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.