Currer is of tall stature and was dressed in a tattered navy surtout. Nothing in his physiognomy indicates any peculiar harshness of disposition, except perhaps the stern cut of his chin and severe brow. Over the course of the day’s proceedings, Currer appeared deeply troubled, although he displayed no expressions of remorse.
Dr. William Beecham III was called to the stand to testify that he had seen Currer hanging around the Royal Edinburgh Anatomists’ Society on a regular occasion, looking for clients to purchase his grisly wares. Bernard Almont, of Almont House, son of the Viscount Almont, later testified to the fact that he heard Currer make a full confession when Currer believed he was close to death after a stabbing in a game of cards gone wrong. Currer had been living illegally in the closed Le Grand Leon theater, where the police apprehended him.
Edmund Straine, a doctor at the Anatomists’ Society, has also been indicted, for the illegal purchasing of corpses.
36
ON CHRISTMAS DAY, HAZEL WALKED THROUGH the Old Town, her head straight and gaze down. She had decided to walk from Hawthornden, along winding lanes firm with December frost and through miles of empty farmland. Her feet ached, but she barely noticed. There was only the barest awareness that her heel was bleeding, that the wetness was working its way through her stocking and to the leather of her boot’s sole. The wind, and the world, had numbed her, and nothing hurt her anymore.
It had been a week since Jack was arrested. Her mother and Percy were still in London and would stay there for the remainder of the year. She was in the city all alone.
The narrow cobblestone streets were quiet, as if all of Edinburgh had found comfort around Christmas hearths, clutching their loved ones close as the threat of the Roman fever continued to loom like fog outside. Hazel had given Iona, Charles, and Cook the day off. There was only one person she needed today.
The classroom was exactly how Hazel remembered it, from months and a lifetime ago. There was no lingering odor of blood or rot—the room had been cleaned after the semester’s end, and Hazel entered to the smell of wood varnish and alcohol.
Dr. Beecham was standing at the lectern, organizing some papers. “Just a moment, Miss Sinnett,” he said without looking up. “I’m just preparing for my next semester of students after the holidays. You wouldn’t believe how much still needs to be done. The paperwork, my god.” He shuffled a few scraps of parchment into neater rows and then sighed and looked at Hazel. “Hello, then.”
“I came to return your book,” Hazel said. She tossed his copy of Dr. Beecham’s Treatise onto a desk, sending up a small puff of dust. From the pocket of her cloak, she withdrew the small diagram of the hand and fingers that had fallen from its pages. She had kept it safe, a totem of sorts that she had felt linked her to the doctor and writer she once admired so much. She had been staring at it the previous night when the strange pieces of her hypothesis came together. She had examined the evidence. She had determined her conclusion.
“You were welcome to keep the book. I have several copies of my own,” said Beecham flatly.
“I finally understand,” Hazel said. “I don’t know how I didn’t before, how I missed it for so long. No, of course I know how. Because it’s ludicrous. And I thought it was impossible. But I did always believe the original Dr. Beecham was the greatest physician in the world, so I suppose I should have thought him capable of anything. Thought you capable of anything.”
Instead of replying, Beecham stepped out from behind the lectern. He flexed his fingers in the black leather gloves he always wore and raised an eyebrow.
“Take off your gloves,” Hazel said.
Wordlessly, Beecham obeyed, carefully peeling away the leather from his wrists and then gently tugging each finger until both his hands were naked.
Every single one of Dr. Beecham’s fingers was mottled and dead, ten fingers from ten different hands. They ranged in skin tone and size, sewn to Beecham’s hand with thick black stitches, neat but visible.
“As you can see,” he said, “my handiwork wasn’t always so masterly as it is today.” He displayed the fingers for Hazel to see, flipping each hand a few times. “May I?” Hazel nodded, and Beecham replaced his gloves. “Fingers were the easiest thing to lose, early on. And before I perfected my tonic for limb transpositions, I’m afraid I just did the best I could. Injuries are so easy when death never comes. So there it is. You discovered my little secret. May I offer you a cup of tea?”
“So it’s true, then,” Hazel said. “You’re the only Beecham. You’re the one who wrote the book, the treatise. You—”