“Oh, very well,” I muttered. I carried out the task with brisk efficiency. It is no easy thing to remove garments from a stiff wax figure, and I was surprised to find her clad in undergarments as well as the elaborate dress. A peculiar dampness clung to the garments, and I draped them over various things—a camel saddle, one of the caryatids—to air out. At last she was dressed in a pair of bloomers, and these I removed only to give a quick exclamation of surprise.
“It seems she was indeed created for the purposes of anatomical instruction,” I said, peering at our waxen friend. I pointed to where the sculptor had seen fit to ensure that she was completely and comprehensively intact. I gestured towards the thicket of curls at the juncture of her legs.
“An Anatomical Venus,” Stoker said, choking a little.
I studied her elegant profile and the pretty details of her appearance—buffed, pointed fingernails, a slender black ribbon tied at her throat. “But why such a glamorous, feminine sculpture for medical purposes? Surely a more neutral figure would be more suitable, something moreclinical.”
“That is the thinking now,” he agreed. “But the Venuses were sculpted by artists, not physicians. They were fashioned by hands that were schooledto create beauty above all else, that had been trained to make beautiful things, elaborate statues of holy women.”
I thought of the waxen effigies I had seen of sacred ladies on my travels in Italy, dressed lavishly and adorned with flowers and jewels and carried out in triumph on their name days by the worshipful. It was, I supposed, in the nature of the Latin to make beautiful that which was merely necessary.
Stoker went on. “There used to be hundreds of these models, if not thousands. Every medical school in Europe and beyond boasted a selection of them. Eventually, professors and lecturers began to prefer actual cadavers, and textbooks were drawn to reflect the change. That is when these ladies went out of favour, and many were destroyed or shut up in storerooms, but some people collect them.”
“How do you know so much about them?”
“I once knew a man who travelled about, displaying his,” he said somewhat absently. He had bent to examine the figure and as he scrutinised her, his brow furrowed. “Odd. A proper Anatomical Venus would have separate panels that could be removed to display the different layers of dissection. This one is intact.”
“Then she is a simple waxwork,” I suggested.
“But that does not explain the—” He gestured vaguely towards her lush pudenda. “Although, I have heard that some gentlemen...”
I raised a brow as he trailed off, his complexion of so combustible a shade, I thought he might suffer an infarction.
“Some gentlemen?”
“Commissioned such figures in order to enjoy them in solitude,” he rattled off quickly.
I blinked at him for a long moment before comprehension dawned. “Oh, forpurposes.”
“Of amusement,” he said quickly.
“To assuage their loneliness, I imagine,” I added. “But in that casesurely she ought to have a few more accoutrements. An opening that would approximate a vag—”
“I beg you not to finish that thought,” he pleaded.
“I am simply pointing out that if the intention of such a figure is to provide sexual gratification, she really ought to come fully equipped for such activities.”
“I think we should stop speaking,” he said in a faint voice.
He took up his scalpel and gently probed the smooth, hard surface of the figure, running a fingertip along the edge of the torso as he assessed her with an artist’s eye.
“Just here might make the most graceful place to create the panel,” he said. He bent, pressing the blade into the waxwork. It stuck almost immediately, and he waggled the instrument back and forth. “Good god,” he muttered. “What sort of additives did they put into this wax? It is a good deal harder than I expected. I shall have to use a skinning knife.”
Stoker turned to his tools again, selecting a knife with a curved blade. He used it frequently in his taxidermic efforts, careful to keep the edge honed to a wicked, gleaming sharpness.
He plunged this blade carefully into the figure and gave a nod of satisfaction. “That’s better,” he murmured as he made quick work of the job, his hands moving in slow, graceful arcs around the torso. When he was finished, he laid the knife aside and slid his fingers beneath the waxen flesh to pull the panel free. It took a bit of effort, that much was apparent from the corded muscles of his forearms.
“Heavy?” I inquired.
“Stuck fast,” he replied. “Almost as if there were some sort of suction involved.” He braced his feet and pulled again, his jaw set in grim determination. With a great and terrible sound of yielding, the matter in his hands came free and the waxwork was opened.
We looked inside, and for a long moment neither of us spoke. Aftera pause that might have lasted entire minutes, I posed a question, my voice sounding distant above the roaring in my ears.
“Stoker, is that—”
“Yes. Yes it is. Would you mind holding this?” Without waiting for a reply, he thrust the portion of the torso into my hands and turned away to be lavishly sick upon the floor.
I waited calmly for him to finish, and as I waited, I wondered exactly how an actual human body had come to be disguised as an anatomical waxwork and who precisely the dead woman might be.
