“Pardon?” I said in some surprise.
“Law of the land,” he went on. “The university has a right to the bodies of everyone hanged within twenty miles. The courts are so very lax on crime these days as well. Many an interesting specimen gets off with a flogging, and there’s only about half a dozen hangings a year. And I’m afraid they don’t always make the best use of the corpses they do have. Our Regius professor is scarcely qualified to be a carpenter. Last time… well, let’s not go into that,” he said with a shudder.
We had arrived at the castle, a great gloomy edifice which scarcely seemed capable of defending the town from assault or of providing a refuge for the townspeople. In fact, it had not been used for such a purpose for as long as anyone could remember; and was now the county prison, in which those due to appear at the assizes were held pending their trial—and pending their punishment afterward. It was a dirty, shabby place, and I looked around with distaste as Lower knocked on the door of a little cottage down by the stream, in the shadow of the tower.
Getting in to see his body was surprisingly easy; all he had to do was tip the guardian a penny, and this old hobbling man—a Royalist soldier who had been given the position for his services—led the way, his keys jangling by his side.
If it was gloomy outside, it was even darker inside, although far from grim for the more fortunate of the inmates. The poorer ones, naturally, had the worst of the cells and were forced to eat food which was barely adequate for keeping body and soul together. But, Lower pointed out, as several were to have body and soul forcibly separated in due course anyway, there was little point in spoiling them.
However, the better sort of prisoner could rent a more salubrious cell, send out to a tavern for food and in addition have laundry done when required. He could also receive visitors if, as was the case with Lower, they were prepared to tip heavily for the privilege.
“There you are, then, sirs,” said the warder as he swung open a heavy door leading into what I gathered was a cell for a middle-ranking sort of prisoner.
The man whom Lower hoped to cut into small bits was sitting on a little bed. He looked up in a rather sulky fashion as we entered, then peered curiously, a glimmer of half recognition passing across his face as my friend passed into the thin stream of light that came through the open, barred window.
“Dr. Lower, isn’t it?” he said in a melodious voice.
Lower told me later that he was a lad from a good, but impoverished family; his fall from grace had been something of a shock and his position was not sufficiently elevated to spare him from the gallows. And now the time appointed was drawing near. The English rush from trial to sentence with considerable speed, so that a man condemned on Monday can often be hanged the following morning unless he is lucky. Jack Prestcott could count himself fortunate that he had been arrested a few weeks before the assizes arrived to hear his case; it gave him time to prepare his soul, for Lower told me there was not the slightest chance of an acquittal or a pardon.
“Mr. Prestcott,” Lower said cheerfully. “I hope I find you well?”
Prestcott nodded and said he was as well as could be expected.
“I won’t beat about the bush,” Lower said. “I’ve come to ask something of you.”
Prestcott looked surprised that he should be asked a service in his current condition, but nodded to indicate that Lower should ask away. He put down his book and paid attention.
“You are a young man of considerable learning, and I’m told your tutor spoke very highly of you,” Lower continued. “And you have committed a most heinous crime.”
“If you have found a way of saving me from the noose, then I agree with you,” Prestcott said calmly. “But I fear you have something else in mind. But please continue, doctor. I am interrupting your speech.”
“I trust you have meditated on your sinful conduct, and have seen the justice of the fate which awaits you in due course,” Lower continued in what struck me as being a remarkably pompous fashion. I suppose the effort to hit the right tone made him sound a little discordant.
“Indeed I have,” the youth replied with gravity. “Every day I pray to the Almighty for forgiveness, mindful that I scarcely deserve such a boon.”
“Splendid,” continued Lower, “so if I were to tell you of a way in which you could contribute inestimably to the betterment of all mankind, and do something to cancel out the horrible acts with which your name will be forever associated, you might be interested? Hmm?”
The young man nodded cautiously, and asked what this contribution might be.
Lower explained about the law on the corpses of criminals.
“Now, you see,” he went on, scarcely noticing that Prestcott had turned a little pale, “the Regius professor and his assistant are the most appalling butchers. They will hack and saw and chop, and reduce you to a mangled ruin, and no one will be any the wiser. All that will happen is that you will furnish a rarity show for any spotty undergraduate who cares to come along and watch. Not that many do. Now I—and my friend here, Signor da Cola, of Venice—are dedicated to research of the most delicate kind. By the time we are finished, we will know immeasurably more about the functions of the human body. And there will be no waste, I promise you,” he went on, waving his finger in the air as he got into his stride.
“You see, the trouble with the professor is that, once he stops for lunch, he tends to lose interest. He drinks a good deal, you know,” he confided. “What’s left over gets thrown away or gnawed by rats in the basement. Whereas I will pickle you…”
“I beg your pardon?” Prestcott said weakly.
“Pickle you,” Lower replied enthusiastically. “It is the very latest technique. If we joint you and pop you into a vat of spirits, you will keep for very much longer. So much better than brandy. Then when we have the leisure to dissect a bit, we just fish you out and get to work. Splendid, eh? Nothing will be wasted, I assure you. All that is required is that you give me a letter specifying as your last request that I be allowed to dissect you once you have met your punishment.”
Convinced that this was a request no reasonable man might refuse, Lower leaned back against the wall and beamed with anticipation.
“No,” Prestcott said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said no. Certainly not.”
“But I told you; you’ll be dissected anyway. Wouldn’t you at least want it to be done properly?”
“I don’t want it done at all, thank you. What’s more, I’m convinced it will not be.”
“A pardon, you think?” Lower said with interest. “Oh, I think not. No, I fear you will swing, sir. After all, you nearly killed a man of some importance. Tell me, why did you attack him?”
“I must hasten to remind you, I have not yet been found guilty of any crime, let alone condemned, and I am convinced I will shortly regain my freedom. Should I be wrong then I might entertain your proposal, but even then I doubt whether I will be able to oblige you. My mother would have the gravest objections.”
This, I suppose, was the time for Lower to return to his theme, but his enthusiasm seemed to have waned. Perhaps he thought the young man’s mother would regard being jointed and pickled as bringing still further shame on his name. He nodded regretfully and stood up, thanking the youth for having listened to his request.
Prestcott told him to think nothing of it and, when asked if he needed anything to improve his condition, asked if he could deliver a message to a Dr. Grove, one of his former tutors, asking for the goodness of a visit. He had need of spiritual comfort, he said. Another gallon of wine would be well received also. Lower promised and I offered to deliver the wine, as I felt sorry for the fellow, and I did so as my friend went off to an appointment with a new patient.