The Resurrectionist
It's ironic actually. I was a highly skilled, Oxford-educated physician, one of the most brilliant and promising medical men at London Hospital, yet Portia, my wife, the dearest love of my life, was dying, slowly wasting away before my eyes, and I could do nothing to help her.
Swallowing my professional pride, I took Portia to specialists as far away as Vienna and Geneva. Alas, these learned doctors were as baffled as I was as to the cause of my wife's rare ailment. In desperation, I even sought the assistance of so-called holy men who promised miracles to those who had faith and a few pounds to spare. But neither medicine nor mysticism restored the rosy blush of health to my beloved's cheeks.
I am by nature a stubborn man, and I would not relinquish my dear one so easily. Rather, I would move heaven and earth in an attempt to save her life. Admittedly, I became obsessed with learning the origin of and, hopefully, the remedy for the strange malady that afflicted her, working feverishly on her case to the exclusion of all else.
In my quest to restore Portia to good health, I was fortunate to have not only the vast facilities of the London Hospital at my disposal but also a great personal fortune as well. My efforts were hampered only by good King Georg IV's inflexible laws. You see, the events of which I now write took place in the year 1829, a time when British law decreed that dissection of human cadavers was illegal since the Church had ruled that desecration of the body also harmed the immortal soul. A doctor could, of course, legally obtain the bodies of executed criminals, but these were few and hard to come by.
Thus enters the detested yet necessary creature sometimes referred to as a "resurrectionist" but who is more commonly called a grave robber. This wretch does not rob jewels or other valuables from the dead but rather steals the corpses themselves from their hallowed resting spots and sells them to doctors, desperate for human organs and tissue to study. I and my colleagues secretly loathe these parasites of the dead, yet we must sacrifice our principles for the greater good: medicine, the healing of disease, the alleviation of pain and the preservation of life. It was therefore with the most honorable intention—that of finding a cure for the sickness that was slowly claiming the life of my sweet, gentle Portia—that I entered into a devilish business arrangement with the reprehensible Jasper Black.
Jasper's very appearance repulsed me. He was as gaunt as one of the corpses he peddled. His oily, uncombed hair he wore longer than was fashionable at the time, and his teeth, what few he had left in his mouth, were rotted and broken. A year's worth of filth clung to his clothes and his body, and a vile stench seemed to emanate from his every pore: a strange combination of human waste, perspiration, alcohol and death. Nonetheless, I did not let this assault on my senses prevent me from seeking out his services and paying him handsomely when he delivered the goods I required.
In truth, neither I nor my esteemed colleagues ever questioned where or how our gruesome merchants obtained their wares. It was the Grim Reaper himself who was my foe. What did it matter to me if the body I cut into pieces in the name of science was once someone's parent, sibling, spouse or child? My concern was only for my wife, one who still had a chance of coming out the victor in her confrontation with Death—at least for the present time. Some day we all must die, and frankly, I do not believe anyone would truly wish to live forever and never aspire to that eternal peace the Church promises is awaiting us in the afterlife. However, my darling Portia had not yet seen her twenty-fifth year. She was much too young to be consigned to the grave.
Due in no small part to the clandestine deliveries of my unsavory cohort, the reprehensible Jasper Black, I was making slow but certain progress in discovering the cause of my wife's disease. Unfortunately, her health, after a brief period during which she seemed to be recovering, took a turn for the worse. In a constant state of fatigue, she was confined to her bed, and I had to hire a nurse to care for her. I was torn between my longing to share with Portia what might be her last days on earth and a renewed desire to continue my battle with her illness.
In the end, it was the physician's selfless dedication in me that won out over the husband's tender devotion. Doubling my efforts to find a cure, I devoted all my time and energy to research. I worked eighteen to twenty hours a day, taking brief naps only when I found myself on the brink of complete exhaustion.
Naturally, the harder I worked, the more specimens I needed. Thus, as a matter of dire necessity, three times a week I met Jasper Black at the rear door of the hospital, always under the cover of darkness.
One night he arrived without the customary vegetable barrow he used as a cover for his nefarious activities. (Little did Jasper's daytime customers guess that the same wooden pushcart from which they purchased fresh produce had on the previous night been used to shuttle stolen corpses from the graveyard to London Hospital.)
"Where is your cart?" I asked him, sticking my head out the doorway to gaze into the darkness of the alley.
"Sorry, gov, but I ain't got nuttin' for you tonight," he said with a thick Cockney accent, his breath reeking of cheap alcohol. "My supply 'as dried up for the time bein'."
"Oh, it has? How do I know you're telling me the truth? Maybe this is just an attempt to get more money for your—goods."
"'ell no, gov! You been more than generous with me. I ain't got nuttin' for you cause there ain't no women been buried today. Leastways not in the boneyard I frequent."
"I need more cadavers."
My voice was strained with urgency.
"Can't you look elsewhere?" I suggested. "In a city the size of London, there must be another cemetery where you can procure one."
"I don't know, gov. I don't want to move into another man's territory."
"I'll pay double your usual fee. Triple if you go out now and bring a specimen back before dawn."
I could see greed and caution at war in his squinty little eyes.
"I'll see what I can do, gov," he declared and disappeared into the night.
A few hours later he returned with his cart in which he carried a body wrapped in a sheet. After I paid him, he carried the corpse to my laboratory and placed it on my dissection table. When I uncovered it, I discovered to my shock that the body was completely free of any postmortem decay. Furthermore, it was still warm to my touch. Obviously, she had not been dead for very long.
Although I could tell from the bruises on her neck that the poor woman had been strangled, I did not allow myself to wonder about the identity of her killer. She was—as anyone could plainly see—a prostitute, one who engaged in a profession that brought with it any number of dangers.
My legal, moral and ethical duty was to notify the police. However, my duty to my wife superseded all others.
God forgive me! Without giving the matter any further thought, I picked up my scalpel and went to work.
* * *
My long hours and dogged dedication soon bore fruit, and I was able to ascertain the cause of my darling wife's malady. I then prescribed a series of treatments that seemed to stop and even reverse the effects of the disease. Soon my dear wife regained most of her strength. She was able to get out of bed on her own and eventually even leave the house for short periods. Given my unquestioning belief in modern medicine, I was confident that with continued research and experimentation, I would arrive at a complete cure.
With her good health gradually returning, Portia began to seek the company of family and friends to help pass her lonely hours. She fully understood the urgency and necessity of my research and therefore did not make any demands on my time. Instead, she went to dinners and tea parties at the homes of her old friends or to the theater with the wives of my fellow doctors.
Once my beloved Portia no longer lived with the threat of imminent death, I began to see the completion of my work as a stepping stone to my own success as a physician. I was human, after all, and subject to the same vanity and ambition as most other men. So, despite the toll the long hours and hard work were taking on my own health, I pushed on. The eighteen- to twenty-hour days continued as did the need for cadavers.
Jasper Black, who benefited nearly as much from my research as my darling wife did, never again came to the rear door of London Hospital empty-handed. And if, on several occasions, the bodies he brought were fairly "fresh," I did not question him. I was working on discovering a medical miracle, and in my mind that noble end more than justified the far from noble means.
Alas, I must confess that I was as guilty as that odious grave-robbing monster for the catastrophe that befell me. I fully admit my culpability, and I shall pay for my crime through all eternity, damned if not by man or God then by my own heart and conscience. It is only fair then that Jasper Black should share in my misery.
But I get ahead of myself here. I speak of retribution without having made clear to you the full extent of our horrible deeds.
One warm summer night in mid-August, I was, as usual, diligently working in my laboratory. When I stopped to stretch my weary, cramped muscles, I glanced at the clock and noticed that Jasper Black was late with his delivery. A part of my mind issued a warning: some poor prostitute was about to die, but I quickly submerged this thought into my deepest subconscious mind, so it would not interfere with my work.
While waiting for the resurrectionist's scheduled delivery, I sat at my desk organizing my notes and listening through the open window. Thirty minutes later, I heard the arrival of the vegetable cart in the alley below. I ran to the door, paid my coconspirator his fee and took the cadaver back to my laboratory myself, eager to begin dissection and avoid unnecessary conversation with Jasper Black.
When I pulled back the old blanket that covered the young woman's body, my mind at first failed to register what my eyes had seen. All too soon, however, I realized who it was that was laid out on my table awaiting the scalpel. It was none other than my darling Portia, my beloved wife, my very reason for being. She must have been on her way to the hospital to bring me a late supper as she had recently begun doing once or twice a week. And Jasper—that monster!—having no "legitimate" corpses to steal that night, murdered her as he had the unfortunate prostitutes in the past.
For several days I was out of my mind with guilt and grief. I wanted to go to Scotland Yard and confess my part in the heinous crime, but wiser heads than mine prevailed. Dr. Josiah Atherton, chief of surgery at London Hospital, who also used Jasper's services on occasion, hoped to avoid a scandal that would undoubtedly bring down the hospital and a good many of its physicians. Dr. Atherton signed a false death certificate stating that my wife died of natural causes. Soon after, she was discreetly buried in the family tomb.
The hospital administrators then decided amongst themselves that it would be best for all concerned if I were to go into private practice, somewhere far from London where there was little risk of the truth coming to light.
"You might consider starting over in America or possibly Australia," Dr. Atherton kindly suggested, "or even on the continent. I understand Paris has some wonderful hospitals. With your knowledge and skill, you should have no difficulty finding a position at one of them."
"No, I prefer to remain in England," I informed him. "But I no longer wish to practice medicine. Instead, I plan to return to Southampton and oversee the family's shipping interests there."
"I suppose that is for the best," my friend agreed and wished me luck in my future endeavors. "I shall miss you. You were an asset to this hospital and to the field of medicine."
"I'll just clear my personal things out of my office and pack up my papers. I ought to be out by the end of the week."
"There's no rush."
In truth, I had kept very few personal belongings at the hospital, all of which could be easily replaced, and I had no intention of taking my papers with me since I never wanted to be reminded of my research. I could easily have walked out the door of London Hospital that very moment and never looked back, but I had one more task I wanted to accomplish before I left for Southampton.
* * *
The body lay naked on my operating table. Nearby were the saws, scalpels, lancets, probes and various other instruments of my profession, looking remarkably like medieval implements of torture. After tightening the straps of the belts to secure the body to the table, I then picked up a scalpel and made the first incision.
Jasper Black's eyes bulged, and perspiration beaded on his pale, unwashed face. Although he frantically fought against his fetters, he could neither move nor scream.
He was as I wanted him: helpless and completely at my mercy.
His punishment for murdering my wife would be a brutal one. I would slowly and carefully remove every minor organ from his body, taking great pleasure in his pain. Should he survive that ordeal and not succumb to shock or loss of blood, I would then kill him by cutting out his heart.
In exacting my vengeance on the abhorrent Jasper Black, I would also endeavor to do some good for humankind. All of the grave robber's body parts would be carefully preserved for future study by my former colleagues. It was, in my opinion, a fitting end for a resurrectionist.
There's no need to call a resurrectionist. Salem isn't dead; he's only sleeping - AGAIN!
