At the time that Burke returned, after the locking out, Mary was lying across the bed, not having been able, even during the heat and noise of battle, to lift her head to satisfy the natural curiosity of her sex, if the curiosity itself was not altogether sopited. Burke knew the prolonged continuance of these states, proportioned as they were to the quantity of poison he had seen swallowed. So Mary is laid up as a reserve, ready for his assault at any time within the period of hours. He therefore turned his attention to the less easy subject, her companion, expressing still greater kindness to her, and pressing her by all manner of solicitation to lie down along with him in the bed from which, shortly before, his wife had so unexpectedly sprung, and who, even yet, with continued inconsistency, persisted in knocking at the door. So strong were these solicitations, and so affected was Brown with the drink she had taken, that, according to her own statement afterwards, she would have complied with his request if it had not been that she was terrified by the noise made by M‘Dougal. Either supposition is possible, that he wished to gratify a purpose upon the one, and then execute his final intention upon her companion; or that he intended to immolate first the more difficult victim, and then take his own time with the other.
Fortunately the poor girl was able to resist his entreaties, as much probably through some instinctive feeling as from prudence. Anxious to get away, she expressed a wish to depart, to which Burke at first shewed no inclination, but at length, and probably under the pressure of an apprehension that, inebriated as she was, she might call for assistance, and thus deprive him of Mary, whom, as she lay still senseless, he already calculated upon as his own, he agreed to her request. He even conducted her past Helen M‘Dougal, who was still upon the stair, either under the influence of her jealousy or of the old delicacy which so often took her out of the view of the final catastrophes. In all this Brown made a narrow escape, for whether Mrs Constantine Burke had really gone for the other, and perhaps greater, arch-conspirator, Hare, or not, it is certain that that fearful man arrived at Gibb’s Close not long after the departure of Brown. The moment Hare arrived, and there being now no one in the house except themselves, and the unconscious Mary still lying in bed, they fell straight upon their victim. The old story again. The process was familiar to them—the energy at ready call—the execution easy. Burke springs upon the senseless victim—Hare is at his post—the heavy body pressing with the knees upon the soft bosom—the closing up of the mouth and nose—the gurgling—the long inspirations—the watchings to listen, and listen again, and examine if all was finished—the make-sure—the finish. So quickly had the process been gone through that, on Brown’s return, not more than twenty minutes afterwards, Mary Paterson was lying dead, but concealed from her observation by having been flung into a corner and covered up.
It may be of interest now to trace Brown. After getting past Helen M‘Dougal, who was on the stair, about, no doubt, to watch the process inside, she went straight to Mrs Laurie’s, and told her, with a laugh, that she would not remain with her, as she had got fine lodgings elsewhere; but after informing the landlady more seriously of the circumstances, she was advised to go back, along with Mrs Laurie’s servant, and endeavour to get Mary removed; not, however, that either the one or the other had any fears of her ultimate safety. The accompaniment of the servant was probably another of the apparently accidental means by which the life of this girl was preserved. Half stupified as she still was, she did not recollect the name of the close in which the house was situated, and being at a loss, but still anxious about her comrade, whom she loved, she applied to Swanston for a direction to the residence of the man whom she had seen there in the morning, and with whom she and her friend had gone. The man replied, that they ought not to have gone with him, because he was a married man, and did not keep company with women of their kind, but that she would probably find him in his brother’s house, in Gibb’s Close. Still, so stupified was she that, after getting into the close, she went into the wrong house, where she was told that the people there kept no company with such characters, but that she would probably feel herself in the right direction by going up-stairs. They accordingly ascended, entered, and found there Helen M‘Dougal, Hare, and Hare’s wife. The dead prey had collected the ravens even within so short a time. Burke was absent—no doubt in Surgeon’s Square; but those present, with the corpse within a few feet of them, were as unconcerned as if one among them had been engaged in throttling a chicken for dinner.
Upon inquiry for her friend, Mrs Hare rushed forward and attempted to strike Brown,—a movement not easily accounted for, except upon the supposition of a feminine way of repelling an intruder upon their secrecy, who might be dangerous; but this burst gave way to a quieter demeanour, the result of greater prudence, for the recklessness of passion is not exclusive of minor means of self-preservation. They told her that Mary had gone out with Burke, and invited her to sit down and take a glass with them, upon which the servant left. Brown now saw Hare’s eye fixed upon her, and no doubt her partial inebriation was a temptation which was touching; and Helen M‘Dougal continued her part of the play, by railing against her husband for going away with the girl whose dead body was actually in the room. Brown, surrounded by the three fiends, was again in danger; but, fortunately, Mrs Laurie, who had got alarmed at the report of the servant, upon what precise grounds is not known, sent back the girl to bring away Brown. No attempt was made to retain her in the presence of the servant, but she was invited to return,—a circumstance so adverse to the policy of keeping away so interested an inquirer as to be almost proof of their intention to send her after her friend, the double object of the price of her body and the seal of secrecy being the motive.
Meanwhile, changes had been going on in the house; and when Brown, in the afternoon, again called, Hare was gone—having given up his hope of the further prey, as he would calculate upon Brown’s gradual return to sobriety. She was now told that Burke and Mary had never returned. Further inquiries were made, not only by Brown, but by a Mrs Worthington, with whom the two girls lived, and then another story was trumped up, to the effect that Mary had gone on the tramp with a packman to Glasgow. This story pleased Brown less than the other, which carried the inconsistency of a recovery from drunken unconsciousness in so short a time; while the tramp to Glasgow, and no intimation from that quarter, were equally unlike the habits of the girl, who could write an intelligent letter, and would certainly have done so if for no other object than to inform Brown of her departure and to claim her clothes, which still lay in Mrs Worthington’s. No further intelligence was ever obtained till the great break up. The fate of Mary Paterson was meanwhile a mystery. But when we take into account the vagrant habits of these restless and changeful beings, we need make no reproach on the want of affection of friends or relatives.
We may state here that Brown believed firmly that Constantine Burke and his wife were cognisant of this affair, both from their manner at the time and the conduct of the man afterwards when she questioned him about Mary. Often, when he was at his work in the morning, she inquired if he had heard any further intelligence of her companion, but the answers were surly and snatchy,—“How the h—ll can I tell about you sort of people, here to-day and away to-morrow?” or, again, “I am often out upon my lawful business, and how can I answer for all that takes place in my house in my absence?” And so the inquiries for Mary Paterson died away for lack of satisfaction, and the only hope that remained was that some day she would cast up when weary of her wanderings with the packman.
The account which Brown gave of this unfortunate creature is touching. She admitted that she was irregular in her habits, but far from being low in her grade; and expressed her indignation at a paltry print which appeared of her, representing her in the garb of a servant, a dress in which she never appeared. She had been well educated for one in her sphere, and possessed, as we have already said, a fine person, for which she was remarkable. She was a native of Edinburgh; and her mother being dead, she was left to herself, driven along in her career by a frowardness of purpose and impulsiveness of feeling, not yet inconsistent with a warm heart and kindly affections.
The supplement of the story is given by one of the confessions of Burke. He cut the hair off her head when she was still warm. It will be remembered that he formerly dealt in this commodity, and Mary’s was too long and beautiful to be given to the doctors. It might one day figure as her own on a lady of rank;—and how little she would know of the fate of her whom it had adorned, as adorning it! But to what end? Even that of the poisonous flower of Paphos, which is said to have the most beautiful petals, and to throw them the soonest away. Within four hours Burke and Hare took the body to Surgeon’s Square. It was then cold enough, but had not yet got time to assume the stiffness of the dead. When uncovered, a tall lad who was along with Mr Ferguson, one of Dr Knox’s assistants, expressed surprise and said that he knew the girl, and had been with her a day or two before. Sharp questions followed as to where and how she had been got, when Burke satisfied the inquirers—wondrous facility!—that he had purchased the body from an old woman at the back of the Canongate. Nor did the story finish here; So struck was Knox with the beauty and fine proportions of the body of Mary, that he invited an artist to come to the rooms to see it, for the benefit of his profession; and with the conservative instinct of an old museum collector, the curious Professor kept his favourite specimen three months in whisky. No wonder that this case roused the suspicions of the public against the doctors,—a subject we will take up in a subsequent chapter. Opinions ran high, and both sides had their reasons and their arguments, upon all which we shall attempt a judgment.