attest that the corporal of the guard was as good as his word and put it direct in the captain’s hands; it may have passed through others. Yet there could be no doubt it had reached him to whom it was addressed, for he was there at the gate to meet our little party.