Where Shadows Dance by C. S. Harris EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: C. S. Harris
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Friday, 24 July 1812
A cool wind gusted up, rustling the branches of the trees overhead and
bringing with it the unmistakable clatter of wooden wheels approaching
over cobblestones. Standing just outside the open gate to the alley, Paul
Gibson doused his lantern, his eyes straining as he peered into the fogswirled darkness. Thick clouds bunched overhead, obscuring the moon and
stars and promising more rain. He could see nothing but high, rough stone
walls and a refuse-choked muddy lane curving away into the mist.
A dog barked somewhere in the night. In spite of himself, Gibson
shivered. It was a dirty business, this. But until the government revised its
laws on human dissection, anatomists like Gibson could either resign
themselves to ignorance or meet the resurrection men in the darkest hours
before dawn.
Paul Gibson was not fond of ignorance.
He was a slim, dark-haired man of medium height, Irish born and in his
thirty-second year. Trained as a surgeon, he’d honed his skills on the
battlefields of Europe. But a French cannonball that shattered the lower part
of one leg had left him with recurring pain and a weakness for the sweet
relief to be found in poppies. Now he shared his knowledge of anatomy by
teaching at hospitals like St. Thomas’s and St. Bartholomew’s, as well as
working out of his small surgery here at the base of Tower Hill.
The dog barked again, followed this time by a man’s low curse. A twowheeled cart loomed out of the mist, the rawboned mule between the poles
snorting and jibing at the bit when the driver drew up with a guttural,
“Whoa there, ye bloomin’ idiot. Where ye think yer goin’? We got one
more delivery t’ make before ye can head home t’ yer barn.”
A tall, skeletally thin man in striped trousers and a natty coat jumped
from the cart and tipped his top hat in a flourishing bow. As he straightened,
a waft of gin underlaid with the sweet scent of decay carried on the wind.
“We got him fer ye, Doctor,” said Jumpin’ Jack Cochran with a broad wink.
“Mind ye, he’s not as fresh as I like me merchandise t’ be, but ye did say ye
wanted this particular gentleman.”
Gibson peered over the cart’s side at the bulky, man-sized burlap sack that
lay within. Another name for the resurrection men was the sack-’em-up
boys. “You’re certain you’ve got the right one?”
“It’s him, all right.” Cochran motioned at the sturdy lad who accompanied
him. “Grab the other end there, Ben.”
Grunting softly, the two men slung the burlap-wrapped merchandise off
the back of the cart. It landed heavily in the rank grass beside the gate.
“Careful,” said Gibson.
Cochran grinned, displaying long tobacco-stained teeth. “I can guarantee
he didn’t feel a thing, Doctor.”
Hefting the heavy sack between them,
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