The Falls (19 page)

When the call was answered, he asked to be put through to Jean Burchill.

‘Jean?’ He stopped walking. ‘It’s John Rebus. We might have struck gold with your little coffins.’ He listened for a moment. ‘I can’t tell you about it right now.’ He looked around. ‘I’m on my way to a meeting. Are you busy tonight?’ He listened again. ‘That’s a pity. Would you be up for a nightcap?’ He brightened. ‘Ten o’clock? Portobello or in town?’ Another pause. ‘Yes, town makes sense if you’ve been in a meeting. I’ll drive you home after. Ten at the museum then? Okay, bye.’

He looked around. He was in Hill Square, and there was a sign on the railings nearest him. Now he knew where he was: at the back of Surgeons’ Hall. The anonymous door in front of him was the entrance to something called the Sir Jules Thorn Exhibition of the History of Surgery. He checked his watch against the opening times. He had about ten minutes. What the hell, he thought, pushing the door and going inside.

He found himself in an ordinary tenement stairwell. Climbing one flight brought him to a narrow landing with two doors facing. They looked like they led to private flats, so he climbed a further flight. As he passed the museum threshold an alarm sounded, alerting a member of staff that there was a new visitor.

‘Have you been here before?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘Well, modern-day is upstairs, and just off to the left is the dental display …’ He thanked her and she left him to it. There was no one else around, no one Rebus could see. He lasted half a minute in the dentistry room. It didn’t seem to him that the technology had moved so very far in a couple of centuries. The main museum display took up two floors, and was well presented. The exhibits were behind glass, well lit for the most part. He stood in front of an apothecary’s shop, then moved to a full-size dummy of the physician Joseph Lister, examining his list of accomplishments, chief among them the introduction of carbolic spray and sterile catgut. A little further along, he came across the case containing the wallet made from Burke’s skin. It reminded him of a small leatherbound Bible an uncle had gifted him one childhood birthday. Beside it was a plaster cast of Burke’s head – the marks of the hangman’s noose still visible – and one of an accomplice, John Brogan, who had helped transport the corpses. While Burke looked peaceful, hair groomed, face at rest, Brogan looked to have suffered torments, the skin pulled back from his lower jaw, skull bulbous and pink.

Next along was a portrait of the anatomist Knox, recipient of the still-warm cadavers.

‘Poor Knox,’ a voice behind him said. Rebus looked around. An elderly man, dressed in full evening attire – bowtie, cummerbund and patent shoes. It took Rebus a second to place him: Professor Devlin, Flip’s neighbour. Devlin shuffled forward, staring at the exhibits. ‘There’s been a lot of discussion about how much he knew.’

‘You mean, whether he knew Burke and Hare were killers?’

Devlin nodded. ‘For myself, I think there’s no doubt he knew. At the time, most bodies worked on by the anatomists were cold indeed. They were brought to Edinburgh from all over Britain – some came by way of the Union Canal. The resurrectionists – body-snatchers – pickled them in whisky for transportation. It was a lucrative trade.’

‘But did the whisky get drunk afterwards?’

Devlin chuckled. ‘Economics would dictate that it did,’ he said. ‘Ironically, both Burke and Hare came to Scotland as economic migrants. Their job was to help build the Union Canal.’ Rebus recalled Jean saying something similar. Devlin paused, tucked a finger into his cummerbund. ‘But poor Knox … the man was possessed of a kind of genius. It was never proven that he was complicit in the murders. But the Church was against him, that was the problem. The human body was a temple, remember. Many of the clergy were against exploration – they saw it as desecration. They raised the rabble against Knox.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He died of apoplexy, according to the literature. Hare, who had turned King’s evidence, had to flee Scotland. Even then he wasn’t safe. He was attacked with lime, and ended his days blind and begging on the streets of London. I believe there’s a pub called the Blind Beggar somewhere in London, but whether it has any connection …’

‘Sixteen murders,’ Rebus said, ‘in an area as confined as the West Port.’

‘We can’t imagine it happening these days, can we?’

‘But these days we’ve got forensics, pathology …’

Devlin unhooked the finger from his cummerbund and wagged it before him. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘And we’d have had no pathological studies at all had it not been for the resurrectionists and the likes of Messrs Burke and Hare!’

‘Is that why you’re here? Paying homage?’

‘Perhaps,’ Devlin said. Then he checked his watch. ‘There’s a dinner upstairs at seven. I thought I’d arrive early and spend some time amongst the exhibits.’

Rebus recalled the invitation on Devlin’s mantelpiece:
black tie and decorations …

‘I’m sorry, Professor Devlin,’ the curator called. ‘It’s time I was locking up.’

‘That’s okay, Maggie,’ Devlin called back. Then, to Rebus: ‘Would you like to see the rest of the place?’

Rebus thought of Ellen Wylie, probably back at her desk by now. ‘I should really …’

‘Come on, come on,’ Devlin insisted. ‘You can’t visit Surgeons’ Hall and miss out on the Black Museum …’

The curator had to let them through a couple of locked doors, after which they entered the main body of the building. The corridors were hushed and lined with portraits of medical men. Devlin pointed out the library, then stopped in a marble-floored circular hall, pointing upwards. ‘That’s where we’ll be eating. Lots of Profs and Docs all dressed to the nines and feasting on rubber chicken.’

Rebus looked up. The ceiling was topped with a glass cupola. There was a circular railing on the first floor, with a doorway just visible beyond. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘Lord alone knows. I just bung them a cheque whenever an invite arrives.’

‘Will Gates and Curt be there?’

‘Probably. You know Sandy Gates has trouble turning down a square meal.’

Rebus was studying the inside of the large main doors. He’d seen them before, but only ever from the other side, while driving or walking down Nicolson Street. He didn’t think he’d ever seen them open, and said as much to his guide.

‘They’ll be open this evening,’ Devlin told him. ‘Guests march in and straight up the stairs. Come on, this way.’

Along more corridors and up some steps. ‘Probably won’t be locked,’ Devlin said, as they approached another imposing set of doors. ‘The dinner guests like a stroll after their meal. Most of them end up here.’ He tried the doorhandle. He was right; the door opened and they entered a large exhibition hall.

‘The Black Museum,’ Devlin said, gesturing with his arms.

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Rebus said. ‘Never had cause to visit.’

‘Off limits to the public,’ Devlin explained. ‘Never been sure why. The College could make itself a bit of money, open it as a tourist attraction.’

Its given name was Playfair Hall, and it wasn’t, to Rebus’s eye, as grisly as its nickname suggested. It seemed to consist of old surgical tools, looking more fit for a torture chamber than an operating theatre. There were lots of bones and body parts and things floating in hazy jars. A further narrow staircase took them up to a landing, where more jars awaited them.

‘Pity the poor bugger whose job is keeping the formaldehyde topped up,’ Devlin said, panting from the exertion.

Rebus stared at the contents of one glass cylinder. The face of an infant stared back at him, but it looked distorted somehow. Then he realised that it sat atop two distinct bodies. Siamese twins, joined at the head, parts of either face forming a singular whole. Rebus, who’d seen his fair share of horror, was held in grim fascination. But there were other exhibits to explore: further deformed foetuses. Paintings, too, mostly from the nineteenth century: soldiers with bits blown off them by cannonball or musket.

‘This is my favourite,’ Devlin said. Surrounded by obscene images, he had found a still point, the portrait of a young man, almost smiling for the artist. Rebus read the inscription.

‘“Dr Kennet Lovell, February, eighteen twenty-nine.”’

‘Lovell was one of the anatomists charged with the dissection of William Burke. It’s even likely that he pronounced Burke dead after the hanging. Less than a month later, he sat for this portrait.’

‘He looks pretty happy with his lot,’ Rebus commented.

Devlin’s eyes sparkled. ‘Doesn’t he? Kennet was a craftsman too. He worked with wood, as did Deacon William Brodie, of whom you will have heard.’

‘Gentleman by day, housebreaker by night,’ Rebus acknowledged.

‘And perhaps the model for Stevenson’s
Jekyll and Hyde
. As a child, Stevenson had a wardrobe in his room, one of Brodie’s creations …’

Rebus was still studying the portrait. Lovell had deep black eyes, a cleft chin and a profusion of dark locks of hair. He had no doubt that the painter would have flattered his subject, maybe shaved a few years and pounds from him. Still, Lovell was a handsome man.

‘It’s interesting about the Balfour girl,’ Devlin said. Startled, Rebus turned to him. The old man, his breathing regular now, had eyes only for the painting.

‘What is?’ Rebus asked.

‘The caskets found on Arthur’s Seat … the way the press have brought them up again.’ He turned towards Rebus. ‘One notion is that they represent Burke and Hare’s victims …’

‘Yes.’

‘And now another casket seems to be some memorial for young Philippa.’

Rebus turned back to the portrait. ‘Lovell worked with wood?’

‘The table in my dining room.’ Devlin smiled. ‘He made that.’

‘Is that why you bought it?’

‘A small memento of the early years of pathology. The history of surgery, Inspector, is the history of Edinburgh.’ Devlin sniffed and then sighed. ‘I miss it, you know.’

‘I don’t think I would.’

They were walking away from the portrait. ‘It was a privilege, in its way. Endlessly fascinating, what this animal exterior can contain.’ Devlin slapped his own chest to make the point. Rebus didn’t feel he had anything to add. To him, a body was a body was a body. By the time it was dead, whatever it was that had made it interesting had disappeared. He almost said as much, but knew he’d fail to match the old pathologist’s eloquence.

Back in the main hall, Devlin turned to him. ‘Look here, you really ought to come along tonight. Plenty of time to run home and change.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Rebus said. ‘It’ll be all shop talk, you said as much yourself.’ And besides, he could have added, he didn’t own so much as a dinner jacket, never mind the rest.

‘But you’d enjoy it,’ Devlin persisted. ‘Bearing in mind our conversation.’

‘Why’s that?’ Rebus asked.

‘The speaker is a priest of the Roman Catholic Church. He’s discussing the dichotomy between body and spirit.’

‘You’ve lost me already,’ Rebus said.

Devlin just smiled at him. ‘I think you pretend to be less able than you are. Probably useful to you in your chosen career.’

Rebus admitted as much with a shrug. ‘This speaker,’ he said. ‘It’s not Father Conor Leary, is it?’

Devlin’s eyes widened. ‘You know him? All the more reason to join us.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Maybe just for a drink before dinner.’

Back at St Leonard’s, Ellen Wylie was not best pleased.

‘Your idea of a “break” differs somewhat from mine,’ she complained.

‘I bumped into someone,’ he said. She didn’t say anything else, but he knew she was holding back. Her face remained tense and when she snatched up the receiver it was as though with malice aforethought. She wanted something more from him: a fuller apology maybe, or some words of praise. He held off for a while, then, as she attacked the telephone again, asked:

‘Is it because of that press conference?’

‘What?’ She slammed the receiver back down.

‘Ellen,’ he said, ‘it’s not as—’

‘Don’t you fucking
dare
patronise me!’

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, no more first names. Sorry if it sounded patronising, DS Wylie.’

She glowered at him, then suddenly her face changed, became looser. She forced a smile from somewhere and rubbed at her cheeks with her hands.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Me too.’ She looked at him. ‘For being out so long. I should have called it in.’ He shrugged. ‘But now you know my awful secret.’

‘Which is?’

‘To wring an apology from John Rebus, you first have to violate a telephone.’

This time she laughed. It was far from full-blooded, and retained an edge of hysteria, but she seemed the better for it. They got back to work.

By the end of play, however, they’d achieved next to nothing. He told her not to worry, it was bound to be a rocky start. She shrugged her arms into her coat, asked if he was going for a drink.

‘Previous appointment,’ he told her. ‘Another night though, eh?’

‘Sure,’ she said. But she didn’t sound as if she believed it.

He drank alone: just the one before the walk to Surgeons’ Hall; a Laphroaig, with the merest trickle of water to smooth its edges. He chose a pub Ellen Wylie wouldn’t know, didn’t like the thought of bumping into her after he’d turned her down. He’d need a few drinks in him to tell her she was wrong, that one tongue-tied press conference wasn’t the end of her career. Gill Templer was down on her, no question of that, but Gill wasn’t stupid enough to let it turn into a feud. Wylie was a good cop, an intelligent detective. She’d get her chance again. If Templer kept knocking her back, she herself would start to look bad.

‘Another?’ the barman said.

Rebus checked his watch. ‘Aye, go on then.’

It suited him, this place. Small and anonymous and hidden away. There wasn’t even a name outside, nothing to identify it. It was on a corner in a back street where only the knowing would find it. Two old regulars in the corner, sitting straight-backed, eyes hypnotised by the far wall. Their dialogue was sparse and guttural. The TV had its sound turned off, but the barman watched it anyway: some American courtroom drama, with lots of pacing about and walls painted grey. Now and then there was a close-up of a woman trying to seem worried. Unwilling to rely on facial expression alone, she wrung her hands as well. Rebus handed over his money and poured the remains of his first drink into its replacement, shaking the drips out. One of the old men coughed, then sniffed. His neighbour said something, and he nodded silent agreement.