Where Shadows Dance

Chapter 7

Paul Gibson spent most of the morning dissecting Alexander Ross’s chest cavity. He found no evidence of any heart disease or other natural disability. He was so engrossed in his task that he barely managed to grab time before his scheduled lecture at St. Thomas’s to study the Bills of Mortality for London and Westminster.

Published weekly for more than two hundred years now by the parish clerks, the Bills of Mortality recorded the dead in each parish, along with their ages and causes of death. Originally designed to provide a warning against the onset of plagues, the Bills of Mortality were not infallible. But they were fairly reliable. The returns were compiled by old women known as “viewers” or “searchers of the dead,” employed by each parish. Their job was to enter houses where a death had been reported. Since they were paid two pence per body, they tended to be thorough to the point of being aggressive.

Of course, the searchers’ expertise in determining causes of death was limited. Gibson had no doubt that whatever searcher recorded Alexander Ross’s death had simply accepted the diagnosis provided by the renowned Dr. Cooper. But if Jumpin’ Jack had made a mistake—if the body lying on Gibson’s slab belonged not to Mr. Alexander Ross but to some other young gentleman who was known to have encountered a violent death—then his identity would be found in the Bills of Mortality.

Choosing a chair near a dusty window, Gibson quickly ran through the compiled list of deaths by natural causes for the previous week ... aged, 24; ague, 2; bloody flux, 1; childbed, 3; fever, 235; French pox, 1; measles, 5. . . . Sighing, he skipped down to the “unnatural deaths”: bites, mad dog, 1; burnt, 2; choked, none; drowned, 3; shot, none; smothered, 1; stabbed, none.

He checked the previous week, just to be certain. Shot, one. Stabbed, none.

Leaning back in his chair, he scrubbed both hands down over his face. Then he pushed to his feet, returned the Bills of Mortality to the bored-looking clerk, and went in search of Dr. Astley Cooper.

He met the surgeon turning in through the gates of St. Thomas’s Hospital.

An imposing man with dark eyebrows and thick gray hair flowing from a rapidly receding hairline, Dr. Astley Cooper was long accustomed to hearing himself described as London’s preeminent surgeon. In addition to lecturing on anatomy at St. Thomas’s, he was a member of the Royal College of Surgeons and a professor of surgery at Guy’s Hospital. But it was his flourishing private practice that earned him more than twenty-one thousand pounds a year—a level of success he made no attempt to keep secret.

“May I walk with you a moment, Dr. Cooper?” Gibson asked, falling into step beside the famous man.

“As you wish,” said Cooper, cutting across the quadrangle toward the chapel. He cast Gibson a quick, assessing glance. “I hear you are to lecture this afternoon on cerebral circulation. I trust you’ve consulted my own writings on the subject?”

Gibson schooled his features into an expression of solemn respect. “To be sure, Dr. Cooper. You are the expert, are you not?”

Cooper nodded, said, “Good,” and kept walking.

Gibson said, “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Alexander Ross.”

Cooper frowned. “Who?”

“The young gentleman who was found dead in his rooms in St. James’s Street last Sunday. The one you said died of a defective heart.”

“Ah, yes; I remember now. What about him?”

“I was wondering if you were told he had a history of pleurisy? Or perhaps carditis?”

Cooper shrugged. “How would I know? The man was no patient of mine.”

“No one gave you a medical history?”

“I was told simply that he appeared healthy to all who knew him.”

“And you saw no signs of disorder in the room? Nothing out of place?”

“What a preposterous question. The man died peacefully in his sleep. He wasn’t thrashing about in his death throes, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“There were no signs of blood on the sheets?

“Why on earth would there be? The man died of morbus cordis.” The surgeon’s eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning my diagnosis?”

“Not at all. Simply curious.” Gibson drew up. “Thank you; you’ve been most helpful.”

He started to turn away, then swung back around when a thought occurred to him. “Just one more question, Dr. Cooper—”

The surgeon tightened his prominent, bulbous jaw. “Yes? What now?”

“I was wondering who called you to Mr. Ross’s bedside that morning.”

“Who called me? Sir Hyde Foley. Why do you ask?”