THE CADAVER PRINCESS

by Chuck Rothman

1. 500 Cadavers

The corpse was suspiciously fresh.

Pablo had been working for Mr. Sheppard for almost two years and had seen many a body showing up in the middle of the night. But this one looked almost like it was still alive.

Mr. Bishop had said it was a distant cousin who had expressed an interest on her deathbed to leave her remains to medical science, but Pablo didn’t believe a word of it. Bishop had been here before, and seemed to have a lot of cousins with similar public spirit.

Still, it wasn’t Pablo’s place to say anything. Assisting Mr. Sheppard let him earn his keep, spending his nights in the room, lit by smoking oil lamps, with its soot-stained walls covered with medical instruments. The odor of death was in the air, as the resurrection men brought their trade. It was unpleasant, but a far sight better than begging in the streets. The body parts sitting in jars in cabinets and on shelves no longer bothered him.

Much. He rubbed his arm. Knowing that Ogechi was with him did much for reassurance.

“Put it on the slab,” Mr. Sheppard said.

Pablo reached to help the resurrection men to lift the dead girl from the sack they had brought in. No breath, no pulse, skin as cold as the marble slab it would repose on. Probably not more than a few hours old.

“Get away, Pompey,” snapped Bishop. “We ain’t be needing no help from your type.”

Pablo stepped back. No use arguing. It wasn’t like he could change his color like a stoat.

Bishop nodded to May. Pablo knew him well, an ugly man with a lip that protruded almost like the spout of a pitcher. He wore a third-hand brown suit and gray frock coat, stained by what could have been blood. His pantaloons were baggy and worn, with more than one prominent hole.

In a moment, the deed was done. Bishop’s helpers — the men Pablo knew as Williams and May — left the room as though not willing to see any more.

Sheppard looked up at Bishop. “Was this really your cousin?” he asked.

Bishop’s crooked lips were set in defiance. “You impugn my honor, sir. That is an impertinent question. You ain’t never asked for details before.”

“I’m asking now.”

“None of yer business, then.” He held out his hand. “Ten pound,” he said.

Sheppard examined the corpse, its modesty protected only by a wrap of rough linen. The girl was probably no more than 12. Honey brown hair. A thin face and oversized nose. Pablo figured that if you scrubbed the London street dirt from her face, she might have been judged pretty.

No teeth. Bishop always brought them without teeth. Probably sold to a dentist for a few shillings.

Pablo knew that, to Sheppard, the beauty was not in the outward appearance, but in the bones and organs underneath. Many times, he had listened to the anatomist speaking glowingly about how they were what his students would need to understand as doctors. “Five pounds,” he said.

Bishop laughed. He smelled of garbage and manure and Pablo thought it might just be worth a pound or two to get him out of the hospital. “St. Barts will give me eight.”

“Then I suggest you go to St. Barts,” said Sheppard. He turned away. “I shall not haggle prices like a London fishmonger.”

“Now wait a minute, gov’nor. Let’s not be hasty.” Bishop turned his hat in his hand. “Five pounds is five pounds, as me mam used to say. I’ll take it.”

“Good.” Sheppard reached into his purse and took out five coins. “Here,” he said, dropping it into the other man’s hand so as not to touch him.

“Thankee, sir,” said the resurrection man. “And when I come across another — some poor soul who dies without family or funds to be buried, mind you — well, I’ll be glad to bring it to you.”

Pablo was about to say something, but stopped himself. The business of buying corpses was ugly. Mr. Sheppard said they were needed to advance society, to allow young doctors to learn their trade. The need was acute: 500 cadavers a year to go under the knife for the edification of the eager doctors-to-be. It saved lives, Mr. Sheppard had said.

For a moment, it looked like Sheppard would object and put an end to this ugly business.

“You do that,” said Sheppard tiredly. It was late; the resurrectionists only plied their trade in the dark hours.

“Thankee, sir,” said the man. He vanished out the door.

Sheppard looked again at the slab holding the corpse. “Poor girl,” he said. “I wonder what your name was.”

But the corpse opened her eyes. “My name is . . . ” She struggled to sit up and paused for a moment before saying more, as though unsure of how to talk through her missing teeth. “Bictoria. And dat little ruppian killed me.”

2. Lehzen

Lehzen sensed that something was wrong. Victoria was quiet. Usually the girl enjoyed her lessons. Mr. Davys had a way of bringing out the curiosity of the child, and she was grateful for the respite from her melancholy life. Her mother, the duchess, kept the poor girl on a short leash, refusing to allow her playmates and giving her little exposure to the softer side of childhood.

Lehzen had felt pity for the girl from the first and had shown her kindness. Victoria had responded warmly. And Davys had often said that she was an exceptionally bright girl.

But today, Victoria listened quietly, her mind obviously distracted, and volunteered nothing except when asked.

“Is something wrong?” Lehzen asked, when Davys had left for a few minutes.

“No, my lady,” said Victoria as she figured her sums on a slate.

Lehzen frowned. That was wrong. The girl had given up formal address ages ago. She had taken to calling her “Daisy.” It was not her given name, of course, but a nickname used only by the princess.

“All right,” said Lehzen. She glanced at the gold clock on the wall, a gift from King William. It marked 11:30. “It is not quite time for luncheon. Perhaps we can dine at noon. I’m sure the cook will be happy to accommodate.”

“Whatever you wish, my lady,” Victoria said, her voice a quiet monotone.

It only disturbed her more.

“What is this?”

The voice sent a shudder down Lehzen’s spine. She rose and curtseyed. “I did not hear you enter, Sir John. You don’t usually interrupt Victoria’s lessons.”

“Never mind that, Baroness,” Sir John said curtly. He dressed in the highest of styles, with a multicolored waistcoat and long blue coat, a man who clearly wished to better himself. He had a reputation as a roué and schemer, and Lehzen found his very presence made her wary. “What concerns me is that you are not following the system.”

Lehzen didn’t give a groat for Sir John’s system. It was cruel and unkind to the girl: strict lessons, and her entire life controlled according to Sir John’s stringent instructions.

But it was better not to speak her mind. There were politics involved. Sir John and, more importantly, the Duchess of Kent, would have her removed for someone who was more in line with their plans for the girl. Only the insistence of the King kept her there. The duchess didn’t dare go directly against the King’s wishes, but if given an excuse, she would be quick to jump on it.

And Victoria would suffer the most.

It was like walking on the edge of a ravine. One wrong step and Lehzen would fall, and Victoria would be left alone.

“I’m sorry, Sir John. But Victoria is feeling poorly and I thought — “

“You are not hired to think, Baroness.” He spat out the last word, clearly resenting the fact that she was a Baroness of the Kingdom of Hanover and he was only a knight.

She got the distinct impression he hoped to rectify that one day.

“Forgive me, Sir John. I was worried about the child’s health. She seems . . . distracted. I feared she was ill.”

“Distracted? In what way?”

Lehzen couldn’t tell her the truth: that Victoria was not her usual self. That she spoke formally and did not protest about requests she would have tried to avoid just the day before.

“Bah,” said Sir John. “Your Royal Highness.”

Victoria continued with her sums.

Sir John’s voice was raised. “Your Royal Highness!”

Victoria looked up. “Yes, Sir John?”

“Come here. Let me look at you.”

Victoria rose and demurely did as she asked.

Another thing that wasn’t quite right. The girl had told Lehzen many times that she didn’t like Sir John and usually showed indifference bordering on contempt to him if her mother wasn’t present. Yet now she walked over to him, her face composed — almost blank — and stood as the man looked her over.

He seemed pleased at what he saw. Then he reached out to touch Victoria’s hair.

Lehzen rose. Victoria had told her many times that she could not stand Sir John’s touch. She had seen the girl flinch away when she felt his hand on her head.

But Victoria stood there motionless and uncaring. Only her eyes showed any expression.

It’s hard to be sure just looking into eyes, but Lehzen got the distinct impression Victoria was terrified.

The wrongness of it was very disturbing.

Sir John removed his hand. “It worked,” he whispered, just loudly enough for Lehzen to catch. He glanced at the clock. “Twenty more minutes of lessons, then, right?”

“Yes, Sir John,” said Victoria and returned to her slate. “Mr. Davys will be back presently.”

Sir John gave Lehzen a smile. It was not a smile of friendship or of mirth, but one of someone who knew he had an advantage over his enemy.

“Remember, My Lady. You must keep to the system.”

“Yes, Sir John,” said Lehzen.

Sir John left the room. His smugness was like a cloud of steam all around him.

Something was very wrong. And Lehzen knew it was not going to be good for the child.

3. The Yellow Dress

“And a good day to you, Mr. Hawthorn,” said the ragged man.

Hawthorn didn’t care for his cheery tone. “I have a business to run, Mr. Bishop. Do you wish to buy?” He knew what the answer would be.

“I wish to sell, Mr. Hawthorn.” He took out a yellow short-sleeved dress, about the size for an older child, of plain construction without the slightest of frills, and a chemise of cheap linen that looked stained by ill-use. “Fine goods, Mr. Hawthorn, sir.” He doffed his old top hat — silk, rather than beaver — and clearly second-hand.

Hawthorn didn’t like the obsequious tone. There was something about Bishop that didn’t sit right.

Still, a dress was a dress, and clothing for children is always in demand. “Let me see it,” he said grudgingly.

Bishop grinned and handed over the garment.

As soon as Hawthorn touched it, he knew something was very wrong. It was made of simple linen, torn at the sleeve and showing the wear of hard living. But there was an aura of death about it.

That didn’t bother him. Bishop had often brought him clothing of the dead. Hawthorn suspected Bishop had had a hand in that, but the years had taught him that it’s better not to question too closely. One made a living as best one could in London.

But this was more than death. This was magic.

“Where did you get this?” he said.

Bishop couldn’t look him in the eye.

Hawthorn should have known better than to ask. Bishop would never tell him. At best, he would blurt out some transparent lie.

“’Tis none of your business, is it?” said Bishop. “If ya don’t want to buy it, there are others.” He clutched for the dress.

Hawthorn snatched it away. He couldn’t let this go. “I’ll pay you a shilling for it.”

Bishop’s face lit up. But he paused and rubbed his stubble. “Generous of you, Mr. Hawthorn. Mighty generous. How about half a crown?”

Hawthorn realized his mistake. He had offered too much. The dress was worth no more than tuppence, and Bishop no doubt knew that. “No,” he said. “A shilling and not a farthing more.”

Bishop’s eyes narrowed. He was trying to be cagy. “I can go somewhere else,” he said.

“And I can go to the beadles and have them ask where you got it.”

For a moment, Bishop paused. “Now there ain’t no need to be rash, Mr. Hawthorn. A shilling would be fine.”

Hawthorn handed the man the coin. Bishop snatched it, as though he was afraid he would change his mind, and vanished into the noontime crowd.

He looked at the dress again. He tore a small corner from it and put it into his mouth.

The taste told him all he needed to know. He chewed on it for several moments, then swallowed.

Trouble. Of the sort he had thought he’d never face again.

“How much for that green coat?” The speaker was a man with a face smudged with dust that outlined the wrinkles in it.

“Not for sale,” said Hawthorn. He started to move his cart away. “I’m closed for the day.”

“It’s barely noon!”

“Nonetheless.” Hawthorn grabbed the handles of his barrow. “Try another time.”

“This ain’t right,” the man said. “I fought Old Boney, you know. A French ball nearly nipped off me ear at Badajos. You — “

Hawthorn tossed the coat to the man. “Take it,” he said. He had more important things to do.

4. “Not me”

The girl sat impatiently in Sheppard’s office. He had spent the morning checking and double checking all the signs of vitality. And each one made the whole case even more confusing.

She did not breathe. There was an intake of air into her lungs before she spoke, but when silent, there was no sign of motion, no fogging of a dozen mirrors.

She had no pulse, no heartbeat.

He pricked her with a scalpel. No blood flowed.

“What are you?” he asked.

“A girl,” said the girl. “A dead one, evidently,” she amended with a smile.

“Do you . . . remember your death?”

Victoria nodded. “Dat awful man gabe me someding to drink. It made me sleepy. And when I woke up, I was on dat slab.”

Poison? Bishop didn’t seem the type to use such a sophisticated method. Besides, some poisons might ruin the cadaver.

The door swung open to reveal Pablo. “Here are the clothes. Bought them from an old clothes man, I did, just as you asked.” He held up a stained pink dress and a chemise that was only partly torn.

Sheppard nodded. “Give them to the girl.”

“Where are you from?” the girl asked. “I hab neber met a Nubian bebore.”

“I don’t know nothing about Nubians,” said Pablo. “I was captured by slavers.”

“Slabery is ebil,” said Victoria decisively.

“I don’t disagree with you,” said Pablo. He handed her the dress.

She stared at him. “Kindly leave the room while I put it on.”

Pablo bowed. “Yes, ma’am.” He stepped out the door.

Victoria turned her gaze to Sheppard. “Well?”

Sheppard felt his face grow warm. “Oh. Well, yes.” He was so used to dealing with real cadavers that he didn’t consider that one might object.

He joined Pablo in the hall.

“She’s a queer one, ain’t she, sir?” said Pablo.

“She dead for real?”

“It seems that way,” said Sheppard. He told him what he had discovered. He wasn’t sure how much Pablo understood — he was only about 16 and a Negro to boot, dressed in rags and with hair that was unkempt, so no one would mistake him for anyone respectable. Still, it felt good to lay the mystery out to someone who wouldn’t laugh in his face.

“Well, ain’t that an odd kick. Where’s she living?”

Sheppard hadn’t considered the question. The hospital was hardly suitable, and Sheppard’s apartment would raise problems. “I don’t know.” He thought a moment about asking if Pablo knew, but it occurred to Sheppard that he had no idea where Pablo lived. The youth was an unofficial part of the hospital staff, running errands for a few pence a day. No one remembered taking him on. He had just appeared one day offering to help and not even asking for coins, though most of the doctors would give him small tips. Which reminded him . . .

“Here,” said Sheppard, taking his purse from his pocket. “How much was the dress?”

“Sixpence, sir.”

Probably half that, thought Sheppard, but he handed him a coin. It was worth it.

“Gentlemen,” came the voice on the other side of the door, “I am ready.”

They joined the girl. The dress was a little large for her, the hem touching the floor, but it would do.

“May I have a looking glass, please?” she asked. “My hair feels a mess.”

Sheppard rolled up the cover of his mahogany desk and searched through one of the drawers inside. He found a small hand mirror he used when he was forced to shave after a night sleeping at his desk. He handed it to Victoria.

“A comb?” she asked.

Quite demanding, thought Sheppard. But there was too much strange about the girl to point this out. “I’m not sure I have one.”

“Dat is . . . ” the girl trailed off as she saw her image in the glass.

“What’s the matter?” Sheppard asked.

The girl shook her head. “Dat’s not me.”

5. Homer

Hawthorn didn’t look at the dress until he returned to his quarters, a single cellar room beneath a chandler’s shop in Bishopsgate. He had left his cart in an alley — no one would think to take it — and climbed down the steps.

The interior was much like the library of a gentleman’s country home, though if anyone cared to examine the books, they would have been perplexed by their titles. A gentle light, not unlike sunlight, suffused the room. There was very little furniture — a carved mahogany chair with leather padding, a maple rope bed in the corner, a cast iron stove, and a small mahogany table the doubled as a desk. A small niche held a bust of Homer — a poor likeness, but few would notice it these days.

But for Hawthorn, the books were most important. The room was less a place to live than it was a place to read.

And he reminded himself, it was a massive improvement over his previous quarters.

He placed the dress on the bed and ran his hand over it.

An observer, if Hawthorn had allowed one, would have thought he was identifying the material, though it obvious it was just some cheap linen dyed with mustard. But he already knew that — along with exactly which field the flax was grown — as soon as he touched it. He was looking for something else.

He felt a small shock, like static after walking across a carpet.

Hawthorn grunted.

It was what he suspected. No, something even worse than he suspected. Something he hadn’t seen in several lifetimes.

Magic. Bad magic. Not exactly black magic, but something that was not being used for good.

Hawthorn sat in the armchair, quietly thinking. The years had taught him patience, and also caution. He should probably just stay away. What will happen will happen. It was not his concern.

The bust of Homer spoke. “What are you so thoughtful about?”

He didn’t look up. Homer always knew what he was thinking. “Magic,” he said.

“So you are planning to do something about it,” said Homer. It was spoken flatly, as though he knew the words were the truth.

Old habits die hard, and his were far older than most. You can’t avoid them, even if they caused nothing but trouble. Hawthorn had tried to live life in the shadows. This new world of science and steam had no place for his skills.

But magic was his milieu.

“I’m not sure I can even do anything,” he said. “This all smells of fate. You only get in trouble challenging fate.”

“You know you don’t believe in fate,” said Homer.

Hawthorn didn’t reply. Homer always knew him better than he knew himself. It was why he kept him: someone to remind him when he was giving in to folly or despair.

It was too bad that sometimes folly was the right thing to do.

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