Free Stone Cold by Andrew Lane

presumably
imagining that one day it might be them lying on a table in a lecture theatre, rather than the unfortunate Mr Bagshawe.
    The lecturer plucked at the sheet covering Mr Bagshawe’s body, bunching the material up, and then paused. He glanced around the lecture theatre again, frowning.
    ‘You may have heard talk around the town,’ he added, ‘or perhaps seen reports in the local newspapers, that parts of human bodies have been stolen from the local mortuary in
recent months. It may have occurred to you that these thefts have been, in some way, connected to this course of lectures – either to obtain fresh specimens for us to use here in front of you
or, perhaps, by more mature students undertaking some form of grotesque homework. I can assure you that the former is not true – every body that we dissect here has been provided whole, by
the family of the unfortunate deceased. I can also assure you that if any students were found to be obtaining body parts illegally, by theft or other means, so that they can conduct their own
research after hours, they would be immediately dismissed from the college, and prosecuted to the full extent that the law allows. We do not – I repeat, do not – countenance that sort
of activity. Do I make myself clear?’
    He was silent then, staring around and meeting every set of eyes that was fixed on him, until a murmur of assent rippled around the room.
    ‘Very well,’ he continued eventually. ‘Now, let us meet Mr Adam Bagshawe.’
    He pulled the sheet off the body. A hushed silence fell around the room. Sherlock found himself thinking, bizarrely, of the deaths he had witnessed. He had probably seen more death than anybody
else in that room, save the lecturer, but he still leaned forward, hushed in reverence, as the lecture continued.
    After the body of the late, unfortunate Mr Bagshawe had been comprehensively sliced up and his various internal organs displayed for public appreciation, and after no less than five of the
students in the audience had been suddenly taken ill and had to run for the door, the lecture finished. As the remaining students clapped politely the lecturer covered the remains of Mr Bagshawe
with a sheet – which immediately began to stain with the seepage of blood from the corpse – and two assistants wheeled it away. Sherlock stood there for a while, as the students filed
past him, thinking about what he had seen. Thinking about the fact that the miracles of the human body could be treated in much the same way as the cogs, wheels and springs within a clock –
disassembled and laid out on a table for inspection. The difference being, of course, that the various components of the body couldn’t be reassembled, whereas a clock could. Life, once gone,
could not be regained. So what, he thought to himself, did that make life? Was it the same as the soul? Was it the same as consciousness? What exactly was it?
    Big questions. Perhaps that was what University was for, in the end. Not answering the big questions, necessarily, but asking them.
    Eventually he left the auditorium. The sun was shining outside, and Matty was waiting for him.
    ‘’Avin’ fun?’ Matty asked.
    ‘I’ve been looking at a dead body,’ Sherlock confided.
    Matty thought for a moment. ‘Is that a yes or a no?’ He looked at Sherlock, then shook his head. ‘Never mind. I’m assumin’ it’s a “yes” in your
case. You love all that kind of stuff.’
    Sherlock was about to reply, pointing out that he also liked all kinds of things that people might consider normal, when he saw Chippenham across the other side of the paved area, talking to
some friends. He was about to suggest to Matty that they head across to join Chippenham when he saw two men in blue serge uniforms and helmets walking over as well. He held back, watching.
    One of the men took hold of Chippenham’s elbow. ‘Mr Paul Chippenham?’ he asked.
    The student look puzzled, and concerned. ‘Yes. Who are