"That man Macfarlane is
not safe to cross; those that have done so already have repented it too
late." And then, without so much as finishing his third glass, far less waiting
for the other two, he bade us good-bye and went forth, under the lamp of
the hotel, into the black night. We three turned to our places in the parlour, with the big red fire and
four clear candles; and as we recapitulated what had passed, the first
chill of our surprise soon changed into a glow of curiosity. We sat
late; it was the latest session I have known in the old George. Each
man, before we parted, had his theory that he was bound to prove; and
none of us had any nearer business in this world than to track out the
past of our condemned companion, and surprise the secret that he shared
with the great London doctor. It is no great boast, but I believe I was
a better hand at worming out a story than either of my fellows at the
George; and perhaps there is now no other man alive who could narrate to
you the following foul and unnatural events. In his young days Fettes studied medicine in the schools of Edinburgh. He had talent of a kind, the talent that picks up swiftly what it hears
and readily retails it for its own. He worked little at home; but he was
civil, attentive, and intelligent in the presence of his masters. They
soon picked him out as a lad who listened closely and remembered well;
nay, strange as it seemed to me when I first heard it, he was in those
days well favoured, and pleased by his exterior. There was, at that
period, a certain extramural teacher of anatomy, whom I shall here
designate by the letter K. His name was subsequently too well known. The
man who bore it skulked through the streets of Edinburgh in disguise,
while the mob that applauded at the execution of Burke called loudly for
the blood of his employer. But Mr. K---- was then at the top of his
vogue; he enjoyed a popularity due partly to his own talent and address,
partly to the incapacity of his rival, the university professor. The
students, at least, swore by his name, and Fettes believed himself, and
was believed by others, to have laid the foundations of success when he
acquired the favour of this meteorically famous man. Mr. K---- was a
_bon vivant_ as well as an accomplished teacher; he liked a sly illusion
no less than a careful preparation. In both capacities Fettes enjoyed
and deserved his notice, and by the second year of his attendance he
held the half-regular position of second demonstrator, or sub-assistant
in his class. In this capacity the charge of the theatre and lecture-room devolved in
particular upon his shoulders. He had to answer for the cleanliness of
the premises and the conduct of the other students, and it was a part of
his duty to supply, receive, and divide the various subjects. It was
with a view to this last--at that time very delicate--affair that he was
lodged by Mr. K---- in the same wynd, and at last in the same building,
with the dissecting-rooms. Here, after a night of turbulent pleasures,
his hand still tottering, his sight still misty and confused, he would
be called out of bed in the black hours before the winter dawn by the
unclean and desperate interlopers who supplied the table. He would open
the door to these men, since infamous throughout the land. He would help
them with their tragic burden, pay them their sordid price, and remain
alone, when they were gone, with the unfriendly relics of humanity. From
such a scene he would return to snatch another hour or two of slumber,
to repair the abuses of the night, and refresh himself for the labours
of the day. Few lads could have been more insensible to the impressions of a life
thus passed among the ensigns of mortality. His mind was closed against
all general considerations. He was incapable of interest in the fate and
fortunes of another, the slave of his own desires and low ambitions. Cold, light, and selfish in the last resort, he had that modicum of
prudence, miscalled morality, which keeps a man from inconvenient
drunkenness or punishable theft. He coveted, besides, a measure of
consideration from his masters and his fellow-pupils, and he had no
desire to fail conspicuously in the external parts of life. Thus he made
it his pleasure to gain some distinction in his studies, and day after
day rendered unimpeachable eye-service to his employer, Mr. K----. For
his day of work he indemnified himself by nights of roaring,
blackguardly enjoyment; and when that balance had been struck, the organ
that he called his conscience declared itself content. The supply of subjects was a continual trouble to him as well as to his
master. In that large and busy class, the raw material of the anatomist
kept perpetually running out; and the business thus rendered necessary
was not only unpleasant in itself, but threatened dangerous consequences
to all who were concerned. It was the policy of Mr. K---- to ask no
questions in his dealings with the trade. "They bring the body, and we
pay the price," he used to say, dwelling on the alliteration--"_quid pro
quo_." And, again, and somewhat profanely, "Ask no questions," he would
tell his assistants, "for conscience' sake." There was no understanding
that the subjects were provided by the crime of murder. Had that idea
been broached to him in words, he would have recoiled in horror; but the
lightness of his speech upon so grave a matter was, in itself, an
offence against good manners, and a temptation to the men with whom he
dealt. Fettes, for instance, had often remarked to himself upon the
singular freshness of the bodies. He had been struck again and again by
the hangdog, abominable looks of the ruffians who came to him before the
dawn; and putting things together clearly in his private thoughts, he
perhaps attributed a meaning too immoral and too categorical to the
unguarded counsels of his master. He understood his duty, in short, to
have three branches: to take what was brought, to pay the price, and to
avert the eye from any evidence of crime. One November morning this policy of silence was put sharply to the test. He had been awake all night with a racking toothache--pacing his room
like a caged beast or throwing himself in fury on his bed--and had
fallen at last into that profound, uneasy slumber that so often follows
on a night of pain, when he was awakened by the third or fourth angry
repetition of the concerted signal. There was a thin, bright moonshine;
it was bitter cold, windy, and frosty; the town had not yet awakened,
but an indefinable stir already preluded the noise and business of the
day. The ghouls had come later than usual, and they seemed more than
usually eager to be gone. Fettes, sick with sleep, lighted them
upstairs. He heard their grumbling Irish voices through a dream; and as
they stripped the sack from their sad merchandise he leaned dozing, with
his shoulder propped against the wall; he had to shake himself to find
the men their money.