“As long as you do the embellishments,” Margaret said, making a last attempt at reason.
“Of course,” Hester agreed, not yet with any very clear idea of what she would say. There would be plenty of time to think about it as they walked the mile or so to the closest morgue, where Baltimore would have been taken.
“I don’t have a pencil or paper,” Margaret said. “But I’ve got a couple of shillings of my own… I mean, not supposed to be for the house…”
“Excellent,” Hester approved. “We’ll get what you need at Mrs. Clark’s shop on the corner of the Farringdon Road. And I daresay an eraser as well. We may not have time to start over and over again.”
Margaret shrugged, then gave a nervous laugh, almost a giggle. Hester heard a note of hysteria in it.
“It’s all right!” Margaret said quickly. “I was just thinking what my drawing master would say if he knew. He was such an old woman it would be worth it just to see his face. He used to like me to draw demure young ladies. He made my sisters and me draw each other. He wasn’t even sure if we should draw gentlemen. The idea of that would be bad enough-he’d have a seizure if he knew I was going to draw a corpse! I do hope he’ll be wearing a sheet, or something?”
“If not, you have my express instruction to draw one in,” Hester promised with an answering bubble of laughter, not because she found any pleasure in it, but because to think of the absurd was the only way to make it all bearable.
They put on their outdoor clothes again and set off, walking briskly in the rain. They purchased a block of paper, pencils and an eraser, and hurried on to the morgue, an ugly, slab-sided building set a little back from the street.
“What do you want me to say?” Margaret asked as they went up the steps side by side.
“Agree with me,” Hester replied under her breath. As soon as they were through the door they were faced almost immediately by an elderly man with white whiskers and an alarmingly high voice, almost falsetto.
“Good mornin’ to you, ladies. ’Ow can I be of ’elp?” He bowed very slightly, blocking their way as completely as if he had held out his arms. He fixed his eyes on Hester’s face, unblinking, waiting for her to explain herself.
Hester stared back at him without flinching. “Good morning, sir. I am hoping you will accommodate our request, out of delicacy to Miss Ballinger’s feelings.” She indicated Margaret, a look of sorrow in her face. “She has just returned from abroad, visiting her mother, who has gone to a warmer climate-for her health, you understand.” She bit her lip. “Only to hear of her uncle’s most terrible and tragic death.” She waited to see if he showed any sign of sympathy, but she waited in vain. She did not dare to look at Margaret in case she drew attention to her startled expression.
The morgue attendant cleared his throat. “Yes?”
“I have accompanied her so she can pay her last respects to her uncle, Mr. Nolan Baltimore,” Hester continued. “She is not able to remain until the funeral. Heaven knows when that will be.”
“Yer want ter see one o’ our bodies?” He shook his head. “I’d advise agin’ it, ladies. Won’t be nice. Best remember’im as ’e was, if I were you.”
“My mother will ask me,” Margaret spoke at last, her voice husky.
“Tell ’er ’e were restin’ peaceful,” the attendant said almost expressionlessly. “She won’t know different.”
Margaret managed to look shocked. “Oh, I couldn’t do that!” she said hastily. “Besides… she might ask me to describe him, and it is so long since I saw him I might make a mistake. Then I should feel dreadful. I… I would be most grateful if you would simply allow me to have a few moments. You may be with us at all times, of course, if you feel that is the correct thing to do.”
Hester gritted her teeth and swore under her breath. A verbal description of Nolan Baltimore would be of no use. They needed sketches to show people! How could Margaret not have understood that? She tried to catch Margaret’s eye, but Margaret would not look back at her; she was concentrating totally on the attendant, and perhaps on controlling her awareness of the damp, faintly sickly smell in the air.
“Well…” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose it’d make no odds ter me, nor to’im, fer that matter. But don’t ’old me to account if yer pass out, mind!” He looked at Hester. “Yer’d better come an’ stand beside ’er. If she falls over, or yer do either, I’m not fetchin’ a quack fer yer. Yer pick yerself up again, understand?”
“Certainly,” Hester said with considerable asperity. Then she remembered the role she had cast herself in and changed her attitude. “Certainly,” she repeated, with considerably more respect. “You are quite right. We shall conduct ourselves appropriately.”
“Right y’are.” He turned around and led the way through the door and along the passage to the ice room, where corpses were stored if required to be kept for any extended period.
“Why did you ask him to stay?” Hester said in an almost stifled whisper.
The attendant stopped and turned around. “Beg pardon?”
Hester felt herself flush hot. “I… I said it was nice of you to say you would stay,” she lied.
“Gotter,” he said grudgingly. “The cadavers ’ere are in my charge. Some people don’t think as it matters very much, but yer’d be surprised wot some folks get up ter wif bodies. There’s mad people around, an’ that’s a fact!” He snorted. “An’ people will steal bodies ter cut up, Gawd ’elp us!”
Margaret gulped, her face pale, but she kept her composure admirably. “All I wish to do is look at Uncle Nolan,” she said huskily. “I would be obliged if I might do so without hearing more of such… atrocities. I quite appreciate why your care… and… and diligence are necessary. I am grateful for them.”
“Jus’ doin’ me duty,” he said stiffly, and opened the next door, ushering them into a small, very cold room with bare, whitewashed walls. “You said Nolan Baltimore? Last one over there.” He walked across the damp stone floor to the fourth table, where a figure lay supine, covered by a large unbleached cotton sheet. The attendant looked at Margaret skeptically, as if to assess the likelihood of her fainting or otherwise making a nuisance of herself. He gave up the struggle and with a sigh of resignation pulled the sheet off the head and shoulders of the corpse.
Margaret made a little hissing sound of breath between her teeth, and swayed as if the floor beneath her were the deck of a ship.
Hester moved forward quickly and put her arms tightly around her, holding her hard enough to cause pain.
Margaret gave a little yelp, but the sharpness of Hester’s grip seemed to steady her.
They both looked down at the mottled gray-white flesh of the face. It was coarse-featured, with fleshy cheeks and jaw. The large eyes were now closed, but the sockets suggested their shape. His hair was receding, wavy, a dark gingery gold. He was obviously a large man, heavy-chested, thick-armed. It was difficult to judge his height, but probably close to six feet.
The hardest thing was to imagine life and color in the features, to think what they would have been like animated by intelligence. And yet presumably to have built a company like Baltimore and Sons he must have had skill, imagination and immense drive.
“Thank you,” Margaret whispered. “He… he looks so peaceful. How did he die?”
“We do our best,” the attendant said, as if she had passed him a compliment.
“How?” she repeated, her voice rasping in her throat.
“Dunno. P’lice say as ’e likely fell down stairs. Yer can’t see ’ere ’ow broke up ’e is inside. An’ o’ course we clean ’em up.”
“Thank you,” Margaret repeated, struggling to get her breath. The cold and the smell of carbolic were almost overcoming her.
Hester stared at the form on the table. She had seen so many dead men, although most of them not as neatly and clinically laid out as this one. But even without touching him or moving anything, she noticed a certain crookedness in the way he was positioned. Cleaned up or not, she guessed many of his bones had been broken or joints dislocated. It must have been a very hard fall. And staring at his head she noticed fine scratches on the neck stretching under the left ear down to the front of the throat, then starting up again on the front of the breastbone. Fingernails? They were scratches, not cuts, and the edges were new and raw, bloodless of course now, but the skin had a ragged look as if it had had no chance to heal.
“Yer seen enough?” the attendant asked, looking at Margaret and beginning to frown.
“Yes… yes, thank you,” Margaret replied. “I… I should like to leave now. I have done my duty. Poor Uncle Nolan. Thank you so much for your…” She tailed off, unable to keep her composure and finish.
Hester realized that Margaret was at the end of her strength. This was probably the first time she had seen a dead man, although one woman had died in the house in Coldbath, but that was different, full of emotion, pity, and in the end some kind of peace. This was simply freezing cold and smelling of stone and carbolic. And it was old
