Excerpt

Chapter One

March 1893

The fog hung thick and stygian over Glasgow, smothering the streetlights. It wasn't a night for honest men, and it found Wilton Hunt swathed in darkness within the Southern Necropolis cemetery. He saw naught but fog-spawned wraiths and gravestone silhouettes, hearing only the steady rhythm of Tam Foley's digging.

"Why do you–" crunch "–think Miller wants her?" Foley asked as he dug deeper into the grave.

"Healthy sixteen-year olds don't habitually drop dead." In truth Hunt cared little why the medical professor wanted her or any other corpse they exhumed, and any lingering guilt he felt about their sepulchral desecrations was not enough to lose sleep over. Foley's opinion was that if the dead had any objections they were free to raise them. It had been funny last night in the Old Toll Bar over ale; less so now.

Foley grunted. He was making good progress, Hunt having dug the first few feet. The grave was fresh, less than a day old. "So long as he pays us."

Thus far Miller had been as good as his word, paying on delivery before ushering them back out into the night with an air of distaste. Accounting for the late hour, thick fog and cemetery wall, Hunt risked opening the lantern a little and held it over the gravestone:

Amy Margaret Newfield

Delighteth to forgive

"Found it," said Foley. Iron struck wood in hollow agreement.

Hunt put down the lantern and lowered himself into the grave. They had widened it sufficiently to give a little standing room on either side of the coffin, making it easier to break open. Foley wrapped a vinegar-soaked cloth around his face and looked at him expectantly.

Busy securing a cloth-mask around his own face, a precaution in case of swift corruption, it took Hunt a moment to notice the attention. "What?"

Foley cocked his head, his voice muffled through the mask. "Is your head up your arse tonight? The tools."

"Damn." He hauled himself back out of the grave and collected two crowbars from the wheelbarrow before lowering himself carefully back down. The force of a heavy landing might save them time by breaking the coffin open, or it might warp the wood and nails, making their task harder. He handed one crowbar to Foley and jammed the other between the coffin and its lid, working the edge into the wood until it found a grip. Foley did the same at the other end, the coffin creaking beneath them.

Hunt looked at Foley. "Ready?" There was always an unpleasant anticipation at what might lurk beneath the lid.

"Aye." They stepped back in unison and forced the crowbars forward. It was hard work, the sturdy coffin made from elm. Had the Newfields been poorer, the coffin would have been cheap, flimsy pine.

The lid yielded, baring nails like fangs. Hunt peered into the coffin where the shadowed remains of Amy Newfield waited. "Ready?" he asked as Foley climbed out of the grave.

Foley leaned over. "Aye, are you?"

"This isn't my first corpse," Hunt reminded him. He hadn't been sick since their fourth exhumation.

"This afternoon's shit wasn't my first, but it still smelled." Foley squatted. "Hoist her up."

"You've the sweet words of a poet." Hunt put his revulsion aside and gripped the corpse's right arm. He lifted the body while Foley reached down and took hold of her left arm. They raised her together in defiance of weary limbs.

Once she was upright Hunt let go of the arm and took hold of her legs. He lifted, and her white funeral dress brushed against him in a soft, silken sigh. Foley dragged the body up onto the grass while Hunt replaced the coffin lid. Wordlessly, Foley reached down with a glove-clad hand to help him up out of the grave. Both men yielded to fatigue and sank to the ground.

There was a rustle of movement and Foley clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's move the body, fill in the grave, and get the hell out of here."

Hunt forced himself to his feet, arms aching as they dragged the corpse several feet from her grave. He put the lantern down and studied the dead girl's pale face and lank, dark hair. Her eyes had opened during the exhumation and now stared up sightlessly. That was a first; the restless ones usually just farted.

"Shame," Foley said as he moved the wheelbarrow next to the body. He pulled off his mask and shoved it into a pocket.

"Yes," said Hunt, following suit. The pair picked up their shovels and re-buried the empty coffin. He wondered how many other graves in the cemetery had been likewise emptied over the years.

"A job well done," Foley huffed between breaths. He mopped his sweat-soaked brow with a sleeve, smearing dirt over his face.

"Well done, indeed. Except we forgot to strip the body."

"Shit, so we did." Foley stared down at the dirt. "I'm not digging that up again." They habitually stripped the exhumed corpses and threw any clothing or burial shrouds back into the coffin before reburying it.

"No. We'll just have to take our chances." Under the law a corpse was not property and thus taking it was not legally theft. However, a corpse's clothing was considered property, enough to untie a sheriff's hands and let him drop the full weight of his displeasure on top of any body snatcher caught with so much as a burial shroud.

Enacted in response to the infamous Edinburgh Westport murders, the Anatomy Act had ensured a steady supply of medical cadavers, ending the body snatching epidemic from the early years of the century. The medical schools, however, did not have the luxury of picking and choosing their corpses. Which is where we come in.

They trudged to the wheelbarrow, Hunt lagging behind.

Foley stopped. "Where's the body?"

"She slipped off to answer nature's call," Hunt answered as he adjusted his boot. On their third exhumation Foley had rigged the corpse's arm to wave with a piece of string, causing Hunt to almost foul himself. He considered himself well-prepared for future tricks.

"I'm not kidding."

"And I'm in no mood for this," Hunt said, but the edge in Foley's voice gave him pause. "She's right there, where we…"

There was only crushed grass where the body had lain. The lantern still shone where he'd left it. They searched the area but found neither corpse nor explanation for its absence.

"Keep looking," Foley said. "We've just walked to the wrong bit."

Hunt knew differently, the hairs on his neck rising. "Let's get out of here."

"We can't leave without that body."

"It's gone, we should be gone too." A dread certainty told him they shouldn't linger. "Let's give the good professor the bad news." Hunt tugged off his gloves and dropped them into the wheelbarrow. Two bowler hats sat on the grass. He put his on and handed its shabby brother to Foley.

Foley put his hat on, muttering under his breath. He dropped the shovels and crowbars into the wheelbarrow and headed off.