Light streams from the Capricorn Palace where candelabras have been placed on each windowsill. Through the archway to the courtyard, they can see the shadow of the crowd. There is a party, and the exertions of the ball have tempted the guests outside to cool off, despite the raw evening air. From inside there comes the sound of a fiddle and oboe, and loud voices and scattered laughter carry across the flagstones. The wood used for Rudenschöld’s scaffold is still stacked nearby, waiting to be carried off. Winge and Cardell continue across the square towards the palace, the eastern annex of which frames a triangular garden. The structure is separated from the rest of the building, and the Collegium Medicum has hung its crest over the door. They can pick out the anatomical theater by its tall windows, and through them the flicker of candlelight. The door is unlocked and, in the hallways, the smell of vinegar is heavy in the air. They pause at the threshold, listening for any sound of movement from inside, before Cardell takes the lead down the corridor.
Along the walls of the anatomical theater, seating is arranged in steep tiers all the way up to the ceiling, rising in octagons to give an unimpeded view to as many as possible. Sconces hang in pairs on all sides around the table at the center of the room. Only one is lit, and on the table rests a woman’s body, in an embroidered dress, pale and still. The few possessions of which she has already been relieved have been placed on the floor by the table: a cap, two shoes with red bands, a pair of sky-blue stockings. Winge and Cardell both pause at the double doors and take in the scene before them.
“What the hell is this? Is there to be an anatomical lecture as well?”
Winge takes his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and angles it towards the light until he can read the time. It is just past the stroke of midnight. Behind them comes a rattling at the entrance, followed by footsteps on the stone floor, and a voice. Cardell gives Winge a push into the room and whispers in his ear.
“Get up to the stands and stay low. There, up top, where it’s dark enough for us both to see and hear.”
Winge does as he’s told and whispers his reply over his shoulder.
“Remember, Jean Michael, under no circumstances can we reveal our presence.”
Cardell nods in answer and leads the way with quick steps as Winge gently lets the doors close behind them. It doesn’t take long before they are flung open again.
The man at the front is a youth in his twenties, tall and lanky, with an apron over one arm and a case in the other, and the manner of one who has not yet become accustomed to the rapid growth of his limbs. His clothes are worn and poorly paired, with a pale-yellow coat over a stained waistcoat and two mismatched clasps at the knees of his breeches. He speaks incessantly, with a voice that is nasal and eager, still characterized by the treble of youth. When he sees the corpse, he interrupts himself with a gleeful yelp.
“Just as you said, Mr. Ceton! I hardly dared believe that it was true. You’ve no idea how hard it is for us students to procure necessary specimens on which to practice our craft. I can’t understand how our professors expect us to be able to learn technique by observation alone. You have my eternal gratitude.”
Ceton walks behind him, his hands clasped on his back, dressed as if he has just come from the ball on the other side of the square. The shadows play across his mutilated face.
“On the contrary, I am the one who should thank you, Nyberg. It seems equally impossible to gain entrance to a demonstration where one is not forced to crowd in with the rabble who are only drawn by the sensational aspects. I count myself lucky that you were willing to let me attend a more private event.”
Nyberg lifts one of the lit candles from the sconce and transfers the flame to the rest, before hanging up his coat, wrapping the apron around his middle, and starting to roll up his sleeves.
“And the corpse? Prudence bids me ask your assurance that it was obtained by honest means.”
“Don’t worry on that account. She has no family who will ask any questions. My man Jarrick brought her in earlier, as we arranged. I assume you have your own routines as far as disposal is concerned?”
Nyberg places his case on a bench, opens the lid, lets his hand glide over rows of shiny steel, and gives a curt nod.
“Our night porter usually handles that matter, and will come before dawn to clean and transport the remains for burial. I have promised to treat him to an evening out for any additional inconvenience.”
He loosens the fastening that keeps one of the knives in its place and tests its edge against his thumbnail before he spits on the whetstone and sharpens it some more. Ceton takes the opportunity to sit on the lowest tier.
“Will you be so kind as to explain each cut, Nyberg, just as your professors would have done if this were a formal lesson? I fear my knowledge of human anatomy leaves much to be desired, though my curiosity is substantial.”
“Certainly, Mr. Ceton. Please let me know if you have any questions as the work progresses. I shall begin by opening the abdomen to reveal the chest cavity, and will thereafter ease the ribs open by saw and hook so that we may view the larger organs.”
Ceton clears his throat and wipes the corner of his mouth clean before continuing.
“If you have no objections, Nyberg, I would prefer that we begin with something less drastic. Say, exposing the nerves and musculature of an arm or a leg?”
Nyberg gives Ceton an understanding smile.
“Ah, you would like to begin on a smaller scale? You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Ceton. We students spend so much time in each other’s company that we tend to assume everybody is as familiar with the inside of a human being as we are, and so rush right to the heart of the matter, so to speak. Of course we can proceed more gradually if you so wish.”
He tests the knife again to his satisfaction, then loosens the straps from the rest of his instruments, which he places on the bench in front of him in the order in which he intends to use them. He first selects a pair of scissors.
“I will begin by removing her clothes. Would you like me to keep her midriff covered for now? In our lectures, my friends sometimes find it distracting.”
“Not on my account.”
Nyberg has hardly started cutting the dress before the scissors slip out of his hand and clatter to the floor as he takes a startled step back.
“Mr. Ceton! There has been a terrible mistake. This woman is yet living. She is still warm and her lungs are drawing air, if only slightly. Will you hurry after some water while I try to get some life back into her?”
Ceton remains seated and crosses his legs.
“There has been no mistake, Nyberg. I thought it would be more interesting this way. If you have misgivings with regard to her life, let me assure you the dose of laudanum she has been given is far greater than anyone can accommodate and survive, and whatever you do, this hour will be her last. My man has secured her with thin leather straps, but that is mainly to show me his thoroughness: she is no longer able to move and surely can’t feel anything either. Her death is inevitable, and you will remain free of guilt. This I swear on my father’s grave.”
Nyberg stares at Ceton for a moment before returning to the bench to put away his instruments.
“I have been gravely mistaken in you, Ceton. You are mad. Know you nothing of the Hippocratic Oath? My craft is intended to save life and nothing else. I will go to inform the city watch what is afoot here, and will not hesitate to provide a witness account to your detriment.”
“My man has instructions to wait for me by your own door, Nyberg, behind which your beautiful Ulla and little Ulrika sleep so sweetly. Please remain calm: Jarrick will keep himself outside the threshold until the strike of four. If I have not returned by then to inform him that everything has turned out to my satisfaction, he has been given leave to break the lock and go inside, and how he should like to have his way then is not to be fathomed.”
Winge has kept his eyes on Cardell ever since he first started to suspect the worst, and when the watchman now makes an attempt to get up from his hiding place, he puts his hands on Cardell’s shoulders with as much weight as he can. Under his fingers, Cardell’s body trembles with barely restrained rage. Winge puts his lips to Cardell’s ear and tries to give his whispered words all the conviction he can muster.
“Jean Michael, you can do nothing. Kill Ceton here and you will seal the fate of the children, just as he has said.”
Only his grip stops Cardell from giving them away, but it is not enough. In his desperation, he instead grabs the watchman by both ears, but when he is not able to turn Cardell’s head, he has to move himself to get the eye contact that he seeks.
“You heard him. The woman is almost dead already. If you lay a hand on him, all of our efforts have been in vain. Can’t you see that?”
There is still no glint of understanding in Cardell’s bloodshot eyes, the enlarged pupils shifting their color towards black. Emil grasps at the last argument he can find.
“Jean Michael. Cecil would not have wanted to see you a murderer.”
The crisis passes. Cardell’s grimace of bloodlust relaxes, and resignation takes its place as reason returns. Emil is given an assenting nod.
Nyberg stands quietly on the floor. His face has taken on the white color of his shirt. Ceton lets him stammer out a mixture of pleas and protestations, promises and threats, before he silences him with a gesture.
“Hush now, little man. There is no one here except you and me, and no higher power to see or judge. Nature itself is indifferent. It would look on without the slightest objection if our entire race were to perish in suffering and misery. The woman lying there will soon join the many thousands of dead over whose graves we pass every day, and no one will ever ask after her. Don’t you carve meat at your table each night to eat yourself and to serve to others? Is this really so different? When we leave this room, your memories will be the only connection between you and what has transpired here. So forget about it. Devote yourself to your wife and daughter instead, and be a loving husband and father if that pleases you. Let this have been a dream and nothing more.”
Ceton pauses to wipe his chin.
“Time is ticking by, Nyberg. Now set to work. The right leg first, or what say you? Do not forget to describe your work, as you have promised me.”
Nyberg’s words can hardly be heard.
“Quadriceps femoris…”
“Will you be so kind as to press the rag further down her throat? I do believe she is about to wake and I don’t want her cries to be a distraction to you.”
“But you said laudanum… that she was beyond saving.”
“Only very drunk, I fear. But even if what I said before was a lie, then it is the truth now, thanks to your cutting, don’t you agree? Her life is bleeding out of her and it will soon be over. Come now, the rag, please. Hear how she cries.”
Nyberg does as instructed.
“I hope you will excuse me, Nyberg, if I make myself a little more comfortable?”
Ceton unbuttons his trousers and lets them fall to his knees. From his place up in the stands, Cardell sees Ceton’s hand bob up and down in a regular rhythm as he leans his head back against the back of the chair, to the sounds of Nyberg’s sobs and the woman’s increasingly faint moans. Saliva leaks down onto his shirt, but he takes no notice.