Free The Anatomist's Apprentice by Tessa Harris Page A

some of the most unforgiving tables in Bath and Cheltenham and he had always kept his composure, but tonight his nerves were clearly on edge. Farrell gazed deep into his half-empty glass. “I do not doubt that you are right and that is why it is important that when I am called, and if you are called, we have our story straight.”

Chapter 11
    S hortly after nine o’clock in the morning Thomas presented himself at Oxford Coroner’s Court. The clerk, a man with a weasel face, looked at him suspiciously. “What is the purpose of your visit?” he quizzed.
    “I am a surgeon and anatomist, come from London, and wish to see Sir Theodisius Pettigrew,” said Thomas, trying to appear confident. Lady Lydia had told him the coroner’s name before, but all the same a sickly feeling rose in the pit of his stomach and traveled up as far as his gullet.
    “I will see if he is available,” said the clerk, rising from his desk and walking to the double doors behind him. He knocked, poked his head into the gloomy study beyond, and then nodded to Thomas.
    Sir Theodisius Pettigrew sat behind a large desk, eating. A white napkin was tucked into his collar and held in place by the lowest of his three chins. By the looks of it, he had been eating for some time, thought Thomas; such were the dollops of egg yolk and spots of grease on the linen. In front of him were several plates, some empty, and some still piled high with food. There was a side of ham, some quails’ eggs, a truckle of cheddar, and a dish of pickles, together with a loaf of bread.
    The coroner looked up and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “Dr. Silkstone, is it?” He extended his hand, but did not rise. Thomas surmised the effort of lifting his corpulent frame from the chair would be too much for him.
    “Have you breakfasted?” he asked.
    “Thank you, yes,” Thomas replied, even though he had not.
    The coroner dabbed the corners of his mouth with the napkin and smiled broadly to reveal two blackened stumps in his mouth. “So, what brings you here from London?”
    Thomas had anticipated the question and told Sir Theodisius that he was a student of the famous Dr. Carruthers, and was visiting a fellow anatomist, Professor Hascher, at Christ Church.
    It just so happened, Thomas explained, that the professor had told him about the strange case of young Lord Crick and, intrigued, he wondered if he might be of any assistance.
    “Poor devil’s beyond help,” exclaimed the coroner, suddenly grabbing a chicken leg and taking a large bite out of it. “I ordered an inquest into the death only yesterday. Funny business.” He tore away at the leg voraciously, as if the excitement made him hungry. “Gossip, rumor, tittle-tattle. Murder. Money. Revenge! Such a to-do! Had to do something!”
    Thomas, accustomed as he was to dissecting organs and dismembering dead bodies, had to force himself to look at the coroner while he ate.
    “I believe the corpse is in an advanced state of decomposition,” he ventured.
    Sir Theodisius shook his head so that the rolls of fat that covered his face quivered with the effort. He leaned forward, as if to impart to Thomas something that must stay within the four walls of his office.
    “Two surgeons were tasked to conduct one but failed.” He paused and then lowered his voice, as if trying to be discreet. “Too far gone,” he mouthed before returning to his chicken leg.
    “That was last week?” asked Thomas.
    Sir Theodisius nodded. “Last Thursday. Surely there is nothing you can do on that score?” He tossed the fleshless chicken bone onto an empty plate and tore away a crust from the loaf.
    “I would very much like leave to conduct a postmortem examination, sir,” said Thomas.
    Sir Theodisius choked on his bread and reached for his ale. “But the fellow’ll be half eaten by now,” he protested.
    The turn of phrase was unfortunate, given the circumstances, but Thomas ignored it. “I know it will not be easy, but I may be able to