Charnel-House

‘We live, and learn.’ Haddon stood at the foot of a corpse, his breath rasping through the long, beak-like mask. He almost gagged on the sweet herbs at the end of it. Berwick inclined his head. He was similarly dressed, like a walking bird of prey. It was late in the Edinburgh morgue.

     ‘We live, when so many do not.’

     ‘We are in the hands of God,’ said Haddon.

     ‘Perhaps too easy an answer.’ Haddon coughed again. Berwick looked up sharply, his beak-mask jerking with it. ‘Are you all right?’

     ‘Oh, yes, yes.’ Haddon coughed, and inhaled more of the herbs than he had meant to. He clutched the side of the rail by the coffin.

     Berwick consulted his notes. ‘This patient died… of a contraction of the humours… in his bed.’

     Haddon laughed, and started to cough again. Berwick looked sharply at him, the impassive mask dull in the pallid half-light. ‘Anyone can see that.’

     Berwick made some notes in his records. ‘All in order.’ His breath rasped through the mask.

     Haddon’s breath came more quickly. He resembled a bird, trailing a broken wing. ‘All the world… all… a great cathedral… glory, the lights…’

     Berwick ceased writing, his quill scratching the darkness with a predatory edge. He examined his records, again. So many names, struck through as they died. ‘Of course,’ said Berwick severely, ‘you mean the local kirk. None of that high church… officiary.’

     Only two candles burned in the desolate, cold stone room. One at the head of the corpse, the other by the writing-desk. The light flickered over the silent head, throwing the plague symptoms into relief. Berwick peered again at the grotesque swollen neck, with its burst black cluster like a rotten fruit.

     ‘That’s one he won’t be taking to market…’ he muttered. ‘What think you?’ There was a heavy silence. Berwick turned around. His colleague lay fallen, his mask to one side, the herbs spilling out. He approached the body carefully, maintaining his detachment. He laid the mask to one side, and carefully examined Haddon’s body. The neck was clean. He detected a cross on a chain beneath his vestments, and frowned. Berwick sighed, laid out Haddon’s body, and sat beside him, inspecting him in the fitful light. Across the street, in the early morning, came the first cry.

     ‘Bring out your dead!’