Chapter Twenty-Two

“Please explain to me what we are doing again?” Ashland asked Oliver as he jogged up the steps beside him.

“We’re attending Needham’s lecture.” Oliver had deliberately kept their destination from Ashland, for fear his friend would balk and not attend, and Oliver did not want to do this alone. To be truthful, he didn’t know why he was here. What did he hope to accomplish? Why was he torturing himself?

Because he was curious about Needham, the man who had won Ellen’s heart, the heart that Oliver could not seem to keep.

But Ashland was no fool. He stopped in the middle of the steps to squint up at Oliver. “What? Are you mad?”

“If we don’t hurry we’ll be late.”

“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Ashland muttered as he followed Oliver into the Royal Academy building.

The room was crowded when they arrived, and Oliver chose a standing spot in the back by the door. Two assistants were already on the stage, standing beside what appeared to be a body lying on a table, covered with a bedsheet.

Needham appeared on the stage and conferred with his assistants. The physicians-in-training who were in the audience with Oliver and Ashland, quieted until silence reigned.

Someone coughed. Another shuffled his feet. There was an air of hushed expectation.

“Good God,” Ashland whispered when he realized what was about to happen.

The bedsheet was pulled away, and Needham began lecturing. Oliver listened to the rise and fall of Needham’s voice, reluctantly admitting that the man knew how to captivate an audience. He was like a maestro with an orchestra, the knife his baton.

The men around them frantically took notes in their books, their faces scrunched in concentration.

Ashland edged toward the door, but Oliver grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back.

Needham cut into the body, and steam rose from the incision. All around him the pencils stopped scratching. Everyone paused, and it seemed as if a collective breath was held. Oliver looked at the men curiously. Eventually, one by one, they resumed their note-taking, but a few whispered among themselves.

Oliver looked back at Needham and the body and tried to remember the few things he’d learned in anatomy class at Eton. Something about dead bodies cooling to the temperature of the outside.

Oliver continued watching. What was he looking for? Something nefarious? Something that he could take back to Ellen and say this. This is why you can’t marry the man.

But there was nothing. Or was there?

He did not want to draw attention to himself and Ashland, so he waited for a break in the lecture and followed the other students out.

Ashland shot him a curious look but didn’t comment. Although he appeared a bit pale.

But Oliver wasn’t finished yet. He hung back as the rest of the students filed out. Some were discussing the autopsy. Some were discussing the events of the night before. Apparently, they all had gone drinking together and had visited a brothel.

One did not seem a part of the others. He was standing in the shadows, reading over his notes. Alone.

Oliver headed toward him, motioning Ashland to follow.

“Excuse me,” Oliver said.

The man looked up and squinted at Oliver as if he couldn’t see him properly.

“This is my first lecture with Sir Needham. Could I ask you a question?”

The man’s pencil was poised above his notes, and he seemed to hesitate, unwilling to be pulled away from his studies. Ashland hovered at Oliver’s elbow, no doubt wondering what Oliver was up to.

“Yes?” the man asked. He didn’t seem overly pleased to be speaking to Oliver.

“He’s quite fascinating, Sir Needham. This is my first autopsy and, forgive my ignorance, but do they all…” He waved his hand in the air as if he were too embarrassed to say what he wanted to say. “Well, it seemed quite warm, the body. I had thought that bodies cooled over time?”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he snapped his book of notes closed. “Sir Needham gets his bodies like all the other professors. Resurrectionists.”

“Ah. Of course. That makes sense.”

The man made a huffing sound and moved away to a different shadowy corner where he resumed reading his notes.

“What the hell was that about?” Ashland muttered.

“He seemed a bit irritated by my questions.”

“A fine physician he’ll make,” Ashland said.

Oliver looked around the small space where everyone seemed to have congregated. They were all talking quietly in small groups. Oliver didn’t feel comfortable walking up to them and interrupting. He was on to something. He knew he was.

Or you could be reaching. Wanting something to be wrong with Needham when really there is nothing.

“Pardon me.” The voice came from behind him, and Oliver spun around to find a man whom he had seen at the lecture standing behind him. “I heard you asking Smithson about the bodies.” The man lifted his chin to the person Oliver had originally approached. “He’s a strange one, Smithson. Doesn’t mingle with the rest of us. Very off-putting.”

“Quite,” Oliver mumbled.

“I’ve not seen you at one of Sir Needham’s lectures before,” the man said.

“I’m new. This is my first. And this is my assistant, Mr. Brown.”

Ashland glared at Oliver, but Oliver ignored him.

“I’m Mr. Lindsay, a student of Needham’s. And you are?”

“Taylor. Mr. Taylor. I’ve long been interested in becoming a physician and am finally pursuing my dream.”

Ashland snorted quietly and covered it up with a cough. Lindsay didn’t seem to notice. He was watching the rest of the men closely.

“I heard you asking Smithson about the bodies that Needham acquires.”

“I was just interested.”

“Most physicians get them from Resurrectionists, men who raid the public cemeteries. It’s quite profitable, if you have the wherewithal to do it.”

“And the others?”

Lindsay swung his attention back to Oliver. “The others?”

“You said most physicians. I’m assuming others find their bodies by other means?”

“No. Not really.” Lindsay’s gaze went to his fellow students, but they were still in their groups and talking quietly. Smithson was alone in his corner, reading over his notes.

“The thing is,” Lindsay said, lowering his voice. “Needham’s bodies seem rather fresh. The other physicians…well, their bodies are ripe, for lack of a better word. As if they’ve been dead for some time. Needham’s are not like that.”

“Maybe Needham pays the Resurrectionists more money to bring him fresher bodies.”

This all seemed wrong, talking about the dead like this, but Oliver wanted answers.

“Maybe,” Lindsay said. “But there is talk among us all. It’s just strange.”

At that moment they were called back to the lecture, and Lindsay hurried away to join the rest of the group.

Oliver and Ashland hung back, watching them file in.

“What do you think?” Ashland asked.

“I think Needham has a mysterious supply of fresh bodies.”

“It could be like you said. He pays the Resurrectionists more to bring him the newly dead.”

“It could be.”

Oliver followed the last of the crowd back into the viewing area. “Are we really staying for more?” Ashland asked a bit thinly.

“You may leave, if you can’t take it.”

Ashland stiffened his spine and marched in with him.

Oliver paid little attention to the rest of the lecture as Needham carved up the body and produced the various organs. Oliver paid more attention to Needham himself and his assistants. One would think that a physician’s assistant would be another physician. Or an apprentice, one learning the trade and about to embark on his own. But these assistants seemed different than the men in the viewing area.

They were harder in appearance, and they paid little attention to the lecture, hovering about and fetching as Needham called for it.

Toward the end of the lecture—or what he hoped was the end—Oliver touched Ashland’s arm and indicated his friend follow him out. He circled the building until they were at the back entrance, where one lone door led into the lecture hall. Oliver hung back in the shadows of some trees.

“Dare I ask what we are up to now?” Ashland asked.

“I’m waiting for the two assistants to leave.”

“May I ask why?”

“Did you notice them? They weren’t what I would consider appropriate assistants for such a noted surgeon as Needham. They seemed more like ruffians.”

They did not have to wait long. The two assistants, one short and bulky and the other tall and thin, emerged from the back door and immediately headed toward the street.

Oliver and Ashland followed at a good distance. The assistants did not speak to each other. The shorter one was continually looking around, as if assessing the area for danger. The taller one seemed oblivious.

They walked for some time, until they were at the edges of, “The East End,” Oliver whispered.

“Should we continue to follow?” Ashland asked.

Oliver plunged forward. Now that they were in the East End it was more difficult to keep the two in his sight, but he managed. They walked with purpose—no loitering here. It was far too dangerous—until they disappeared inside a home that butted up against several other homes, all tall and leaning in toward the street, blocking the sunlight.

Oliver made note of where the home was and then motioned for Ashland to follow him out.