Fantasy Beasts & Burdens

[sspky]

Brow furrowing at the man’s request, Robert poked his head out, looked up and down the hallway, and then stepped back. He ushered the man in with a gesture of the hand, hoping he’d close the door behind him, and then pressed the notebook up against the wall. He jotted down three words and then held it out for Thom to read.

‘What’s the job?’

His writing was large so as to be easy to read, and also rather neat and careful.

‘Tomorrow’ sounded fairly urgent, and Robert thought it would be unlikely Fredrick would return in time, or if he did, return sober enough to be useful. Robert would have to begrudgingly clean himself up and head out to his partner’s usual haunts in search of him immediately. If he managed to get him home and fed soon, Fredrick would likely be presentable by the morning.

 

[Pith]

Following the silent instructions, Thom followed in quickly, and did indeed shut the door behind him. He almost went to turn the lock out of habit, but simply settled for leaning back against it. Then he saw the other man writing against the apartment walls, and read the fastidiously rendered message.

Huh..

"There's a funeral up at Norwood Cemetary tomorrow afternoon--Doc wants the body."

London boasted seven particularly affluent cemeteries, each boasting architectural marvels any attractive landscaping in different varieties. Unlike Highgate or Abney Park, which boasted lush botanicals as a means from detracting from London's industrial fog, Norwood was located in an area unbothered by the steam and light pollution typical in many areas of London, and focused more on stately mausoleums, catacombs, and an impressive crematorium.

Thom fished around his inner coat pocket and removed a newspaper clipping from the morning edition, headlining the sudden death of a young noblewoman by the name of Adelaide Cokkrin. "He's pretty sure the family tomb's gunna be locked up tight, plus the usual guards."

 

[sspky]

Nodding, Robert pulled the notebook back and began writing again. He wrote one line, drew a straight line beneath it, and then wrote another, and another.

‘Location of delivery?’ the first question read, and beneath the neat line, ‘Details to be aware of?’

Lastly, he'd written, ‘Is it to be known she is missing?’

Robert was perhaps a little annoyed that this unexpected in-person meeting was occurring without Fredrick. If his partner turned out to be anywhere near belligerent when he finally found him, he’d make a point of ensuring the man’s life was sufficiently miserable for at least the next few days.

In the meantime, he could deal with Thom and his request.

As he passed the notebook back towards the man, Robert silently considered what he knew of the area, what skills would be needed for the job, and how much he should request upfront.

 

[Pith]

"The office on Cheyne Walk, in Chelsea, 'cross from where they're adding to the canal--number 35. It's easier to go around the back, for unloading, once you're through the gate. And no, he wants it kept quiet, if possible."

As he'd mentioned, the cemetery did employ its own guards to make the evening rounds and watch over the eternally resting. It was, after all, hosting no small number of corpses from monied families, and no one wanted tombs raided for valuables. Should it come down to it, Thom was certain the doctor wouldn't be overly upset if security had to be neutralized rather than avoided, but it wouldn't hurt to maybe ransack someone else's grave for show.

"Details... he thinks it's going to be nasty," he added, shrugging, and handing over the clip, which featured a photograph of the dead lady, who was a common sort of attractive that was assisted via the adornments and framing of wealth. "Said he saw her last night at some benefit, and that she was pale and puked up live flies."

Dr. Walker had described the incident in some gleeful detail. Apparently during their conversation she had looked unwell, and when he suspected she was about to be sick, escorted her to a more secluded room. She'd tried to hide the flies in her handkerchief, but was too slow, likely due to her own shock. The next morning she was dead, and a funeral was being hastily arranged.

 

[sspky]

Vomiting live flies? God, but Frederick was going to just love that. It also meant they were clearly dealing with something supernatural -- as opposed to a boring old act of regular grave-robbing -- which Robert would need to take into account when he worked out a price tag.

Furthermore, she had evidently been buried remarkably quickly. The whole thing felt like trouble to him, and so after some brief consideration he wrote, ‘£25 upfront. £25 on delivery, plus additional fees outcome dependent.’

It was steep, certainly, but fly-vomiting and speedy burials implied the sort of magic that could go catastrophically wrong in an instant. Plus, it seemed they only had a day to prepare. The duo had done more with less, sure, but hardly meant this would be an easy task.

(( so apparently £25 in 1890 would be £3,233.65 today. So a little over 6k for a haunted corpse, I guess, which would probably go a looong way back then since apparently rent for a middle-class family was about £100 a year. I can adjust that though if that seems crazy out there. I’m just winging it based off of a few quick google searches.. ))

 

[Pith]

(( Honestly, grave robbing a body in general seems like it could get pricey, quality-of-corpse depending, so the supernatural tax seems perfectly reasonable to me. ))

To Thom, the proposed amount was ludicrous, and though he didn't allow his skepticism to completely show on his face he was sure some of it managed to come through. But he wasn't the rich doctor who wanted a haunted body stolen in the dead of night, so he wasn't about to argue the listed price. Dr. Walker told him what he wanted, and who he wanted to deal with it. If he was going to fuss about the price tag then he could take it up with Middle and Rémy directly, when they showed up. If they showed up.

He shrugged, adjusted the satchel to his front, and carefully rotated the locks to the correct sequence for it to pop open, though he took care to keep it from sight. He rifled briefly through the contents before extracting five signed £5 notes and a pen, re-locking it before holding out a hand. "Borrow your notepad quick?"

 

[sspky]

Something almost eager flashed across Robert's eyes when he saw what Thom had tucked away in that secure bag of his. It wasn’t the money that interested him, not really. It had never been about the money. Here was a man, acutely aware of his surroundings and surely quite on guard, with a locked up case filled with a gleaming reward.

It was the challenge that drew him like a spell. He could distract the man easily enough, he was sure of it, get his guard down, and have those staps off before he knew it. Five minutes. It could be his in five minutes. Fredrick would set his watch to it if he were here.

No. No, Fredrick would beat him raw if he even tried it. Even if Robert were to send Thom on his merry way with a considerably lighter bag, the crime would soon be noticed and all possible future dealings with the gentleman-doctor would surely be forfeit.

Ah, but he wanted to try.

Swallowing down his desire in favour of rank professionalism, Robert held the note pad out to his guest and silently told himself to behave.

 

[Pith]

Adjusting the satchel back to his side, he rotated it a bit further so it rested neatly between himself and the door he leaned against. Perhaps such an obvious gesture was rude, even given time and place and circumstance, but Thom didn't care. It wasn't so much that he'd noticed anything particular about Robert's demeanor. He'd kept his eyes on the bag itself and the man's hands when extracting the money, so he hadn't seen the flash of curious hunger cross the other's face, looking to best a perceived challenge. But he liked his arms to be free, and if the thief was tempted to try anything then he didn't want to make it easy.

Offering a greater challenge could stir up greater desire to try, and he didn't know the man well enough to determine if he was stupid, but it was probably safe to assume further business opportunities might remain a motivating factor.

Accepting the pad, Thom used it to fill in the date on the bank notes in small, neat writing, and made a mental note to bring up the idea of an alternative account to the doctor if he was going to make a habit of such expensive purchases. Or to at least pay the latter half of the jobs in cash directly. He paused, glanced up at Robert, eyes flicking to the neckerchief briefly before jotting down a telephone number. "Anything else? If you need to get in touch you can have the other one get to a pay phone." He handed the pad of paper back along with the money.

 

[sspky]

Robert followed the man's stare to his neck and scowled defensively. The looked passed quickly enough when Thom held out the notes to him. He collected them carefully and put them aside for the moment. When Thom was gone, he’d store them securely away in a very well concealed safe beneath a false panel in their apartment.

Biting back the temptation to make a move on the satchel, Robert simply nodded at his guest's comment, and then made a polite but dismissive gesture towards the door. Their business was clearly concluded.

Already, Robert was mulling over the tasks ahead of him. He’d need to hunt down Fredrick first, and suspected he’d either find him gambling, drinking, and whoring down at the Green Stag Pub, or he’d be deeper into debauchery and currently fistfighting the boxers over at Kimmies. Once that was sorted, he’d need to sober his companion up, and then spend what time remained researching the case ahead of them. He was familiar enough to the cemetery in question, but not with the incident that led to the woman's hasty interment.

(( short post, sorry. Next one will be much longer. ))

 

[Pith]

(( No worries, same here~ ))

Thom nodded, only too happy to take his leave so quickly, business concluded. Not that he would have to tell the doctor, per se--he could absolutely justify taking his time to get back to the office, stop off somewhere for a drink. Not that he couldn't do the same thing without the excuses--it was an office day, meaning the doctor had purposely scheduled no appointments, and there wouldn't be any need for his help in dealing with patients, their families, or the odd caller. Nothing short of the highest emergency would likely get the man out of the door, and the hospital where he did the most work was barely a twenty minute walk away.

It might be funny, to take his time and let the doctor wind himself up. But then he would have to deal with that energy until the body was delivered.

'Okay then,' he reasoned to himself, putting away his pen before reaching to the doorknob, body leading with the satchel so there was no access to it, and departed without a further word. 'Only a brief stop.'

 

[sspky]

When Thom turned to leave, Robert stepped forward. He placed one long-fingered hand on the edge of the door, intent on closing and locking it behind his guest. And as Thom left, his other hand glided forward smoothly, slipped into the man's jacket pocket, and snatched the first thing his fingers found. It was such a seamless gesture and something that came to almost without any thought at all.

He’d intended to let the man leave with his belongings entirely intact, but if and when Thom noticed the absence of the -- what was it? A small metal case of some kind, a little larger than his thumb -- item, there was hardly any way he could reasonably assume it had been stolen by Robert. Any sticky-fingered rogue in the area could have cleaned out his pockets, surely. And Robert wouldn’t steal from an employer. Of course not.

The moment Thom crossed the threshold, Robert slammed shut the door and bolted it tightly. His first order of business was to stow away the sizable down payment. After that, Robert redressed quickly, combed his hair, and scrubbed his face clean of any trace of the oil and grime he’d accumulated while working on his clockwork project.

Content that he at least looked at least passible, Robert pocketed a small pistol and a switchblade, donned a heavy jacket, and stepped out of his apartment for the first time in days.

Fredrick was neither at the pub nor down with the rowdy boys at Kimmie's makeshift boxing arena. But from the arena, a regular fighter sporting a split lip and a swollen eye recognized Robert immediately, and after heckling him awhile, he finally pointed the man in the right direction.

Fredrick had been in a small rowhouse a few blocks down from the gym, where another of the regular boxers had invited him to a game of cards. Music poured from an old gramophone, while several escorts in various stages of undress, drank and danced with each other. The place was thick with sweet-smelling smoke, and Fredrick, his shirt unbuttoned and his hair a mess, was laying across a couch with an opium pipe in one hand. His other was wrapped around a young woman's thigh.

Wordlessly, Robert collected his friend's belongings, and the pulled him up off of the couch. He helped his inebriated associate redress, and then lead him into the alleyway outside. The afternoon air was warm, and the scent of sewage almost overwhelming, and that combination was apparently enough to have Frederick vomiting into the gutter.

By the time they made it back to their apartment, Fredrick was looking considerably better. While Fredrick showered and shaved, Robert prepared a basic meal for the two of them, before setting to work reading through a collection of old books he kept on an overstuffed shelf in his workroom. He would be at this task a long time, and since Fredrick would need a few hours to sleep off his high, Robert knew he’d likely not get a wink of shut-eye himself until this job was finished with.

(( Gonna wait until after your next post before I describe their corpse-snatching adventures in the graveyard. ))

 

[Pith]

It didn’t take long to note the pilfered case, though that was partially due to the speed at which Thom removed himself from Whitechapel’s charming neighborhoods. The underground was stuffy and unbearable, not unusual for late summer, and especially considering how close to the Thames the line ran. The smell of sewage seemed to cling to everyone and everything down there, even the scant few windows were covered in a perpetual layer of grime. So when he changed lines at Westminster East he stepped onto one of the upper platform for a cigarette, hoping to clear the putrid air from his lungs.

The cigarette was dangling from his lips when he realized the little brass vesta case that held his matches was no longer in his pocket.

Of course it could have been lifted from him any number of places in Whitechapel. The underground alone offered a dozen opportunities for adequate pickpockets, since it was always crowded, no matter the conditions. But Robert was generally aware of people getting to close, and had spent most of the ride with his hands resting in said pockets, though since he wasn’t the sort of fidget with his belongings he hadn’t noted the absence.

He could prove the mute had taken it. But he had to admit, he’d been putting more of his concentration on the case than in his pockets.

Thankfully someone else had been near enough to offer him a light, but the agitation remained. Originally intending to stop off at a pub for a drink, maybe even lunch, he instead dropped by one of the closer liquor stores to the office and replaced his flask, along with a bottle of gin to fill it with.

Elijah was, as Thom predicted, practically pacing when he returned to the office, though he at least seemed to be channeling some of the energy into a selection of open files. “You’re back! How did it go? Are they going?”

“Talked to Middle,” Thom ignored the other questions at first, leaning over to look at the files. “These are your appointments for tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course they are--I want you yo reschedule them. Are they going?”

Thom groaned and turned the files around to look more closely at the names, details coming back to him about their complaints and upcoming procedures. “Gave ‘em money, so I guess you’ll see after tomorrow night. You’re going to have to give up your next research day. And isn’t Mr. Knox’s growth getting… puss-y?”

Dr. Walker waved a hand as if to dismiss the concern. “If he’s been keeping it clean, as I told him, there’s no reason he shouldn’t last a few more days. It’s not even a week. Oh, but this is exciting… So much to prepare!”

Thom watched the doctor pace about the office, removing several books and talking aloud about the things he would need to adequately set up the dissection room. Supplies for his drawings, sharpening his tools, sterilizing more specimen jars. It was all things he would leave to the doctor, since it was a better use of his excited energy, and especially if Thom had to reschedule appointments of people who felt themselves very important. Somewhere along the way he’d have to make sure the doc got a couple meals in him, and at least eight hours of sleep before he started cutting up some supposed monster.

Maybe nailing down some of the valuable decor too. Just in case.

 

[sspky]

By the time the next night rolled around, Robert was feeling as prepared as he possibly could be. While Fredrick dressed in his good grave-robbing clothes and prepared his tools, Robert sat on a scuffed countertop in the kitchen, nursing his second mug of steaming black coffee. Unlike his companion, Rober took very little time to prepare considering, unlike his companion, he kept his business affects in strict order.

Both men were dressed in unassuming workman's clothing, just as you’d expect to see any groundskeeper or maintenance man in. Tucked away in an inside pocket of his jacket, Robert had a rolled-up cloth case containing everything he'd need to easily open a lock. Fredrick, meanwhile, had tucked away a crowbar, a small hatchet, and a pair of wire-cutters within his long, heavy coat.

They were armed, the two of them, with a pistol each and various thin knives. They were also well defended; both wearing necklaces adorned with various useful charms and talismans. Fredrick also had a rabbit's foot in his left pocket - something to which Robert always rolled his eyes with resigned affection.

“If I should die -- and you should live,” Fredrick was singing to some mismatched tune as he shoved Robert off the counter and out of the apartment door, “And time should gurgle on -- and morn should beam -- and noon should burn -- as it has usual done,“

The off-tune recital continued as the two slunk from their building, down the street, and out towards the nearest station. Fredrick had switched from Dickenson to Keats to Poe, and by the time they’d reached Norwood he’d been treating his partner to some bastardization of Queen Mab, sung to the tune of a lude pub song originally about gambling.

How a man who could hardly read at a passable level had such a memory for poetry, Robert would never know, but every line his friend took to heart seemed to have something or another to do with the grave, or else the theme would be entirely sexual, and Robert suspected this odd talent had helped him charm his way into the bedroom of many young women (and likely a few men, too. Robert had never known the man to care).

The job itself began easily enough. They stole into the cemetery and, given Thom's request that the crime go unnoticed, they were careful not to cross paths with any of the usual guardsmen and grave keepers.

The tomb itself was an eclectic thing, all high white marble walls with romanesque pillars alongside too-modern french statuettes. It wasn’t the sort of place Robert would care to spend his eternal slumber, that was certain.

As for Fredrick...if asked, he’d probably claim he wished for his body to be scattered to the winds. Not his ashes, mind. But his corpse, proper.

They nearly ran into some trouble while Robert picked the lock, but Fredrick had seen the sudden glow of the watchman's torch in time to pull them both into a sheltered alcove near the mausoleums heavy iron-wrought door.

Once inside, they found the body easily enough. She’d been locked away in a heavy stone sarcophagus, and once the two men managed to pry the lid off, they both nearly gagged from the smell of her.

“Bloody fuck,” Fredrick said between dry-heaves, “God, she smells worse then your mother did the day they finally pulled her fat arse out the river of semen she drowned in.”

Robert responded with a rude hand gesture, and the two continued their labours.

Ten minutes later, they had the uncomfortably soggy body folded up in three layers of burlap tarp. Together, they resealed the stone coffin, before Fredrick helped heft the weighty burden over Roberts broad shoulders. The smell lingered, and Robert coughed back another rolling wave of vomit while he followed Fredrick out into the night.

They’d left a wagon in a nearby alleyway, and loaded the corpse into it, before burying it beneath an assortment of old sacks and street-trash. By the time they pulled the hand-cart out of the alleyway, they looked like little more than a couple of baggers with a buggy filled to the brim with useless salvage.

Robert was quieter now that he was wheeling about something unquestionably illegal, and the two made it from Norwood to Chelsey a little before sunrise. For the most part, the street still slept and there was no one around to witness them pass through the gate behind Number 35 Cheyne Walk. They hid the cart as best they could, and Robert stood watch while Fredrick slunk up to the backdoor and began knocking.

 

[Pith]

Cheyne Walk was lacking in many single dwellings along its river-front road. It was a street of three-story brick-faced flats, packed together in a dense line, with claustrophobic little alleyways running behind with the only access typically being at the ends of each block. Number 35 was something of an oddity in that it looked as though the apartments on either side had been added on to a stately brick home at a later date, and it lay slightly further back from the street. While the roofs were clearly connected by adjoining gutters, overgrown ivy, and gleaming of pipes from modern, technological additions, at the ground level there were clear, wide arches leading back towards the alley. Concealment was done easily enough, even with the rare buzzing electrical lamp gleaming weakly every few dozen feet.

The lock to the front gates and the ones leading back to the alley had been left unlocked, but from the front, the home looked as sleepy as the rest.

Before the knocking even began, Elijah had been scrambling downstairs to meet them. Originally he'd planned on waiting up the night, but Thom had reasoned, quite annoyingly if accurately, simply traveling the distance from the cemetery would take hours, nevermind the work itself, which would almost certainly begin after it was dark. The man had then mused about whether or not his hands would be shaky from the lack of sleep he'd gotten over the last two days coupled with the amount of tea he'd had. The doctor had insisted he was always steady when he worked, but conceded that since the scalpels and saws were out, the table was laid, and he'd triple checked the jars, it wouldn't be a bad time to catch some sleep.

Thom only had to open the door to the room in order to throw Elijah into full wakefulness, and he'd dashed down to the loading area. The door swung open after the third knock.

"You made it! Splendid! Any trouble?" Apart from his hair being marginally more toussled and not wearing a jacket, the doctor looked much as he had when they'd met--cheery, clean-cut with his pressed white shirt and charcoal vest, glasses catching some of the light. The loading room was brightly lit by half a dozen electric lights that were of obviously better quality that the ones providing scant illumination in the alley, and a long table fixed with wheels waited near the door. "Do come in!"

 

[sspky]

The door opened and Fredrick peered inside. When he spotted the table, he offered the doctor a quick nod and a: “Been no trouble at all, Doctor,” before stepping smoothly back into the heavy shadows of the alleyway.

For a while there was silence, and suddenly there was the sound of something very wet hitting something very hard, followed shortly thereafter by a string of hushed, choked-off profanity.

When Fredrick returned, Robert was following behind him. There was something positively dripping slung over the tall mutes shoulders, and the scent that accompanied them was beyond grotesque. The front of Fredrick's jacket was soaked with something vicious. Robert fared far worse, for while he too had been in the splash-zone when the corpse had tumbled out of the wagon, he was also still carrying the thing. A small river of ooze was dripping its way down the back of his jacket.

He could feel a trickle of wet on his neck and dear god, did he want to scream.

In front of him, Robert said, “I take that back. There might be trouble. Let us in,”

And without waiting any further, he stomped into the loading bay and helped his partner lay the sopping sack of rags and flesh down on the table.

 

[Pith]

While the pair unloaded the cart, Thom had made his way down to the loading room. He'd been watching the road for several hours, and had seen less sleep than the doctor in the last two days. The sooner they could get his little corpse into the operating room so Dr. Walker could study, document, and dismember it, the better, far as he was concerned.

"Oh dear," Elijah said, sounding more curiously delighted than any sort of pitying when he caught sight of the two of them in the light. "Was she quite that... wet when you found her?" He made way immediately for the two to come inside and deposit Ms. Cokkrin's remains on the table, and felt a shudder run through his body when he caught a whiff of her unusual decomposition.

Thom, however, immediately started coughing from the stench rolling into the room, suffusing the air around them almost instantly. It was all he could do from dry-heaving, and he couldn't imagine how the pair of them were managing to actually touch the things. "Fucking hell, why?!" he managed to choke out, eyes beginning to water. He'd smelled bodies before, rain-rotted corpses that had been steeping far longer than the young lady, but he couldn't think of what in the world would make a fresh corpse smell anything remotely close to that.

"Haven't the faintest," Elijah said with a shrug, closing the door behind the pair, and ignoring Thom's glare for getting rid of the only airflow. "Well, better get her into the lab before she seeps away entirely!" He stood at one end of the table, expectantly, and after taking a deep breath into his sleeve Thom took his place at the other and started to move towards the hall. As they moved, the doctor added cheerfully, "You can wait here if you like, or there's a wash station off the operating room if you'd like to freshen up a bit."

 

[sspky]

“She wasn’t nearly so wet when we wrapped her up,” Fredrick replied.

At the moment the corpse was still secured in burlap, and Fredrick had every intention of seeing what she presently looked like. With a toothy grin, he said, “If it’s all the same to you, doctor, I’d like to see what state the old girl is in now.”

Robert didn’t share his partner's enthusiasm. While Fredrick made to follow Walker and his aide to the laboratory, Robert was determined to find the operating room and wash as much of the vile liquid off of him as he could.

Under this light, the ooze that dripped down his jacket was a sickly yellow. The colour reminded him of that old living cadaver that used to dwell across from the in the apartments. At some point the woman had finally gone from corpse-like to actual corpse, and when her stinking body was discovered later, it had been sallowed with jaundice.

 

[Pith]

"Of course!" Elijah replies, a grin splitting his face in delight. "If you have a strong stomach and can be quiet if I need, I don't have a problem with it at all!"

Thom didn't like to be in the lab when he was working on his dissections. The man wasn't squeamish about bodies, but wasn't fond of watching the cutting, or breaking, or pulling. He didn't seem to mind being in the operating room, rare as that was, and even showed something of an interest in the surgical procedures. But no matter how many times he offered to let the other observe his other work, there was never any interest.

As they turned left out of the room, the doctor glanced Fredrick's lingering before calling out. "Other end of this hall, if you want the washroom!"

The lab was at the end of the hall, past the lift and several storage closets. It took some maneuvering to get the cart through, but the two men looked as though it was something they did regularly. It was dimmer overall in the lab, with a single, intensely bright light situated over another table bolted to the floor in the very center of the cement floor, positioned over a drain. The table itself had groves worked into the stone to more easily allow for liquids to drain down, and all around the edges of the room were tables covered in lap equipment, tools, writing supplies, books, and jars upon jars of specimens. Most were normal medical fare--organs, eyes, tissues. But there were also jars of teeth, what looked to be mutated fingers and disquietingly shaped bones.

Elijah grabbed an apron from the table and quickly slipped it on, along with gloves and a set of leather arm bracers that had several small instruments latched onto them for ease of access. "Thom, shall we?"

Thom did not want to touch that body, not even through thick, soaked fabric. Not even with the artificial cold of the lab soaking up much of the stench. Even so, he clutched one hand of the burlap wrappings as the doctor took the opposite end, and in one quick motion they transferred the lumpy wrappings onto the examination table. Thom could swear the figure sloshed when it settled on the surface. "I'll go hose this off," he said immediately, in a tone that left no room for discussion. "And the alley too."

"Suit yourself," Elijah shrugged, unsurprised as he wheeled another, smaller card covered in tools and jars closer. He selected a pair of thick, wicked scissors, and began to carefully cut down the center of the wrappings, gently lifting the section he was cutting up enough to ensure it wasn't going to snag the body. After a moment he was able to peel back her covers, and reveal Adelaide Cokkrin.

She looked terrible. Oh, in life she might have dreamed of having such a pale, ghostly complexion, it was somewhat marred by the swelling and oozing occurring at several points across her skin. Specifically, around small, rough holes in the skin. The area around the breaks were puffy and yellow, likely filled with the same liquid that was seeping out of them currently, and had been since she'd been removed. Setting down the scissors and taking a long set of tweezers from his cuff, he poked gently at some of the swollen skin with the blunt end, and sure enough, more thick yellow oozed out. But something else did as well... Leaning in, seemingly unbothered by the stench, Elijah poked the tips into the hole and caught onto what he'd spotted, pulling out a bright white, very dead larvae. Once it was extracted the pus oozed freely for a few seconds before slowing to a trickle again. He had a feeling there was another blockage.

"Well," he said, leaning up to examine the larvae in the light and grabbing one of the jars filled halfway with clear liquid, plopping it in. "This should be fun."

 

[sspky]

Initially, Fredrick stood back and let the two men work. When Thom excused himself Fredrick moved in to replace him. As the doctor collected the first creature, Fredrick grinned widely.

While he’d heard accounts of such grisly infestations, Fredrick had never witnessed such a morbid condition in person.

Oh, this would be fun indeed.

“She was vomiting flies before she died, correct?” he asked, clearly curious. Robert had written a summary of his conversation with Thom down for Fredrick, but the details had been understandably sparse.

As he watched the doctor work, Fredrick thought back to the old books his partner had been scouring through. The man had pointed out a few passages he’d thought might be relevant, but Fredrick hadn’t been bothered to read any of them.

Speaking of Robert; the mute had found his way to the operating room and quickly stripped off his soaking jacket. He left it in a heap on the floor. It belonged to the doctor now, for all he cared. Let the man sample the goo or do whatever it was he pleased, Robert wanted nothing more to do with it.

He did, however, empty the pockets of his possessions, including his valuable bundle of professional instruments, which he laid out carefully beside the sink. Thankfully, much of what had been in his pockets seemed dry.

His shirt and neckerchief had not been so lucky. He removed both quickly and dropped them into the sink. Standing in his trousers, work boots, and a thick undershirt, the man hastily did what he could to rinse off his button-up and wring it dry. The scarf he soaked and then used to wipe down his neck and arms. The scent lingered, and while his shirt hung off the edge of the sink to dry, Robert learned up against the operating table and fumbled a cigarette out from a metal case among his effects.

 

[Pith]

“She was,” Elijah replied, looking at the fly larvae suspended for formaldehyde as the light shone through. It looked like a regular enough, but he was not an entomologist, and would likely need an outside consultation. “She was telling me she’d suffered sudden sharp but brief pains through the day around her stomach and abdomen. Wondered if it was heartburn.”

People always talked about their health concerns when they encountered doctors in the course of casual conversation and socializing. Some professionals disliked the seeking, intentional or otherwise, of pro bono medical advice, but Elijah rarely minded engaging with others in an area of his own expertise. It was, after all, among his greatest passions and far more interesting than small-talk.

“The fliest I saw,” he continued, tugging a few more of the small white bugs out of their holes to join in the preserving liquid, “were moving. Until she squished them in her handkerchief, of course. I have to wonder if they were actually in the stomach, acid there’s not usually too hospitable for living things, though these are clearly not ordinary pests.”

Content with the initial sample, the doctor screwed on the top before looking back to the body with an assessing gaze. Ordinarily he would have taken the time to get some preliminary sketches of the wounds, take measurements, make notations for later review. He couldn’t help but think longingly of investing in a camera, despite the time it would take to learn to use the thing. But if the body was putrifying at an accelerated rate and he couldn’t even be sure of why, then that meant there was only so much time to gather samples.

“Well. Let’s start off with a good look inside, then.”

It wasn’t really meant for Fredrick, more to himself, but he nodded and picked up the scalpel to start in on the Y-shaped incision.

Thom, meanwhile, had moved the cart back into the operating room before taking up a lanturn to inspect the alley. The cart was well hidden in the shadowy alcove but easily found via the trail of stinking liquid glistening in the faint glow. Hanging the lanturn from a hook, went back inside and pressed a button by the back door. There was a shudder and then a hiss, before a sudden shift of gears indicating the front and side gates had been locked. It was early, and they weren’t expecting anyone, but Thom always felt better when the property was locked down.

He needed a hose from the operating room.

Of course Robert was already there when he entered, and in a state of partial undress at that, but he couldn’t blame the man for wanting to be free from the sticky mess. He crossed the room to the sink where he spotted the drying items, and started to detach the hose hose from the side of the sink, where it was normally kept for post-procedure cleanup of the table and floor. When he spotted the discarded and filthy coat, however, he turned back to the taller man with a weary expression.

“There is a bin, you know.”

 

[sspky]

Fingertips resting lightly on the cool tabletop, Fredrick shifted his attention from the doctor to his patient, and back again. Dr. Walker was clearly captivated by his research subject, and Frederick found this strangely enduring. Although he didn’t personally make any such connection, he did have much the same response to dear Robert's fascination for those delicate, mechanical things that littered their apartment.

When the good doctor began the first incision, Fredrick leaned in a little. As he watched the pale body slide open beneath the scalpel, Fredrick mused, “I’d think it was a curse, except for all this,” he gestured vaguely at the body, “happening on past her death.”

Most curses were fairly simple things, and the casters rarely sacrificed the energy and reagents required to extend the one beyond their victim's lifespan. If that were the cause of this strange affliction, someone must have dearly hated this woman.

“A cryptid, then? I know of a few that might fit the bill.” he asked, “Was she a witch? A snoop? A necrophile? Or perhaps just terribly unlucky?”


Elsewhere, Robert had discovered with severe annoyance that his hands had, at some point, began shaking. It took three attempts to finally light the cigarette, and when at last he did he savoured the first lungful with near reverence. His eyes had drifted closed a moment, and he felt that deep sort of tiredness that seemed to reach down into his very bones. When Fredrick was finished here, he’d force the man to pay for a proper cab, and he’d claim first dibs on the shower. Let his partner try to stop him. All the thief wanted was to feel clean again, and to sleep for a week.

When he heard the door to the operating room open, he visibly tensed. It was the man-servant, Thom. Robert was admittedly a little bitter that it wasn’t Fredrick, come to collect him.

The edge on the man didn’t wear off when Thom spoke. In fact, the look he wore was one of hot defiance, as if he were challenging the man to comment on his obvious, and now exposed deformity.

And what a deformity it was. The entire front of Robert's neck was thick with folded scar-tissue. It began just below his chin and stretched down to his collarbone, with the uneven arms of the mark wrapping around nearly the whole way around his neck. The scar diverted inwards a good centimetre in some places and puckered out into twisted ridges in others.

Something hadn’t cut his throat. No, something had ripped his throat right open. It was no wonder he was a mute -- hell, it was almost unfathomable that he was even alive. The sort of wound that would have caused such a deep and grotesque scar was not the sort of wound even the best doctors had any hope of treating.

 

[Pith]

Elijah worked fast. It was one of the oldest stills in his trade, learning to cut open a corpse, and the ease with which he sliced and peeled back skin, then meat and sinnew was nothing short of professional. There were more swollen holes in the torso, at least two in each breast, though less notably where there was not quite so much meat and fat over the bones, nor her smooth stomach.

At the curse comment, the doctor made a vague sound. He’d seen curses before in his line of work, obviously, though there was little to be done for the suffering in those cases, medically. Most simply close to give the victims whatever pain medications would shut them up the fastest. Elijah simply referred them to examine their interactions with others in recent memory, to see if they had made anyone or anything angry.

He paused, very momentarily, to regard Fredrick while in the process of picking up a set of what looked like bolt-cutters. It worked marvels for separating the sternum and ribcage. “Do you? I’d be very interested in the ones you have in mind.” He turned back to the remains of the young lady and began snipping, much as one would prune a shrub. “A witch or necrophile, I’d have my doubts, but I suppose one always does with ladies. I’d hazarded unlucky, myself, but the whole family recently returned from a trip to Bath so I’d be curious if there are any other losses at the estate.”


It was quite impossible not to go wide-eyed and stare at the scarring--it was right there, exposed and utterly dreadful looking. Thom’s immediate thought was that it did, indeed, account for the lack of speech. He’d simply assumed the man had been born a mute, but evidently he had come by the difficulty through more extreme circumstances.

To his credit, he didn’t look terribly disgusted or horrified by the scar. It made his own throat itch to look at and he had to fight the urge to run his own fingers protectively over his neck, just to be sure there was nothing wrong there. But scars, grotesque or not, meant Robert had survived whatever had did it, unlikely as it might seem. Thom had had a front-row seat to his own organs falling out and resting on his legs, then being put delicately placed back in. He could appreciate an unlikely survival.

“...right there,” he said suddenly, nodding to a sizable waste receptacle. He doubted Robert would use it, but what else was he supposed to say? ‘What the fuck tried to eat your spinal cord through your larynx?’ He had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well.

He turned back to his task of disconnecting the hose, lifting more of the rubber coils off the floor and over his shoulder.

 

[sspky]

Fredrick admired the doctor's handiwork. He’d been under the knife plenty of times in his life, but the so-called doctors who treated him had never been much for any kind of professionalism and so the majority of his surgical experiences could have been called hackjobs at best.

At the doctor's last comment, Fredrick considered what he knew of the local lore surrounding Bath and the Somerset area. There had been a history of witch burnings, a lot of old Arthurian legends, and a thing or two about a giant dog of sorts, but nothing really relevant.

Granted, that was more Roberts thing; remembering the details of the when and where and why these creatures existed. If you wanted to know the how, especially the `how to kill them`, then Fredrick was the undisputed expert of the two.

“They certainly did bury her quickly...and quietly.” he observed, “So perhaps the family is a little more accustomed to this sort of thing then they ought to be? Though...it’s odd they didn’t quietly burn her.”

Fire trended to be the solution to a great many supernatural problems.

Meanwhile, Robert was regarding the back of Thom's head. When the man had turned back to the sink, Robert visibly relaxed, his previous hostility falling away as though he hadn’t the energy to really maintain it.

He regarded and waste bin, and then the discarded coat, and debated doing as the man had requested, but he was so loath to touch the damn thing again now that he’d managed to wash his hands.

Then again, the man had chosen to ignore the obvious, and for that Robert was silently thankful, so he pushed himself off the operating table and gingerly plucked up the cleanest edge of fabric he could find. The thing left a disgusting puddle on the floor beneath it and sent up a fresh waft of that putrid odour about the room when disturbed.

 

[Pith]

"Believe me, that was my biggest fear--a quick cremation to cover up any scandal, without a chance to even look at her." He'd been invited to the benefit party due to being a well-respected physician and the philanthropic nature of the cause, but he wasn't particularly close to any of the Cokkrin family. A legitimate reason to be at the funeral, and more importantly the wake, had never been on the table, and he might not have reached out to the two men if the goal had been to steal a body from the crematorium. "Fortunately, Mr. Cokkrin 'doesn't hold with that sort of thing.' "

The last rib was broken with a pop, and after taking up the scalpel again to ease away any soft pieces that were in the way Elijah was able to pull it off entirely and set it aside on the cart. Inside was an absolute mess, organs ravaged with what appeared to be burst polyps, and positively swimming in the yellowish mucus. It would be difficult to work with that much liquid, he reasoned, dipping a jar in to collect a sizable sample, sending up another waft of the rancid stench. Though a bit crude, to his mind, the most efficient solution seemed to be creating valve, and a quick, careful application of a handsaw to her side allowed for a small drainage point. The viscous rot poured slowly out her side and ran down the grooves of the table to openings over the floor drain. The partially decomposed bodies of black flies occasionally spilled down, and were visible nestled in the internal crevices.

There was a notable lack of visceral fat around the lower organs, and a great many holes in the meat around her joints. Though he was keen to follow the tiny paths, there was a proper order he felt compelled to stick to. And so he began the removable of her organs, or at least what remained of them. Each was place into a large jar already half-full of the preserving liquid.


Once the hose was off Thom was quick to wrap it up, and when he turned he was genuinely surprised to see the other man dispose of the coat. "Thanks," he offered, clearing the way back to the sink."I'll get your pay soon as I'm done cleaning up that shit."

He supposed he could get it right away, but the shorter one had shown interest in the doctor's work. Until he came back looking to leave, he saw no reason to rush.

The application of hot water to the mess on the cart seemed to, if possible, make the smell worse--a sharp, acidic scent mixed in with the rot and Thom had to pause a moment to dry-heave, thanking whatever might have been listening he hadn't bothered to eat, knowing something likely to be disgusting had been on the way. Cold water took longer to remove the stuff, but the helped with the smell, so he set to his task.

 

[sspky]

“What do you do with those, anyway?” he asked as the doctor plunked another organ into another jar. Dr. Walker didn’t seem the type to meddle in witchcraft, so Fredrick assumed his interest must be entirely scientific. And since Fredrick knew close to nothing about modern science, he was at a total loss of what the point of preserving this woman might be.

Perhaps he sold these gruesome items? There was, after all, a market for just about everything. Though, if Fredrick were to take a guess based on the similar jars already lining the walls of the room, he’d think the man was some sort of morbid collector.

As Dr. Walker was relocating another organ, Fredrick noticed something odd in the space it had once occupied. He was no doctor, but he knew his way around the guts of a man, and that finger-thick tube looked a little out of place.

“s’at normal?” he asked, as he picked up a nearby scalpel and poked at the thing with the blunted end.

While Fredrick prodded at the strange wormy white shape in the woman's abdomen, a few rooms away Robert had taken a seat on the edge of the operating table once more, where he continued to watch Thom work. Just when he thought he might be growing used to the smell, the terrible thing seemed to swell again.

He took a deep drag of his cigarette, savouring the taste of it, while thinking over any possible ways to mask the smell. It was possible to smother out all sorts of odours, but Robert sincerely doubted the doctor kept any of the alchemical reagents he’d require to make a decent incense.

When Thom mentioned their pay, he waved the man off, apparently sharing the same sentiment. There was no knowing how long Fredrick's fascination with the corpse would last, so there wasn’t any reason to rush. In the meantime, he’d make due burning through his remaining smokes and watching long-suffering man-servant labour away.