The magistrate’s clerk was deep into his book when the door opened, so instead of his customary non-greeting, he inadvertently acknowledged the stranger with a terse: “He’s out.”
The visitor, a lean man in a heavy coat, took a moment to process the words, but then smiled and started forward, hand out to shake. “Actually, I’m here for—”
The clerk set down his birdwatching book, clearly very annoyed. “The magistrate isn’t in, and I’ve no idea when he’s due back. Any complaints will have to be held until such time as he’s…” He trailed off at the sight of the lean man unfolding a paper and holding it out. “What’s this?”
“My surgical license,” said the man. “Dr Craft’s the name. From King’s College, down in—”
“I’m not in any pain,” said the clerk, suspiciously.
Dr Craft laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m doing this all wrong. I’m not here to offer my services to you. I was rather hoping you might be able to help me.”
The clerk’s suspicions were immediately amplified. “Help you how?”
“Well, you see, I run a course—a new course, as it happens—down in Toronto—”
“What kind of course?”
“Excellent question. A medical course. Anatomical studies and analysis of a practical nature.”
The clerk stared blankly. “How’s that?”
Dr Craft found another paper in his pocket, unfolded it and set it on the table. It was a drawing, in some detail, of a human hand, partially dissected to reveal the muscles and tendons and bones beneath, The clerk slipped on his glasses, squinting at the tiny lettering.
“Goodness,” he said. “You made this?”
“And many more besides,” said Craft. “Hands, feet—”
“Faces?”
“Faces, yes, lungs and hearts. Livers, kidneys…every part, meticulously analyzed and catalogued for the betterment of the art.”
“The art?” asked the clerk.
“Well yes, think of it,” said Craft. “Let’s say you’ve fallen ill and are on the cusp of dying. Who would you rather come to your aid: a doctor who learned his trade through books—” Craft noticed the birdwatching tome the clerk had been reading, but didn’t let it faze him. “—or a doctor who has actually seen the very organs that ail you.”
The clerk watched him carefully. “Seen how? On paper? In diagrams?”
“No, sir,” said Craft. “In the flesh.”
The clerk frowned. “What exactly do you want me to help with?”
Dr Craft redoubled his smile, folding his hand diagram back up and stowing it away safely. “My students will learn better if they can see the human body for what it is. To explore it to the depths required to further their studies.”
“And how—”
“Dissection, sir. The careful revelation of—”
The clerk tucked his hands under his armpits. “You can’t be serious. I’ll never agree to—”
Dr Craft laughed, loudly, and shook his head. “Oh goodness, no, sir, you misunderstand. Operating on the living is strictly against our code of ethics. No, we only study the already-dead. Which is what brings me here to you today.”
The clerk turned his head, ever so slightly, to the side, as if he could peer out the back wall and straight into the shed where the bodies were being kept ‘til spring.
“Have you any recently-deceased who’ve not been claimed? Or the unknown dead?”
The clerk’s eyes narrowed. “No. I don’t believe we do.”
“Ah, well,” said Craft, and then set a not-insubstantial amount of money on the desk, atop the birdwatching book. “Are you quite sure?”
“Good heavens,” gasped Dr Craft as they stepped into the shed. It was packed with even more bodies than just a few weeks ago, with corpses every state and shape and size stacked atop one another like a catalogue of travesty.
“It’s a backlog,” said the clerk. “Until the ground thaws.”
“But so many,” said Craft, a wide smile on his face, like a prospector who just chanced upon gold. “How many souls in Bytown, would you say?”
“A thousand. Maybe more,” said the clerk.
“Goodness…” said Craft. “That’s quite extraordinary. I must say, I didn’t expect to find such a variety in such a small town. Even Toronto would struggle to match this.”
The clerk looked proud. He headed into the room, pointing out the various sections like he was directing a tour. “It’s all divided appropriately,” he said. “Over here you’ve got your beatings, see? Beaten by fists, by clubs and other miscellaneous instruments.”
He headed to another side: “And here we’ve got the stabbings. Chests, backs, necks, eyes.”
“Quite the collection,” said Craft, studying the bodies with a gloved finger. “And of natural causes? Where are those?”
The clerk pointed to a single body, on the floor, of a very old man in a nightgown. “That one’s natural,” he said.
“I see,” said Craft. “I suppose he’ll have to do. What I’m after, honestly, is a broad sampling. Along with the exceptional cases, which of course I’d pay extra for.”
The clerk looked up in surprise. “Extra?”
“The more distinct the circumstances of death, the more my students will learn. It’s in the outliers that discoveries are made.”
The clerk did another scan of the room, this time with a clearer focus. “Burns!” he said. “There was a fire last night—took down a shanty town south of here—so these are fresh.”
“Hmm,” said Craft, studying a few of the charred remains. “I might consider one, I suppose.”
That was not the enthusiastic response the clerk was hoping for, so he tried another: “This one here, beaten to death on the road to Perth.”
Dr Craft leaned in close, tracing a finger along the broken skin and bruising on Rían’s face. The fleur-de-lys imprinted upon him. The malformed lumps where his bones had broken.
“Well, there will be some merit to piecing him all together,” said Craft. “But I’m not sure it rises to the standard of exceptional. There’s a difference between a tragedy and a curiosity.”
The clerk’s face lit up at that. “Curiosity, you say? How about this…” He hurried over to another body, right near the door. “This fellow came in last night, near the fire. Not burned, obviously, but by all accounts he was killed by a single blow to the head.”
This got Craft’s attention. He turned Adam’s head side to side, feeling the bones along the side of his face. “A single blow from what?” he asked.
“A fist. A man’s fist.”
“Well, that is a curiosity,” he said, and flipped another coin to the clerk. “He should provide days of excitement, all on his own.”
He turned back around, observing the room again. “I’ll take them all,” he said.
The clerk choked. “All?”
“Will that be a problem?”
“N-no,” said the clerk. “It’s just…all?”
Dr Craft opened his wallet again, counting out a few more bills, but holding them just out of reach. “This is our secret, yours and mine, yes?”
“Of… of course…” stammered the clerk— when someone threw open the door. Craft hid the money, and the clerk tried to look innocent…and did a poor job of it.
“Where’s the shackles?” called a junior constable, red in the face and wheezing from a sprint. “Can’t find the shackles.”
The clerk grunted unhappily, reverting to his generally-displeased self. “We lost the last of them on that outing the other day,” he said. “Use rope. It’s cheaper.”
The constable looked conflicted about those instructions. The clerk, keenly aware of Dr Craft’s unhappiness at the interruption, glared at the younger man. “Well? Go!”
“It’s just…” said the constable. “Mr Aylen said…”
The clerk’s face dropped. “Mr Aylen said what? He said what?”
“He said to deliver this prisoner properly. Make a show of it, ‘cause of the severity of the crime.”
“What crime? What prisoner?”
Captain Bowen made his way down to the gates without his coat on—and in the freezing cold, too—his hair still a mess. He was chewing a slice of half-cooked meat, the expression on his face making it extremely clear how displeased he was to be roused to his public function so early—and especially by someone like Aylen.
“If this relationship is going to work, Mr Aylen, you’re going to have to learn the basics of decorum.”
“Oh, I know all about your decorum,” said Aylen, not showing a hint of the temperature bothering him, even as the soldiers at either side of him shivered. “But you asked, and now you shall receive.”
“Receive what?” asked Bowen, peering through the gaps in the gate, left and right. “I see no treasure with you.”
“Not treasure,” said Aylen. “Blood. The Corkstown arsonist.”
Bowen glared. “You work fast.”
“I’m a man of my word. And besides, it’s not just you who wants justice done in this case. I’ve a bigger constituency to appease. One that’s actually aggrieved.”
“Let me guess,” said Bowen. “A dead Canadien, accidentally broke his neck after confessing to you and you alone?”
Aylen laughed. Bowen sneered. Aylen leaned closer to the gate. “No, Captain. Wrong on all counts. This particular crime requires a public display. Something to prove justice is true and right and good…even in the hands of men like you.”
“Watch yourself, Aylen…” Bowen growled.
“A hanging,” said Aylen, arms spread wide. “Here, on the hill. Like we did in the old days, before—”
“Before conmen and scoundrels became kings and despots?”
A grin. A savage grin. “Before soldiers became playthings for the Protestant elite.” He shrugged. “Or more overtly, anyway. Seems to me a hanging will herald a new era of cooperation between the two sides of the water. Us, maintaining order and civility on our own terms. And you, following orders blindly.”
Bowen glowered. “Remember your place, sir.”
“And remember your stone house,” said Aylen. “Because with me, that’s within reach for a man like you. Without me? You’ll be a lapdog forever. And a poor one, at that.”
Behind him, a small contingent of constables and Shiners were marching in formation, escorting a prisoner past the cemetery on their way to Barracks Hill.
“We’ll do the hanging here, by the gates,” he said. “Half of Uppertown will want to see it, so we’ll need as much room as possible.”
“There’s been no trial,” said Bowen. “You can’t just—”
“A trial is a nuisance when a confession’s been made.”
“No. No, I won’t be a part of your blood feud. You tell the magistrate to bring the Canadien up on charges, and after a fair hearing, we will see what—”
“It’s not a Canadien,” said Aylen, and Bowen froze.
“It’s…not?”
“No, I’m afraid not. That was our thinking, too, at first. Irish homes set ablaze…it only made sense. But after some digging, we came ‘cross the truth, and though it sickened us to hear it, we put prejudice aside and followed the evidence to its awful conclusion.”
“What conclusion?” asked Bowen. “Who?”
The procession was heading up the hill. The prisoner in the centre was still obscured, which suited Aylen just fine. He was looking forward to tormenting Bowen a little longer.
“It was an accident, of sorts. An act of jealousy lit a spark that burned out of control. But unintended tragedy is still tragedy, and demands punishment.”
Bowen still didn’t understand. And he was losing patience. “Who?” he asked. “Who are we hanging?”
Aylen turned and nodded to the crowd, and they parted on command. “A most unexpected villain,” he said. “But a villain nonetheless. And at the stroke of noon, our villain dies.”