The Resurrectionist by James Bradley

Reaching out again he shifts the papers that lie upon the desk. This reveals not notes and drawings of my work, but sketches I have made, day by day: a profile of Charles, a washerwoman, two cats, Blackfriars Bridge. One by one he examines them, studying carefully, until eventually the last is reached.
    ‘You have some skill with a pen,’ he says, as if surprised. I nod uncertainly: it is his belief that drawing is a vital part of our education, for only through the reproduction of a thing will its image be truly fixed within the mind, and so at his direction we are made to draw, but I know, as he must know, that it is the only part of my training I have any aptitude for.
    ‘Thank you,’ I say. All at once he turns away, leafing through the pages of a book that lies upon the bench nearby.
    ‘Charles tells me you have seen a little of the city in his company.’
    I shift, uneasy. These last weeks have seen a change in the relations between him and Charles, as Mr Poll’s temper has grown more troublesome Charles has become more solicitous towards the older man, but with a solicitousness that seems designed to disguise a growing distance between the two of them. Perhaps an outsider would not see it, and indeed it is not always there: when they are engaged in the business of dissection and surgery, they are as they ever were, two bodies possessed of one mind, lost to the work. But it is there nonetheless.
    ‘A little,’ I say.
    ‘And how do you find him?’
    I do not answer. Mr Poll watches me, then nods slowly.
    ‘You are loyal, I see. And he is a man who inspires loyalty, is he not?’
    ‘He is,’ I say.
    ‘Would you call him a friend?’
    ‘I hope he would see me as such.’
    Mr Poll considers, then, quite suddenly, he thrusts a drawing into my grasp.
    ‘What gives strength to the muscle?’ he asks, prodding the woman’s arm.
    ‘Exercise,’ I say cautiously.
    ‘Then do not let this facility of yours become an end in itself. To do what is easy does not exercise the moral faculties of the brain. There is a weakness inherent in those who are easy with themselves, a weakness you would do well to avoid.’

T HE END WHEN IT COMES is swift. On the doorstep a man I do not know. One eye staring pale and blind, the colour in it seemingly scoured away, its emptiness making me recoil. At first I take him for a sexton, or an undertaker perhaps, for he wears a dark suit and hat, and there is something about his long face and manner, his air of false sympathy which somehow fits the part. But his suit is too ragged, and his smile at the way his eye startles me betrays a different sort of nature.
    ‘Here, boy,’ he says, ‘this is for your master.’
    I take the letter he holds outstretched.
    ‘Who is it from?’ – but as I ask, the door behind me opens. Mr Tyne. His eyes move from one of us to the other, and then his expression changes.
    ‘You?’ he spits. But our visitor only smiles, as if Mr Tyne’s temper pleases him. Seeing the letter in my hand Mr Tyne snatches it.
    ‘This is yours?’ he demands. The other man simply touches his hat and bows exaggeratedly –
    ‘Give your master my blessings.’
    Left alone with me Mr Tyne lifts the letter to my face.
    ‘Did you bring him here?’ he demands.
    Shaking my head I tell him I have never seen him before today. With a sudden motion he casts the letter at my chest.
    ‘Your master is inside, boy. Do as you were bid.’
    He follows me up to Mr Poll’s study. Charles is there, and Robert too, and as we enter the three of them turn.
    ‘Yes?’ asks Mr Poll, and I step forward, placing the letter in his hand. Seeing the script on its front, a flicker passes across his face, but otherwise his expression is impassive as he opens and reads it.
    ‘Who brought this?’ he asks then, looking up at me. Mr Tyne takes a step forward.
    ‘Craven,’ he says, and at this the room grows quiet. Even I know it as the name of Lucan’s man, the most trusted of his