Then the thunderstorm started, and within minutes all was awash with muddy water, the torrents so heavy it was hard even to see what was going on.
Wood paused here to take another drink. “I hate hangings,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I go and see them, of course, but I do hate them. I don’t know anybody who thinks otherwise, or could do once they have seen one. The way the face contorts and the tongue protrudes is so hideous that you understand why normally they insist on the head being covered. And the smell as well, and the way the arms and legs twist and jerk.” He shuddered. “Let me talk of that no more. For it didn’t last long, and when it was done Lower staked his claim. Did you know he’d bought the body, and come to some sort of arrangement with the judge so that he might have it, and not the professor?”
I nodded. I thought he must have done so.
“It was done in the worst possible way, because the university had heard and the Regius professor thought his prerogatives were being infringed. So he came along as well, to claim his right. There was a brawl in the mud. Can you believe it? Two proctors fighting for the body, held off by half a dozen friends of Lower, who got Locke to help him pick it up and carry it out of the yard. I don’t think many knew exactly what was going on, but those who realized were furious and began throwing stones. There was very nearly a riot, and would have been had not the rain persuaded many to leave.”
I think this was the last straw for my friendship with Lower. I know what he would say, that a body is a body, but there was a callousness about his action which distressed me greatly. I believe it was because he had abandoned me in order to advance his own career, that given a choice between assisting me in treating the mother, and gaining the daughter for dissection, he had chosen the latter. He would now have his book on the brain, I thought grimly. Much may it profit him.
“So Lower has his way?”
“Not exactly. He took the body to Boyle’s and is virtually under siege there. The proctors complained to the magistrate and said that if they can’t have the corpse, no one should have it. So the magistrate has now changed his mind, and is demanding it back. Lower, so far, has refused to give it up.”
“Why?”
“I suppose because he is doing as much work on the corpse as he can in the time allowed.”
“And what about Mr. Boyle?”
“Fortunately, he is in London. He would be appalled to be involuntarily dragged into such an affair.” He stood up. “I am going home. If you will excuse me…”
I wrapped myself up as well as I could and braved the rainfall to walk along the High Street to the apothecary’s. I found Mr. Crosse along with the boy he employed to mix ingredients guarding the door, firmly making sure that no one entered unless Lower gave permission. Including myself. I could not believe it when he held his hand against my chest and shook his head. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Cola,” he said. “But Lower is adamant. Neither you, nor any of these other gentlemen here, are to be allowed to interrupt him while he is working.”
“That is absurd,” I cried. “What is going on?”
Crosse shrugged. “I believe that Mr. Lower has agreed to hand the body back to the hangman, so that it can be burned as ordered. Until that gentleman comes, he sees no reason why he should not conduct such investigations as he sees fit. He has little enough time, hence his insistence on not being disturbed. I’m sure he would be glad of your participation under ordinary circumstances.” He added that he was saddened by what he had heard of our argument, and counted himself still my friend. It was kindly done.
And so, like any common citizen, I had to stand and wait for Lower’s pleasure, although Crosse at least did me the favor of allowing me to wait indoors, rather than having to stamp my feet outside, until the hangman arrived to claim his booty.
Then Lower came down, looking tired and worn, his hands and apron still bloody from his labors. The sight of him inside the building caused a small tremor to run through the crowd.
“Are you prepared to submit to the magistrate’s orders?” the hangman asked.
Lower nodded, then caught the hangman by the sleeve as he was preparing to take his assistants upstairs.
“I have taken the liberty of ordering a box for the body,” he said. “It would not do for her to be carried out as she now is. It will be here shortly, and it would be best to wait.”
The hangman assured him that he had seen many gruesome sights in his time, and this would not bother him. “I was thinking of the crowd,” Lower said as he disappeared up the stairs. He followed, and, as there was no one to stop me, I followed Lower.
One glance, and the hangman changed his mind; indeed, he turned ashen white at the sight. For Lower had abandoned the delicate workmanship which normally characterized his dissections. In his haste to take the organs he wanted for his work, he had quartered the body, and ripped it open with savagery; removed the head, and sawn it open to take the brain, tearing off the face in his haste, and then tossed the pieces on an oilcloth on the floor. Those fine, beautiful eyes, which had so captivated me the first time I saw her, had been torn from their sockets; tendons and muscles hung from the arms as though savaged by a wild beast. Bloody knives and saws lay all around, along with the piles of the long, dark, lustrous hair which he had hacked off to attack the skull. There was blood everywhere, and the stink of blood filled the room. A large bucketful which he had drained from her stood in another corner, next to glass jars full of his trophies. And the smell was indescribable. In a corner, in a small pile, was the cotton shift she had worn, stained and soiled from her last ordeal.
“Dear God,” the hangman exclaimed, looking at Lower with horror, “I should take this out and show it to the crowd.
Then you would join her on the pyre, which is no more than you deserve.”
Lower shrugged with exhaustion and unconcern. “It is for the common good,” he said. “I feel no need to apologize, to you or anyone else. It is you, and that ignorant magistrate, who should apologize. Not me. If I had had more time…”
I stood in the corner and felt the tears welling up in me, so tired and sad to see all my hopes and faith shattered. I could not believe that this man whom I had called my friend could act in such a callous way to me, show such a side of himself that previously had been so well hidden. I have no sentimental notions about the body once the soul has departed; I believe it is fitting and honorable to use them for the purposes of science. But it must be done with humility, in honor of something which was made in God’s image. To advance himself, Lower had descended to the level of a butcher.
“Well,” he said, looking at me for the first time. “What are you doing here?”
“The mother is dead,” I said.
“I am grieved to hear it.”
“So you should be, as it was your doing. Where were you last night? Why did you not come?”
“It would not have done any good.”
“It would have,” I said, “if she’d enough spirit to dilute the daughter’s. She died the moment her child was hanged.”
“Nonsense. Pure, unscientific superstitious nonsense,” he said, rattled by my willingness to confront him with what he had done. “I know it is.”
“You do not. It is the only explanation. You are responsible for her death and I cannot forgive you.”
“Then do not,” he said brusquely. “Hold to your explanation, and to my responsibility if you wish. But do not trouble me at the moment.”
“I demand to know your reasons.”
“Go away,’’ he said. “I will give you no reasons, and no explanations. You are no longer welcome here, sir. Go away, I say. Mr. Crosse. Will you escort this foreign gentleman out?”
The exchange went on a little longer than this, but in essence those were the last words he ever spoke to me. Since then, I have heard nothing from him at all, and so I still am unable to explain why his friendliness turned to malice and his generosity to the most extreme cruelty. Was the prize so great? Was his feeling of disgust with his deeds turned on me so that he could avoid owning his own fault? But one thing I soon became certain of. His failure to help me with Mrs. Blundy was deliberate. He wanted my experiment to fail, because I could not then claim success.