We jogged up the footpath to the entrance. The iron gate stood open, leading to the large central quadrangle enclosed by the hospital buildings. I had never been inside Bart’s before, although Julia and I had contributed funds to its expansion. I had to say the four buildings were rather handsome: frontages in the classic style with large windows and arched doorways and walk-throughs that were all reassuringly solid in their symmetry. Hospital attendants in smocks, nurses, and patients were already airing themselves or crossing the cobbled expanse of the quadrangle, and the doctors we had followed were entering the building to our right, conversing with some vigor. I caught the words pneumonia and sputum before a delivery wagon stacked with barrels came through the main gateway, the sound of its wheels and horses’ hooves upon the flags overwhelming any other sound. “Look, over there,” Evan said through the noise. He pointed to Gib and Reed pushing the cart toward a lane between the north and east buildings. “You have found them.”

Still, we had no time to waste—they would be gone from view in a moment or two. We half walked, half ran across the quadrangle, using the horse and wagon as cover until Gib and Reed had disappeared into the lane. Evan increased his speed, his longer legs covering the ground in an athletic stride. I was not too far behind, but gulping for air, my lungs aching.

We rounded the corner just in time to see the back of Reed as he entered a side door halfway along the building, Gib and the cart no doubt already inside.

Evan drew to a panting stop. Thank God. I came to a halt beside him and leaned a steadying hand against the building, struggling for a deep lungful of air.

“So, we know what happens to the girls now,” he said between breaths. I followed his upward gaze. A sign above the door declared Through to Dissection Room. “Mr. Reed and Mr. Gibbon are resurrectionists.”

Good God. I had read about such resurrection men. Body snatchers who pried loved ones from their resting place and sold the corpses to anatomists and doctors for dissection. Indeed, I knew one family, the Purdams, who had been forced to mount a guard upon their father’s grave until his corpse had decomposed to the point that it would no longer be attractive to the grave robbers. It was a foul profession that, to my surprise, was not entirely illegal. Interfering with a grave was only a misdemeanor, and punished by fine, if at all. If items were stolen from the corpse, however, then that could mean prison or transportation. How odd it was that theft of a few grave items was considered worse than dragging the body from a grave and selling it for further desecration. But then the law was not justice, was it?