Ghostlight

Scotland Yard, Palace of Whitehall, London

November 1687

Michael Bartholomew made it a rule not to dwell upon a corpse’s manner of death – of course, rope burns and a broken neck left little to the imagination, as indeed did prison pallor and emaciation – so his first body as Westminster’s Assistant Coroner, when it was precisely that he must focus upon, felt not a little disconcerting. After years of investigating the mysteries of human anatomy in the name of science, it was now rather different secrets he must tease out.

A large lightwell of thick glass set in lead squares abutted the building’s exterior wall at ground level, affording an unexpected amount of light, even if it were of a greenish hue, which did little for a corpse’s complexion. Candles augmented by mirrors did their bit too, and strangely, he didn’t find lack of light to be the problem he had anticipated on discovering his postmortems would be subterranean.

He still questioned why he had accepted the post. His work as a court physician was nothing if not lucrative and to maintain it as such, he had now been forced to seek an assistant. In return he would receive a small stipend for a large amount of work as the coroner, Petroc Trelawney, was a notorious drunk who got through assistants with the same licence he did bottles of genever.

But the position was offered at the King’s pleasure and so, of course, impossible to refuse. He began to sew up the ‘Y’-shaped incision he had made in the corpulent man’s body from collarbones to pubis. A member of parliament hence the Whitehall postmortem. And having weighed his organs, Michael concluded he had succumbed to an apoplexy likely brought on by gluttony and a surfeit of alcoholic drink.

The sound of footsteps on the stone stairs down into his dungeon interrupted his concentration on his handiwork, and he turned to look behind him, frowning.

‘Well, he never told me you had the red hair, now.’ The intruder tilted his head, first one way and then the other. ‘Though in this grim lair of yours it looks more of a purple, I’d say.’

Michael surveyed the lean young man with a shabby coat and a flop of shiny black hair threatening to fall into his eyes. ‘Who the devil are you?’

‘Finn O’Dell at your service.’ He reached into his pocket and held out a letter. ‘From Professor Steen in Leiden. He’s recommending me for your assistant, he is. The good man.’

‘Well, I can’t take it now, can I?’ Michael held up his bloodied hands. ‘Drop it on my desk there.’

The young man did as asked before removing his coat, draping it over the back of the chair and rolling up his sleeves. ‘Let me finish up for you. I’m a top man for the stitching, so I am.’