Chapter 1

 

One more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!

London, November 1867

 

Doctor Peter Ainsley desperately needed a stiff drink of something, anything to dampen this feeling of pity he had for the girl who lay dead on his examination table. Her body was pulled from the Thames earlier that day. Scotland Yard had brought her to Ainsley, as they did with all of London's suspicious deaths. His workspace was overrun with bodies of the dead, nearly every examination surface was occupied, and many more waited in the adjoining room. He was slow, methodical, much to the dismay of his employers who would rather see him quickly process the bodies and move on. No one cared about the poor and unfortunate, the children especially, who arrived there more often than most. London was rife with lowlifes and ne’er-do-wells, the morgue only represented a small fraction of the suffering which awaited them beyond the hospital's stone walls.

The girl before him possessed a classic beauty, a striking similarity to many ancient Greek statues with a gently sloping jaw and high cheekbones. Her damp, needle straight hair hung limp and motionless off the edge of the wooden table where she lay, the ends slightly matted together due to the churning of the muddy tide waters. She smelled like the putrid liquid of the Thames, the vile filth and garbage thrown in by thousands of local residents looking to the current to wash it away. Her skin was made nearly ash brown by the feces and urine tossed into the water by the bucket full. Ainsley did what he could to wash the grime away but much had already seeped into her pores causing permanent discolouration.

Her lips were blue and her skin waxy to the touch. Ainsley leaned over the body, carefully surveying for any outward sign of what had brought her to the waters’ edge. There was no bruising on her throat, no lacerations on her face or head. He lifted her limp arms and separated each finger so he could look at them better. There were no defensive wounds, no marks of struggle. Nothing that could justify her sudden loss of life.

Scalpel in hand, he cut a Y-shaped incision in her abdomen and then sawed through her rib cage to gauge the functions of her internal organs. His colleagues rarely had to go so far. Often it was enough for them to regard a wound on the head or neck to determine a cause of death. Ainsley was far more scrupulous and was determined to find out as much as he could about the moments prior to death.

He gingerly pulled each organ from her torso, separating them on the shelf behind him so he could weigh them later. By the time he was done her corpse lay like one of Madam Tussaud’s wax replicas of tortured criminals.

The sound of a distant door creaking open pulled Ainsley from his extreme focus. He saw Dr. Crawford heading towards him, weaving between sheet-covered bodies as he made his way to the examination table. Ainsley washed the girl's blood from his bare hands at a nearby sink. Dr. Crawford gave a quick glance to the girl on the table, her innards separated in glass jars on the opposite table. “From the Thames?” he asked, no doubt seeing the telltale signs with just a passing glance.

“She is. Haven't determined a cause—”

Crawford would not let him finish. “Suicide,” he answered bluntly.

Ainsley gave an inquisitive look as he dried his hands on a towel. “I haven't examined the organs yet.”

“No need,” Crawford answered with a shrug. “A governess swore she saw this girl jumping from Waterloo Bridge. Her brother is outside the door.” Crawford peered over his half-moon spectacles, as if daring the young upstart doctor to challenge his authority. “Now stitch her back up and let's get him in here to identify her. Then we can all go home.” He gave a false benevolent smile and clasped a heavy hand on Ainsley's shoulder.

It was not the first time the supervising medical examiner overruled his findings. It seemed no matter how many accolades he received, no matter how many recommendations followed him from school, he still needed to prove himself worthy of his title of morgue surgeon.

Dr. Crawford left, without giving Ainsley another chance to impart any possible findings. The autopsy was finished in Crawford's eyes. Not that Ainsley wanted to make his job more strenuous but his time in Edinburgh had taught him that nothing could be determined until all parts of the body had been examined. The process was methodical, precise, and Ainsley reasoned, the families deserved to know as much information as modern science could provide.

Ainsley stood over the body of the woman, resting his hands on the edge of the table as he looked over the corpse. Suicide would explain why no marks existed and why her lungs were full of fluid when he pulled them out. He had suspected she was a jumper, but why? Why would a young woman as beautiful as she take her life? She was young enough for marriage prospects. With her brother waiting just outside the door she obviously had a family who still cared about her. He glanced to the jars, and the bloody specimens they held. There had to be something, he thought, something that would help him decipher her death.

An hour later, having completed his thorough examination of her body, Ainsley slipped from the room. He had switched his blood stained leather apron for a clean shirt and waist coat and made sure his skin was clear of all evidence of the work he performed. The girl's brother was still waiting, perched on a rickety wooden chair placed against the wall in the hallway. There was a reception table with an empty chair next to him where a porter should have been stationed to wait with him. It was the porters who dealt with the grieving families, not the doctors. Ainsley hesitated, glancing to the empty chair, wondering what he could possibly say to alleviate the pain.

The brother had his face buried in the hollow of his cap, crying, Ainsley thought. Sensing someone approaching he pulled the hat away and Ainsley's suspicion was confirmed. The man jumped to his feet as Ainsley approached.

“Doctor?” he asked, his voice shaking. “My sister Julia...” His voice trailed off as if he would cry openly with Ainsley standing right there in front of him.

Just then the porter returned, offering an apologetic smile. “This man will take you in to see her.” Ainsley gestured to the young man who now stood behind him. “Then you can arrange to take her body to the church.”

“No church will take her. She's is lost to us now.”

Ainsley pulled a small script of paper from his pocket and leaned in on the reception table. He scribbled some words quickly on the paper. “Take her here,” he said, giving the paper to the man in front of him. “I know the vicar there. He is a good man. He will see that she gets a Christian burial.”

“Bless you, sir.” The brother twisted his cap in his tightly gripped hands. His elation was short lived. “I just don't understand,” he said, raising his red stained eyes to meet the doctor's. “Why would she do this? We are a God-fearing family. Why would she risk damnation?”

Ainsley gave the man a steady clasp on the shoulder as he walked closer. Leaning in so no others would hear, Ainsley whispered, “She was with child.” He could feel the man's shoulder's slump before he moved on. As he walked down the halls he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the sounds of the grown man openly weeping.

Exchanges like that were few and Ainsley liked it that way. He did not converse with families often. As a man of necropsy he was glad to keep his patients at arm’s length, only focusing on the task, the body, the death, while trying to ignore the person that was once housed within. His training had been difficult indeed. While in school the cadavers sat for weeks on end awaiting further dissection. The cavernous opening in the stomach became more and more slouched as time wore on, revealing each new organ as the aspiring doctors cut away. It had been hard for Ainsley to see those bodies sprawled out all around him and not view them as people. His well-bred upbringing had shielded him from all talk of death. The other student doctors bore the hard knocks of life better than he and treated the recently dead as play things to be explored. One man, whose father was a butcher, explained his first dissection on a neighbourhood cat that had been killed by a passing cart. The muscles were still twitching, he said, when he cut her open in his father's backroom. That is when he knew he would be a surgeon one day, or so he told his classmates.

Ainsley had no such dark and dreary tale. He wanted to help people who were sick and dying. His first fascination was with cells, bacteria and microscopic organisms, the newest faction of medical science. Then he gravitated towards diseases and a body's response to introductions of certain tonics, cures and remedies. All of these scientific pursuits were acceptable for a man like Ainsley, a man from a noble house. He was the second son after all and fairly well educated. Sitting in a study, pouring over medical manuals and looking through a microscope were commendable pastimes. Becoming a surgeon was completely unacceptable.

With daylight running out Ainsley hadn't expected anyone to remain at the hospital, but once he reached the office, the communal room where all other examiners hung their hats and processed reports, he found Dr. Crawford still within. He had his back to Ainsley and was slipping on his coat before turning to adjust his collar.

“Following instructions has never been your strong suit,” Dr. Crawford said gruffly as he eyed the young doctor. Ainsley worked hard not to laugh at this very true remark. “You were to be done with her an hour ago.”

Ainsley realized the severity in his boss' face and suddenly became sober to the fact that he was being reproached. “My apologies sir,” he answered sharply, “I only wanted--”

“You only wanted to waste more time! Do you think we have never ending facilities here where we can house the dead indefinitely?” Crawford leaned on the desk, driving his white knuckles into the wood. “Our job is to work fast so that we may send the bodies home with their families.”

“Are we not supposed to determine a cause of death?”

Crawford looked as if he would tear Ainsley's head off and throw it in a fire. “How difficult is it to determine that the girl drowned, eh? She drowned four hours ago and no amount of dissection is going to bring her back so don't waste your time! Don't waste my time!”

“I thought if I could give the family answers. If I could determine why she chose to commit suicide, then they could be at peace.”

“She's a low life, that's why. A dim witted girl, and I can point you to neighbourhoods all over London with thousands more. It is not our job to determine why. We must find out how, that is all!” Crawford rammed his fist on the top of the table to enunciate his point.

“Yes sir,” was all Ainsley could manage to reply. At this point he did not want to risk losing his position, which would surely prove to his father that he was not cut out for medicine. “I will follow your instructions, sir.”

“Oh you damn well better,” Crawford spat. His gaze trailed to his desk settling on a folded letter. “I know what I will do with you.” Crawford reached across the desk and snatched it up. “You're so fascinated by the details. I received a telegram from a former colleague of mine, Dr. Bennett. He is the physician in a small village to the north.” Dr. Crawford paused for a moment, sucking in air as he peered at the telegram once more. “It would appear he is in over his head and needs a doctor with more experience with diseases. Now that I think of it, you are a perfect fit.” He scanned the telegram briefly before handing it over. “Two young girls, one dead, the other dying. Bennett is a physician, not a surgeon. He needs someone to examine the body, perform a dissection and determine a cause of death.” Crawford gave a forced cough. “That ought to keep you occupied for a while. Perhaps we could actually get some work done around here while you're gone.”

Ainsley looked to the piece of paper that was thrust at him. Crawford brushed past him. His work day was done and he was likely eager to get home.

“One week, Dr. Ainsley,” Dr. Crawford said at the door, “I am giving you one week, including travel time. Determine the cause and get back here, ready to work. With winter coming we are sure to be busy.” Crawford tipped his hat over his head and slammed the door behind him.