The Frankenstein Testament

Harpur knew the smell very well. It was the unmistakable stench of death.

He had smelt it on the battlefields of Rangoon, Ceylon and the Falklands. Lately he had inhaled it in the alleyways of Belfast where the poor died drunk in the streets, murdered each other in the pubs or did away with themselves to escape their miserable lives in the factories and mills of the town. This, however, was by far the grandest surroundings he had smelled it in.

The Policeman had just entered the oak panelled dissecting room of the Belfast Academical Institution. Normally when an autopsy was being performed the tiered benches that made up the theatre would be full of eager anatomy students, studious young men who watched intently every cut of the surgeon’s knife. Today, there were very few there as the students of “the Inst” (as the establishment was commonly referred to) were off on their Christmas Holidays.

On the operating slab in the centre of the room was a male corpse. The body lay like a plucked Christmas goose, its skin pale grey and mottled in places by purple. A large Y-shaped incision cleaved the chest exposing the innards that coiled and looped in a gruesome mass of brown, white and green. The top of the corpse's skull had been sawed off and three men were peering intently at the contents of the head. One was slightly built, almost painfully thin and approaching fifty. He wore little round spectacles and a heavy tweed suit. He ponderously stroked a ginger goatee beard that matched in colour what was left of his thinning hair. The second man was a giant: Well over six feet tall and about twenty stones in weight. He was silver haired, in his sixties and his face seemed about to burst from the amount of port that had been poured into it. He was dressed like a butcher, complete with white, blood-soaked apron. One massive hand grasped a bone-cutting saw that had just opened up the cranium of the corpse on the table. The third was young, in his early thirties, fashionably dressed in a green frock coat. He had a mane of curly black hair that was far too long for Harpur's ex-military tastes.

Harpur recognised two of them and could not believe his luck. The small nervous looking man was Doctor Patrick Stewart, Supervisor of the Belfast Lunatic Asylum on the Falls road. The man-mountain was Gordon Blair, Belfast’s Chief Surgeon and head of the Anatomy School at the Academical Institution. Harpur had intended to speak to both men that day but had not expected to meet them both in the same place. The young man in the green suit he did not know.

At the sound of the door closing all three men looked up, squinting to see past the glare of the gas lights that illuminated their work like actors on a stage for the benefit of the audience that would usually attend the dissection.

"Who's there?" demanded Blair. His voice was suitably ebullient and matched his stature.

"Abraham Harpur, Belfast Police," Harpur said, as he approached the dissecting stage. "We've met a few times before."

Blair narrowed his eyes at the sight of Harpur's shabby uniform. "Have we?"

"You autopsied several corpses from cases I worked on," Harpur said. He was both accustomed and unperturbed by the cool welcome. The police were a necessary evil to these men from the upper echelons of town society. The bulkies were required to maintain order in the town but to the likes of Blair, Policemen were little better than the thieves and murderers who they spent their lives chasing. Harpur did not care. He was happy to annoy anyone.

"I'm sure I have. I autopsy a bloody lot of corpses," Blair said. "Well what do you want? Can't you see we're busy here?"

Harpur nodded and removed his shako hat as he stepped on to the stage. "I'd like a quick word with both yourself and Doctor Stewart. Its about two separate matters, but as you are both here…"

"Really? Can't this wait?" Blair thundered. "I'm in the middle of a dissection."

Harpur shook his head. "Urgent Police business I'm afraid, sir" he said, enjoying the look of consternation on the doctors’ faces. "It won't take long. And perhaps it could even be related to this patient of yours here."

"What the bloody hell do you mean?"

Harpur looked down at the opened body on the table. "May I ask how this particular corpse came into your possession, sir?" he asked in an innocuous tone.

The surgeon's face darkened to a deep puce. "What?"

"I'm investigating a case of grave robbing up at the New Burying Ground-" Harpur said. "Graves have been disturbed up there. I nearly apprehended a well known reprobate up there last night who was equipped for digging."

There was a stunned silence for a couple of seconds, then all three men suddenly burst into guffaws of laughter.

"He thinks you've been dealing with the Resurrection Men, Gordon," the man in the green suit smiled.

"And you are who?" Harpur shot a reproachful glance in his direction.

"This young man, Harpur," Blair said, grinning and clapping a large hand on the man's shoulder, "is one of the most talented physicians in the country. Not only that but he is the nearest thing to a God-damned living saint we have in this God-forsaken town. I suppose you are going to accuse him of something ridiculous too?"

"George Kirwin, at your service," the young man in the green suit smiled, proffering his hand to Harpur.

Harpur took it and shook it, gratified to be met with a firm grasp. He had heard of Doctor Kirwin. His reputation was impressive and most of the richest people in the town were his patients. Not only that, but four mornings a week he ran a clinic free of charge for the poor of the town who could not afford a doctor’s fee.

"Harpur, eh? I've heard about you," Kirwin said.

"You have?" Harpur was genuinely surprised.

"I believe we share some clients, though I meet them in my medical capacity and you in your police one. Some of the poor people that come to my free surgery have mentioned your name," Kirwin said. "It seems you have a bit of a reputation among the underclass of this town. Not a good one I'm afraid."

"Only with the ones who break the law, Doctor Kirwin."

"That would be nearly all of them, constable. Unfortunately in this town, in this day and age, resorting to crime is the only way the poor can survive. "

"And you have no scruples treating criminals?" Harpur narrowed his eyes.

"These people cannot afford medical care. If I did not treat them a lot of them would die."

"So you fix them up so I can send them to the gallows?" Harpur shrugged.

A look as black as thunder crossed Kirwin's face. He was about to speak when Blair held up a hand.

"Please gentlemen, spare us the political arguments," the surgeon said. "If I can name one fault in Kirwin here it’s that he fancies himself as a bit of a radical. You know what these rich boys, born with silver spoons in their mouths are like. They play at politics and like to shock their peers and nannies. What did you call that other buck eejit who died about ten years ago? The poet who went off to play at soldiers in Greece? Got himself killed."

"Lord Byron," Kirwin said.

"Byron. The very one," Blair wiped a bloody hand on his apron. "He fancied himself a radical too but he was a Lord. Wanted to free the poor, the catholics, you name it. Wanted us all to be equal but made damn well sure he held onto his own titles, estates and lands."

Kirwin sighed and rolled his eyes. Harpur guessed that this was a subject debated frequently among these medical men.

"Constable Harpur-" Blair said.

"Acting sergeant," Harpur said.

Blair grunted. "Acting Sergeant, then. The Resurrection Men have all gone out of business. In case you are not aware of it, a couple of reprobates hailing from this part of the world called William Burke and Billy Hare destroyed the trade about ten years ago, around the time the Byron fellow died. They realised that it was less hard work to make their own fresh corpses than to dig them up. Back then the only corpses schools like this one were allowed to dissect were those resulting from executions. Naturally there was always a shortage which meant there was a black market for illegally procured bodies.”

Harpur was familiar with the case Blair was talking about-just about everyone was. It had been the sensation of the decade. Burke was from Stabane and Hare was from Poyntzpass but they had moved to Scotland where they made a good living selling dead bodies stolen from Edinburgh's graveyards to Doctor Knox's anatomy school. Then they got greedy and lazy. They moved on to murdering the guests in the boarding house they ran and selling the bodies to Knox, pretending they were stolen from a graveyard. When they got caught the scandal was so great even Parliament had to listen. Laws were passed allowing Anatomy schools to take the bodies of people who died in the Poor Houses, Insane Asylums and other unwanteds. As there was no longer a shortage of corpses there no need to buy stolen bodies from the Resurrection Men.

"I'm well aware of the details of the Burke and Hare case," Harpur said.

"Then why are you suggesting that I am buying illegal corpses?" Blair said.

Harpur shrugged. "I just need to rule out certain possibilities. I met a grave robber in the New Burying Ground last night. If I may say so, you seem very defencive, sir."

Blair regarded him for a few seconds. His demeanour softened a little. "How do you think I got where I am today, Harpur? I'm old enough to remember the Resurrection Men. When I was making my way up we had to deal with those villains because it was the only way we could get enough bodies to work on. And we had to, son. Otherwise we would know nothing about how the human body works. Nothing. The damn fool government and the ridiculous religious scruples of polite society held us back. It cost countless people their lives. Thankfully sense as now prevailed but it took a pair of greedy ruthless buck ejects like Burke and Hare to force the issue."

"Are the resurrectionists completely out of business then?" Harpur asked. "You don't know of any still operating? Perhaps selling to less scrupulous institutions than this one?"

"Harpur, ten years ago an anatomy school would've paid ten pounds, no questions asked, for a fresh human corpse in mint condition," Blair said, waving the bone saw in a manner that caused a gobbet of blood to drop off it and land within an inch of Harpur's shoe. "Today, the corpses of those who die in the Poor House or other state or council run institutions are available for dissection, for free. As you’re well aware, the death rate in the Poor Houses of this land is woefully high but it's an ill wind that doesn't blow somebody some good. There’s no longer a shortage of supply and the bottom has fallen out of the market. There’s simply no money in it, Harpur. Certainly not enough to risk ending up dangling from the gallows for anyway. So no, I am not aware of anyone- in this town at least- who would be body snatching these days."

"Is this one from the Poor House?" Harpur asked, looking down at the half-butchered corpse on the slab before him and observing the firm musculature and thick yellow layer of fat that had been sliced through on the belly. "He doesn't look like he was starving."

Doctor Stewart took his spectacles off and rubbed the lenses with his cravat. "Actually he's one of mine. This man was a patient in the Lunatic Asylum. Terrible case of melancholy madness. We kept an eye on him the best we could but unfortunately he somehow managed to get hold of one of the warder’s shoelaces and strangled himself with it."

"That’s why we're having a good poke around in his brain," Blair said, pushing his forefinger into the soft, pink-grey matter inside the skull of the corpse for unnecessary emphasis. "We want to see if there is anything unusual about it. In the interests of advancing science, naturally."

"Doctor Stewart, have any of your patients escaped recently?" Harpur said, turning to the Supervisor of the Lunatic Asylum. "Or have you recently released any particularly violent patients?"

Stewart shook his head. "Absolutely not. We may be strapped for cash at the Belfast Lunatic Asylum but we take great pride in the fact that we take the utmost care of our inmates. There has never been an escape of a patient in all the time I’ve been Supervisor. Why do you ask?"

"Because last night in Buttle’s Loaney near the cemetery a young policeman was murdered by someone who can only be a violent madman." Harpur said.

Kirwin grunted derisively. "Every time a policeman is murdered it always seems be the work of someone out of their mind, doesn't it? It couldn't possibly be because someone might have a genuine, legitimate grievance against the police? Oh no. They must be mad."

"He ate his eyes," Harpur said. "Perhaps even you would agree that’s hardly the normal behaviour of someone in their right mind?"

There were a few seconds silence as the three doctors looked at him, open mouthed.

"That's appalling," Doctor Stewart finally stammered, "but also fascinating. Why eat the eyes of your victim? It must be symbolic of something to the killer."

"What?" Harpur could feel anger rising within him. The cold-blooded detachedness of doctors could put even policemen to shame at times.

"They say the eyes are windows of the soul," Blair said.

Harpur decided it was time to leave, before he lost his temper and did something he would regret.

"Good day Gentlemen. Thank you for your time," he managed to say through gritted teeth.

The three doctors turned their attention back to the dissection and Harpur turned to leave. Just as he reached the doors of the anatomy theatre he heard raucous laughter behind him as the doctors shared some joke, no doubt at his expense. He closed his eyes for a moment to clam himself, then exited through the door.

As he descended the flight of stairs outside, his tuned over in his mind what he had learnt. All in all, not much. On top of that a new mystery had emerged. If the Resurrection Men were really out of business then the disturbances in the cemetery could not be the work of body snatchers. So what the hell was McDougal doing in the cemetery the night before?

Harpur resolved that he would now make it his business to find out.