“There is a cure for every disease, Lambert. All you have to do is discover it. And if you’re the first to do so, you will have the medical community eating out of your hand.”
Nine chimes tolled from the great longcase clock in the receiving room, and Peckwood promptly clapped on his hat. “Excuse me, but we’ll have to finish this discussion another time. I have a meeting to attend. Lock up on your way out, please. Good night.”
Graham dipped his head. “Good night.”
The man’s footsteps faded. The thud of the front door echoed throughout the empty building. A lonely sound. Melancholy, in a way, for now he was utterly alone.
And yet a charge ran through him. This was the first time he’d been the sole occupant of the building since he’d discovered that corpse in Peckwood’s quarters three days ago. The perfect opportunity to search for a connection to the man’s supplier.
He pushed away from the desk and grabbed the lamp, debating all the way up the staircase about the ethics of his actions. Peckwood had told him outright to stay clear of his personal business, yet was it personal when it involved a medical illegality? Was it not his duty as a citizen to expose those who had committed a crime? For if Peckwood had been supplied a body by resurrectionists, then there was more at stake than just the private life of one man. That body had belonged to someone who trusted their loved one rested peacefully beneath the earth, not lay naked upon a wooden slab.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped, the door inches in front of him. A load of confliction weighed heavy on his back. Did the end justify the means of trespass? Stumbling into the room as he had last time didn’t equate with the willful entrance he was about to commit.
Well, God? What of it? Am I once again trying to bring justice ahead of Your time?
He received no answer but the flickering of the lamp flame. This was ridiculous. Either he ought to charge ahead or forget the whole matter once and for all. He put his hand on the knob, then paused, unsure. No doubt the thing would be locked, and he’d have to work to unlatch it, which would add crime upon crime to his account.
So what’s it to be, God? Am I Your instrument in this matter or simply another sinner bent on doing his own will?
And…nothing. No guidance whatsoever. The same uncertainty churned in his gut. How had his mother ever heard God’s voice so clearly?
He turned away, but the scuff of his fingers on the knob sent the door creaking open. Not much, but enough that Peckwood would discern he’d been up here nosing about. In his great haste for his meeting, had the man forgotten to lock it…or was this a trap?
He reached for the knob, intent on ending this fool’s errand, but this time his lamplight ran ahead of him and illuminated a portion of the room.
The veryemptyroom.
Graham pushed the door open all the way and entered, golden light landing on naught but a Turkish carpet at center. Not a slab. Not a body. Just a rug. He swung his gaze to the wall of shelving. Where once jars of body parts sat row upon row, now books lined up like little soldiers. The only thing that remained the same was the big desk near the window.
He padded over to it, set down the lamp, and fingered through some assorted papers, making sure to keep them in the exact order as he found them. Yet document after document, slip after slip, not one thing even so much as hinted at a connection between Peckwood and resurrectionists. He blew out a disgusted breath. What an imbecile. What was he expecting? A proper receipt? Still, that didn’t stop him from a quick once-over of the rest of the desk.
From the lowest drawer, he pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper that’d been crammed to a back corner. Holding it close to the lamp, he squinted at the invoice for lamp oil. A red PAST DUE was stamped across the top, the date received several weeks ago. Was the man not paying his bills? But why? He not only had the funding Graham had deposited for half the practice but the fat payment from the Balfours as well. Not to mention the increase in patients and the resulting income from their care. Where was Peckwood’s money going?
He rubbed his neck. Troubling, that. He was going to have to discuss it with the man but in a way that wouldn’t reveal he’d nosed about in his private quarters. He nestled the invoice back in its resting place and shut the drawer.
Swinging about, he cast a last glance at the bookshelves. Medical references, all. Nothing odd whatsoever there, save for the alignment of the last four titles on the far right at the top. The spines sat at the edge, as if the doctor had removed them for inspection then shoved them back without taking the time to line them up with the others. What had Peckwood been researching of late?
Graham pulled one off and inspected the title.The Anatomy of Humane Bodies with Figures Drawn after the Life.Pish. No great surprise here. Graham himself owned this one. Reaching, he shoved it in place, or tried to. The thing would not set right, having hit something hard. Pulling the book back out, he set it down and lifted the lamp. Something was blocking the way, and by the looks of it, a great sheaf of paper.
He removed the other books then pulled down a three-inch stack of documents. The top sheet was clearly a letter, but undated and with no address other thanDear Sir.Scanning the contents, he frowned. This was a query for publication, yet without a title. Was this what Peckwood had been spending his time on?
“Present something innovative, with the research to back it up, well…you’ll have the Academy knocking at your door, offering money and prestige.”
The doctor’s words suddenly made sense. So did the cadaver Graham had spied earlier. But what exactly was the man researching? He flipped to the next page.
Transsphenoidal (or Transcranial?) Removal of a Portion of the Frontal Lobe
A Remedy for the Complete Reversal of Madness and Full Restoration of the Human Psyche
Apparently Peckwood hadn’t decided yet on the best approach to his innovative new procedure, because the title was in question. Either way, quite the morbid procedure—unless it actually worked.
Graham replaced the papers on the shelf, filled with more questions than when he’d come in here. Was this the reason for the doctor’s excessive amount of time at St. Peter’s? For his close relationship with the warden, one that allowed his access to the inmates?
And if so, how many inmates had suffered for the sake of this research, for Peckwood’s quest of money and prestige?
THIRTEEN
“This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean?”
