Recompense

The blade of the shovel bit into the freshly turned earth, and the bent figure wielding the heavy tool grunted as he lifted the wet soil up and thrust it to the side. Overhead, scraps of storm clouds drifted past the sliver of midnight moon. The air was cloying, deadening the sounds of digging and the curses of two drunken men fighting outside a public house near Punters Wharf. Three more shovelsful and the man broke off, leaning on the rough wooden handle of the tool, breathing hard. A hooded lantern was upthrust, its wan light catching the droplets of a steady drizzle.

“Damn ye,” rasped the one holding the lantern. “Why do ye stop? We’ve not a minute to lose, and ‘e expects us,’e does, as the contract states, so put yer back into it.” His companion made no reply, only glowered before resuming his fitful rhythm. Within a quarter-hour’s time, the shovel blade plunged in again and this time struck something solid with a dull thunk!

“That be the box,” said the cowled figure with the lantern, sweeping its flickering light down into the pit. “That be our prize.”

#

From a vest pocket, slender fingers plucked out a gold watch and clicked it open, then snapped it shut in annoyance. In the small room, shadows danced in the wavering light from a pair of wall sconces. The man took to pacing once again, nervously clenching and unclenching his hands.

The figure thus occupied was Dr. Llewellyn Carstairs. In the Year of Our Lord  182—, at the age of forty-one, he was chief surgeon at St. Francis Hospital For the Indigent, a cheerless stone edifice that squatted in the poorest quarter of London’s East End. This night Dr. Carstairs wore the haggard countenance of a man who had had too little sleep and too much sherry. To and fro he strode, muttering from time to time until at length he stopped at a cluttered desk where stood an empty glass and a bottle of spirits. Seizing the container, he poured liberally into the glass and quaffed the amber liquor without delay.

As the night had worn on, the rain abated, giving way to a suffocating fog. Nearby, a church bell struck the hour. Presently, there came the sound of a horse’s hooves and the creak of an ancient dray that halted on the alley cobblestones outside Dr. Carstair’s quarters. Swiftly, he opened the door and ushered in a tall, gaunt figure.

“Past three,” chided the physician. “You’re late, Jeffords.” The figure threw back the hood of a tattered oilskin, revealing a drawn, grizzled face framed by strands of greasy ebony hair.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, guvnor, but with all the rain, Mr. Cheedle had the devil’s own time with the diggin’, ‘e did.”

“I don’t want your excuses,” the doctor said imperiously, “I want to know if you were successful.”

“Oh, indeed, sir,” croaked Jeffords, his smile revealing a row of teeth in every stage of rot. “We know our obblegations, we do.”

“And so?”

“You’ll be pleased, you will. A nice, fresh lass not two days below ground. Nineteen, if she’s a day. One of Bessy Squires’ dollymops. Thruppence from the wrong punter, I wager.”

“And the condition of the body?” Dr. Carstairs pressed. “My experiments require as few blemishes as possible.” Jeffords’ repulsive smile widened.

“Good fortune has smiled upon ye, guvnor. Not a flaw upon her fair skin, save the finger marks about her throat.”

“Then you’ll waste no more of my time,” snapped the doctor as he opened the center drawer in his desk and withdrew a small cloth pouch tied with a thin leather drawstring. “Here,” he said, thrusting the bundle at Jeffords, who took the bag in a skeletal hand. He hefted it a time or two, smiling at the soft jingle of coins. “It’s all there, as agreed.”   

“Why, never a doubt, doctor, never a doubt,” Jeffords rasped.

“Now, in the back,” Carstairs ordered, “and take care as you lay her out.” Jeffords raised bony fingers to his forehead and nodded in acknowledgment, then turned on his heel and exited into the night.

Thus did the initial transaction take place between Dr. Llewellyn Carstairs and one Samuel Jeffords, resurrectionist. Though not without its risks, Dr. Carstairs felt compelled by his zeal for private anatomical research to regularly procure fresh cadavers. To that end, he came by Jeffords’ name, regarded as a man of no little repute in the practice of his profession. And, indeed, the doctor was impressed by Jeffords’ business-like dealing, even to the point of signing and affixing sealing wax to a contract for services.    

So over the course of the following year, Jeffords and his associate made two more deliveries shrouded by night to 37 Brindling Mews. In each case, they brought the bodies of young girls who had plied the harlots’ trade before meeting a violent end and had been consigned to eternal, unconsecrated residence in Potter’s Field. The arrangement was satisfactory to both parties: Carstairs received what he desired; Jeffords his pouch of guineas.

#

On 15 March, a chill rain had fallen throughout the day, supplanted by dense fog that rolled in through the night, leaving the city sodden and unsettled.

Over the cobblestones of Brindling Mews, plodded a weary horse pulling a battered dray, the steady clop-clop-clop of the hooves a counterpoint to the creak of the wagon’s wheels. Halting at No. 37, two figures alighted, and one of them, hooded against the night’s rawness, rapped insistently at the door. At length, it was flung open.

“What in God’s name—Jeffords?” cried Dr. Carstairs in annoyance. “It’s the middle of the night, man!”

“Beggin’ yer indulgence, doctor, might we step inside?”

“What the devil is this all about?”

“A moment is all we require, if ye please.” With some reluctance, the doctor stepped back and allowed Jeffords and Cheedle to enter.

“You had better have a damned good explanation for such an intrusion. I gave no instructions for a delivery tonight.”

“No, indeed ye didn’t, guvnor. Our visit ain’t fer a delivery. Rather,” he continued, grinning—again the repulsive teeth and foetid breath, “it be in the nature of a collection.”

“Collection? What do you mean? You’ve been paid each time,” Dr. Carstairs said, his voice rising as his patience wore thin. “The contract specifies you would be paid for four cadavers. You have delivered three.”

“Well, now doctor, I’m afeard that’s a misunderstandin’ of our agreement,” Jeffords said, reaching beneath his cloak and withdrawing a rolled up, soiled parchment. “It’s plain enough, I wager, to the last jot and tittle,” he went on, unrolling the paper, “as if writ down at the Old Bailey itself.”

“What are you driving at, man?” the physician snapped.

“See here, sir,” Jeffords said, pointing to the smudged ink in one section of the document. “It says, plain as ye like, that we—Mr. Cheedle and me—provide ye with three bodies, and on our fourth trip, yer to surrender to us.”

“What?” Carstairs said, not comprehending. Jeffords held out the contract towards the doctor, pointing with a cracked and blackened fingernail at the page.

“Read for yerself, guvnor.” Dr. Carstairs narrowed his eyes in the dim light and leaned in closer to the paper.

“I don’t remember agreeing to this, whatever it means.”

“Well, now, ain’t this yer signature, right and proper?” asked Jeffords, indicating the bottom of the page.

“Yes…but I,” stammered the doctor, then raising up indignantly. “Well, what of it? What would you have me do?”

“Why, come with us, of course,” Jeffords’ foul smile had returned, his voice a low rasp. “See to the good doctor, if ye please, Mr. Cheedle.”

#

A solemn rain fell upon the wretched earth of Potter’s Field where, in a remote corner, two men strained together in the feeble light of a hooded lantern at the lip of a freshly turned grave.

“Now, Mr. Cheedle, be quick about it.”

The men spoke no more, leaving the night to swallow the rhythmic work of the shovel and the muffled shrieks from within the coffin below.

Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent. His writing has appeared in more than thirty reviews, journals and anthologies. His first novel, "Deadline," was published in September. He lives outside Chicago.