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This is a work of ction. All of the characters, organizations, and

events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors

imagination or are used ctitiously.

.

An imprint of St. Martins Publishing Group.

. Copyright 2011 by D. E. Meredith. All rights

reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information,

address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.stmartins.com

ISBN 978-0-312-55769-0

First Edition: November 2011

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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The skin is cold and often damp, the tongue abby and

chilled like a piece of dead meat. The patient speaks in aplaintive whisper, tosses incessantly from side to side and

complains of intolerable weight or anguish. He struggles for

breath, points out the seat of his agony. If blood is obtained

at this point, it is black, oozes like jelly, drop by drop. Toward

the close, the patient becomes insensible and with a rattle in

the throat, dies quietly after a long convulsive sob.

All was silent in the morgue, save the scratch of a nib, as Professor

Hatton copied out a passage from one of his well-thumbed medi-

cal journals, underlying words which reminded him not of the

symptoms of cholera, but of his father whod died on a suffocating

night, reminiscent of this one.

He was pale, when his sister Lucy had taken his hand. You did

everything you could, Adolphus.

.

,

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Yes, but it wasnt enough, hed replied bitterly, as theyd

stood among the handful of people whod gathered by the newly

dug graveside, watching as the cofn was lowered, knowing

prayers were a comfort to some. Hed stared at the Hampshireearth and the worms made violet by the spades, thinking if there

was a God, then how could this happen . . . . again?

Bone-tired, Hatton shook away the bad memory and forced his

wandering mind back to his work, which was money well earned

but giving him the damnedest headache, as he wrote on a neat,square of paper, Note to selfalimentary canal, entry point?

Sphincter muscle? Exit? See Mr. Farrs work, London Medical Ga-

zette, page 12Broad Street Pumphow does cholera travel?

Outside, there was a sudden sound of wheels on cobbles, the

creak of a chain and a harsh voice crying in the dark, Bring em

over ere. For pitys sake . . .ere, I say . . .

Not more bodies, he thought. It was midnight and hed onlyjust nished cutting the last lot, making the cholera count what

twenty? He checked his notesyes, twentywhich wasnt

enough to call it an epidemic yet, which was good news for Infec-

tious Diseases, but for him? Well, thought Hatton, that was a moot

point.

The harsh voice came again

Dont lift the cover. Wheel it over there. There, I say. Leavethe bodies by the water pump. Fussy devil? You aint heard the

like. Hell ave your guts for garters, if anyone touches that pad-

lock.

Hattons chief diener, Albert Roumande was on the far side

of the mortuary, a question in his eye to which Hatton said, I

know, I know, Albert. Im going. Outside, in the moonlit yard,

an arc of stars framed a paltry gang of body collectors who weregathered in a round with torches in their hands. Hatton snatched

one of the torches. For pitys sake, put the damn ames out. Then

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. .

for heavens sake clean yourselves up a bit. Theres a real risk of

infection, here. Especially you! Have you learned nothing from us,

lad? The young man in question stood to attention, removing

his cap in a quick show of deference, as Hatton shook his headat the youths disheveled appearance. Monsieur Roumande has

a mountain of work for you, so hurry yourself. Where have you

been anyway? Youve been gone hours already.

Excusez-moi,but Monsieur Roumande said he needed me to

visit Newgate, sir, and then go on to the Irish nests in the slums,

where I heard the fever bell ringing. Shall I help shift the bodies,

Professor?Well, thats your job,isnt it? said Hatton, cross, because hed

done a fteen- hour stretch already. Get the corpses into the

mortuary, quickly, then its hot water and carbolic for the lot of

you. No hands anywhere near the mouth, until youre done with

the cadavers and washed. Do you understand me, Patrice?

The boy nodded, contritely.

Very well, get on with it, said Hatton, wiping a swathe ofsweat from his neck, because the air in the morgue was uncom-

fortable and fetid, but it wasnt much better out here, he thought.

St. Barts Hospital had been built as a sanctuary for the sick on

the ancient meadows of Smitheld, a holy place of medieval

monks and healers, but the smooth elds had long become a

market, and the market had long become a herding place for

animals and a slaughterhouse for a thousand dead sheep, a milliondisemboweled pigs, the split carcasses of cattle. But it was a different

sort of death tonight that demanded Professor Hattons attention.

Back in the cutting room, Albert Roumande wobbled pre-

cariously on a rickety chair, risking life and limb, but determined

to hang up another posy of dried herbs to drive the scent of death

away, because as chief dienera word meaning only servant of the

morguehis work covered all matters of sanitation, odor con-trol, preserving and pickling, the procurement of newfangled in-

struments, knife sharpening and bookkeeping. Added to which,

being a man of rare intellect and an avid reader of everything

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from The Lancetto The London Medical Gazette,when it came

to understanding the nuances of anatomy, in truth, he was barely

a whisper away from Professor Hatton himself.

Roumande jumped down from the chair with remarkabledexterity as he announced, If the summer keeps up at this tem-

perature, well soon be awash with corpses. But where and how

to store them without buckets of ice? He scratched his head.

Thatll be the next problem. The heat is choking the city, but

at least weve someone committed to help us, at last. He turned to

their apprentice, Patrice. But no peace for the wicked, eh? Go and

get those cadavers onto the dissection slab, lad, and then Ive gota treat for you.

The boy wiped his hands on his apron and beamed, A treat?

For me, monsieur?

Learning and erudition, Patrice. Youve been with us for

almost a fortnight now and you cant always be scrubbing and

mopping. Put on some gloves, don a mask, and you can observe

your rst cholera cutting. Is that permissible, Professor?Hatton nodded, happy to leave such matters to Albert Rou-

mande. A man who excelled not only in all things to do with the

running of the morgue, but whose sage advice was something

Professor Hattonthe younger man, at thirty-vehad come

to rely on. For example, on how to raise childrenWith love,

Adolphus, nothing but love. On how to sharpen a knife,Al-

ways, Professor. Against the blade. On matters of dissection, Ithink youve missed a bit, Professor. And matters of the heart,

Like birds needs the sky, and stars need the moon, a man needs

a wife, Adolphus . . .

But tonight was not a night to contemplate matters of the

heart. There was work to do. Standing under a sign which said

Perfect Specimens for an Exacting Sciencecherry red on Prus-

sian blueHatton carefully inspected an array of surgical in-struments, embossed with the doctors initialsARH esq.

The smallest, I think, for the childs gut, Hatton said to the

sliver of silver in his hand.

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. .

I agree with you, Professor, said Roumande, rolling back

his sleeves. Here, Patrice, step up to the cadaver. See these scis-

sors? They are typically used to separate the membranes out from

the muscle. Each fold, each cavity may unlock a secret. Step for-ward, but touch nothing. Observe the organs carefully because

later we shall expect you to draw them.

Hatton prepared to delve in, to feel the esh rip against the

blade, and the muscle melt against metal. Mufed behind his

calico mask, he said, See here, as I draw the blade, Hatton

sliced the torso of a young Irish girl, creating a purple slit, a

seeping Y, running through the skin down to the pelvis and thenback again to her right breastbone. Roumande stood ready with

a large pair of coal tongs, peering over the corpse and adding,

A perfect skin ap, and the infection is clearly denoted by the

telltale blood. It resembles crme de cassis, nest ce pas?

The youth spluttered, Excusez-moi,monsieur. Sil vous plait.

Please, wait . . . wait a moment, monsieur.

I have him, Roumande crooked his arm around their ap-prentice. Here, steady now. Sit down for a moment, but what on

earths the matter? Youve seen umpteen dissections before.

Patrice put his head between his legs and retched into a nearby

bucket, wiping his mouth, Excusez-moi, excusez-moi. . .

Is it the girl that upsets you? Or the fear of these infected

bodies?

Its the black blood, like a witch or the devils . . .Cholera isnt the prettiest. Roumande patted Patrice on the

back, and then turning to Hatton, said, The smalls will be more

interesting for Mr. Farr, dont you think? And were in luck to-

night for weve a couple of babes, here.

Hatton didnt reply, his eyes still intent on the girl.

Lost in thought, Adolphus? asked Roumande.

Hatton shrugged, Youre right, Albert. We should concentrateon the smalls. He pointed his scalpel at the micelike shrouds.

And Id wager those babies are twins.

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My thoughts exactly, Professor. To compare the onset of fe-

ver on cadavers of the same nature will perhaps be worth a few

extra guineas for Mr. Farr? And I couldnt sleep tonight if we

dissected the girl. She must have been a sight for sore eyes, beforethe cholera took her.

She was maybe fourteen, girlish yet womanly, on the cusp of

life before she died, thought Hatton, as Roumande bent down to

study the girl a little closer, saying, Theres a priest in Soho might

be willing to bury her. Though where he puts them is a mystery,

for they cant be buried in the connes of the city. Roumande

turned to their apprentice. All cholera corpses by rights shouldbe incinerated. The Board of Health insists upon it. And yet here

lies the prettiest of creatures, an innocent and a Catholic, as well.

Well, what do you think, Patrice? Do we burn her like meat?

The morgue wasnt a democracy, thought Hatton to himself,

and not all opinions mattered. Hatton was all for self-improvement,

being of humble origins himself, but there were limits. And more

to the point, was this dead child really worth the trouble? Butbefore Hatton could say any of this, the lad spoke up, I know

the priest. Its Father OBrian at the Sacred Heart in Soho who

buries them. Special dispensation for Catholics, Professor, be-

cause in death we dont like to be burned, monsieur.

Professor Hatton lifted a handful of the dead girls red gold

hair. Auburns curls, pallid lips, and lids of ash. Very well, take

her to the priest, for shes at peace now. But mind yourself, Pa-trice. Weve strict rules for cholera cadavers. Theres still the curse

of disease upon her, so tell no one what you have on the cart.

Only the priest, Father OBrian, do you hear? If we can give one

of these poor children some dignity, so be it.

An hour passed, as Hatton sat quietly, not ghting the sense ofloss which always overcame him after so many gone forever. In the

winter, he would pull up his chair close to the huge stone grate.

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. .

A roaring re would warm his body, if not his soul. But this was

summer. No re was lit. The cholera girl had been delivered to

the priest and the lad was back at his station again, as Hatton

shut his eyes, listening to Roumande, slipping in and out of French,with his Oui!Attention! Do it like this and Mais, non! Non,

non, non. Ecoute. Do it like that.

They had worked together long enough for Roumande to

know that the professor needed a pause for contemplation on

life, and what it really meant when it ended.

The ligree watch in Hattons fob pocket ticked.

Perhaps twenty minutes passed before the professor found thewherewithal to stand up, brush himself down, move over to the

chipped enamel sink, and peer at himself, noting the worn-out

face of a solitary man.

It irks me, said Hatton, still looking in the mirror.

Whats that, Professor? asked Roumande.

Mr. Farr specically asked me to do the cholera work, and

yet all my ndings must be checked by Dr. Buchanan, our hospi-tal director, but hes a physician and knows nothing of pathol-

ogy. He simply wants to ingratiate himself with Mr. Farr and all

those eminent gentlemen at the Board of Health.

Roumande shook his head, Its been a long night. Youre tired,

Adolphus, and still upset about the girl.

No, Albert. Its not just the girl. Our budget review is tomor-

row at nine, remember?Roumande gave a shrug, but of course.

Moving over to his desk, and opening a drawer, Hatton found

his favored chisel blade. The usual squabbling at the trough,

Albert. You should see the other doctors and their sycophantic

ways. Its a disgrace. He nicked the wood; little shards were ying

up. They come to the meeting laden down with chocolates,

bottles of Cognac, cigars for Dr. Buchanan, but I shant doit. Theres no dignity in it, and anywayhe stabbed the desk,

hardforensics isnt a priority at this hospital. Never shall be,

never will be.

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Roumande didnt answer, because Professor Hatton had been

this way for a while nowthat is to say, peevish and irritable. Ever

since their last proper case, which hadnt gone well. Roumande

cursed the day that dandied policeman, Inspector Jeremiah Grey,had arrived at The Yard. And if Roumande closed his eyes, he

could still hear the inspectors Welsh squeal ricocheting off the

paneled walls of the Old Bailey and see his friend, Professor

Hatton, head bowed in the witness stand, as the judge shouted,

Order in Court! Order in Court! I will have order in Court . . .

While Inspector Grey was a spit away, screaming like a girl,

But youre our expert witness. So say it, damn you! Say it! Saythey are indeed the victims digits in the biscuit tin, or step

down, Professor Hatton.

But Hatton was a man who understood Truth and could never

testify to evidence he suspected had been planted, even if that

meant a murderer walked free. After the case was dismissed and

the accused found not guilty, Grey had waited for them, just

outside the Court and seethed, Thats right, Hatton. Walkaway, just as that murderers done. You should have spoken up,

you should have been denitive, you should have said some-

thing, anythingnot stood there like a lemon. And tell me, Pro-

fessor, what is all this forensics forif not to help me?

Hatton had turned to face him, trying to remain calm, That

was the rst time Id seen those ngers, and it appears your evi-

dence came out of nowhere. Mr. Tescalini found them? Simplystumbled upon them? I really dont think so, and please, Inspec-

tor, dont ever put me on the spot again like that. Its extremely

unprofessional.

Grey was wrestling with a sweet wrapper, shoving a bonbon

into his mouth, as if his life depended on it, as he said, Cast dis-

persions on our methods if you like, but we found the tin, hidden

in a bedpan and . . .Hatton shook his head, Inspector with respect, I checked that

room . . .

Im a policeman and my job is a simple oneto send the

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. .

guilty down and get results for my superiors, anyway I can. Not

be left with egg on my face by a supercilious prig like you.

Hatton had shaken his head with disgust and then whistled

down a carriage, ignoring the inspectors last remarks, who, inturn, had ignored Professor Hatton for these last six months.

It had been a bad day; a long, bad day for St. Barts.

But work must carry on and so Roumande sighed and, turning

back to Patrice, said, My ngers grow thicker with each year

and the professor has no time for sketching anymore. When it

comes to the most important of our tasks, we need young blood.

So come.Albert Roumande led the boy down a short passageway, to

a room no bigger than a cell, whose walls were papered with a

variety of anatomical sketches, and on a wooden table, a collec-

tion of pencils, quills, inks, and other sketching material plus a

number of organs, displayed provocatively on white china plates.

The gallery, as Roumande liked to call it, was lit by a single oil

lamp. There was a scent of mold and old blood, masked by thesharper cut of turpentine.

Roumande pointed to a freshly cut lump; claret jelly in the

morgue half-light. The professor is keen to capture any unusual

aspects to the alimentary canal and the sphincter muscle. Youve

heard of the theory of miasma, of course?

The apprentice nodded, because frankly, who hadnt? That

diseases like cholera were caused by the foul air of London andthe great stink rising off the river.

Well, thats one line of thought, but its our belief that chol-

era is, in fact, waterborne. The body count this summer is no

epidemic, but it could easily become so. The professors work is

to gather statistical data in relation to how cholera travels, ana-

tomically speaking. But tell me, because Im curious. Before you

came here, what did you know of the human body? You seem tohave a certain talent.

The youth smiled, Thank you, monsieur. Coming from you,

thats high praise indeed. Your reputation on the Continent is

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second to none, which is partly why I came here. To learn from

you, monsieur.

Roumande was not without a modicum of vanity. Despite

himself, he puffed his chest out a little as he said, I strive to bethe best, of course, then quickly added, but only for the sake

of the cadavers. One must always remember, these corpses

were once somebodys child. Never forget that.

I wont, monsieur.

Ive lived in Spitalelds for over twenty years and there was

revolution in the air when I left in 32, as you well know. But Ive

honed my skills here, in London, because the Metropolis is a sickcity, Patrice, the sickest city on earth. And a violent one, too.

The apprentice nodded, I knew only a little of the dead, be-

fore I came here, monsieur. In Paris, I worked as a body collec-

tor, and before that, when I lived in Marseille, I had a job in the

Jesuit hospital of St. Jeans, where I became accustomed to ca-

davers, but I was nothing as grand as a diener.

So youre from the South, then? I thought as much, saidRoumande, enjoying the opportunity for a lighthearted chat for

once, and reminiscing about the old country. My great, great-

grandfather was the rst diener in Paris, who learned his trade

at the steps of the guillotine. Weve had assistants in the past,

but theyve been butchers. A few Irish, a couple of English, even

the odd Negro, but none has had the artistry which we require.

The apprenticeship is ten long years for a reason. The skill of adiener must be learned, honed, perfected. And you are how old,

did you say?

Patrice pulled his shoulders back, I am almost eighteen, he

said proudly.

Eighteen, eh? Roumande looked at Patrice as if he was sur-

veying a horse at a country fair, weighing up the value of him.

His dark curls and good looks were what Roumandes wife mightcall Byronic. A certain kind of male beauty, which at eighteen was

fetching enough, but by forty or so would be long gone, turned to

swarthy as Roumande had become.

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