Free The Resurrectionist by James Bradley

Their windows gape emptily.
    ‘Walk with me,’ she says.
    Her pace is quick, as if seeking to be quit of this place.
    ‘It is a bitter day to be about on foot,’ I say at last. ‘Where are you bound?’
    ‘A friend’s,’ she says. I hear the evasion but do not press her. She is shivering, pressing her arms closer to herself; although her hat and collar are of fur, the coat she wears is thin, and her face is flushed with the cold.
    ‘I was very sorry to learn of Kitty’s loss,’ I say, the words sounding so clumsy I regret them immediately. But if I have trespassed she gives no sign. Instead she looks as if something in what I have said surprises her somehow.
    ‘A child dying is always sad,’ she says then, turning away. Her words seem hard, but something else is in the tone.
    ‘How is Kitty?’ I ask.
    ‘It was a grievous blow. And she was not strong before.’
    This last brings silence between us for a time.
    ‘I had hoped to see you again,’ I say then, my body trembling, again regretting my words even as they are spoken. Yet she does not laugh or sneer.
    ‘Does it bring you happiness, your work?’ she asks.
    I hesitate. ‘It was my guardian’s intention that I have a profession so I might provide for myself.’
    ‘What of your parents?’
    ‘They are dead,’ I say.
    She nods, gazing both at and through me, as if I were not quite real, or as if she saw in me something long forgotten.
    ‘And yours?’ I venture.
    For a fraction of a second she pauses, then she looks away. ‘Dead too,’ she says. ‘Long ago.’
    I wait, thinking she will continue, but instead she comes to a halt.
    ‘I have business here, Mr Swift,’ she says. ‘You must excuse me.’
    I bow. For a long moment she stands watching me. ‘I do not think we shall meet again,’ she says at last, then, her coat still wrapped tight about herself, she turns away, leaving me to watch her form as it recedes along the lane. At last I feel something upon my cheek, and looking up I see it has begun to snow once more, the white flakes drifting and spinning in the frigid air.
    In the dispensary I watch Charles measure a dose of belladonna into a bottle.
    ‘There is something I must tell you,’ I say, knowing he has noticed my silence.
    He smiles. ‘Oh yes?’
    ‘Three nights ago, when Caley came, I caused one of the bodies he brought to be refused.’
    ‘Was it spoiled?’
    I shake my head. ‘No, not spoiled.’
    ‘Then why?’ he asks, his voice flat.
    ‘It was Kitty’s child.’
    He does not answer.
    ‘You knew?’
    ‘Not that they had brought him.’
    ‘I am sorry,’ I say, but even as I speak I know the words arewrong, and I have offended somehow. Corking the bottle he checks the dosage once more, then places it inside his coat.
    At the door he pauses, turning back to me. ‘I have not thanked you properly for your discretion in this matter. I will remember it.’

T HE WEEKS THAT FOLLOW bring little cheer. Though Caley and Walker bring us subjects, their deliveries are erratic, their promises often unfulfilled. They give no reason for their failings, though Mr Poll has little doubt Lucan is responsible. This would be trouble enough on its own, but with so few bodies Mr Poll and Charles are forced for want of subjects to cancel lectures more than once. To lose the money is galling enough, but to suffer the ignominy of seeing others teach when we may not is a bitter thing. Nor is this the only sting these weeks provide: from here and there come rumours that others take pleasure in Mr Poll’s predicament, and worse still, it is said the Duke of Kent has declined Mr Poll’s services in favour of those of Sir Astley. Without evidence we cannot know why this should be, but Mr Poll is not to be dissuaded from the belief the cause lies with his rival, who, for all his letters of sympathy, is said to have been working tirelessly to cast aspersions on Mr Poll’s abilities.
    Of Arabella there is no glimpse; indeed, as the days turn