School for Boys, where he had initially been
educated – desks lined up in rows with a teacher in front at a blackboard – but the room he found himself in was more like the theatre where he had seen the violinist, Pablo Sarasate, a
few weeks before. The stage was smaller, and the slope downward from the top row of the audience to the bottom was much steeper, but the general feeling was similar. Except, he noticed, that there
were no seats. Instead, the students were lined up – in some places crowded up – against a series of railings that ran around the edge of their balconies.
The noise was very much the same as in the theatre, with all of the students apparently talking at once to their neighbours, or yelling across from one side of the lecture theatre to the
other.
Sherlock and Chippenham had come out on the top balcony. Chippenham quickly wriggled through the crowd, moving down the nearest set of steps to where a group of his friends were based. Sherlock
stayed on the top row and found himself a gap in the crowd where he could stand against the railing and look downward.
They were just in time. The lecture hadn’t started yet, but the lecturer himself was in position. Beside him was a table, covered with a white cloth. On the table, covered by the cloth,
was a lumpy object that Sherlock, with a slight chill, realized was probably a dead body.
The lecturer was a tall man with bushy eyebrows and a bald spot on top of his head that shone in the glare of the flickering gaslights that were placed around the lecture theatre. Sherlock could
smell the press of all of the students’ bodies, as well as their various shaving lotions and hair tonics. Beneath that smell was the smell of the burning gas, and beneath that was a sharp
smell, like disinfectant.
The lecturer stepped forward. Immediate silence fell. He was obviously highly respected, or a strict disciplinarian, or both.
‘A word before we start, gentlemen,’ he said in a deep voice that carried to every nook and cranny of the tall room. ‘Shortly you will watch me as I take a body apart, piece by
piece, demonstrating to you at every stage what the various bits do and how they are connected to the rest. Next year you will, if you are allowed to return to this college, take a body apart
yourselves. These are important – even vital – parts of your education. If we go back in history, people have believed all kinds of odd things about the human body that have turned out
not to be true, and that have only been proved false by direct observation of the
insides
.’ He paused, gazing around with his penetrating eyes. ‘Please remember two things,
however. Firstly, bear in mind that students in your situation are fortunate enough to be living in an enlightened time, when students who wish to become doctors or surgeons are able to see how the
human body works by examining an actual human body. There have been times, not that many years ago, when such things were forbidden, for religious or for ethical reasons. Secondly, these bodies,
which we so casually dismember, were once living people, and that they have donated their body voluntarily for your education. Treat them with the respect they deserve.’ He placed his hand on
the sheeted body beside him. ‘This is Mr Adam Bagshawe, lately of this parish. We are indebted to Mrs Rachel Bagshawe for donating her husband’s body for the purposes of medical
research, as per the wishes expressed in his will. I may inadvertently refer to Mr Bagshawe’s body as “it” later, as if I was referring to a piece of machinery, or a block of
wood, but try to keep in mind, as I will try, that there was once a man’s soul inhabiting this machine, this block, and that he had loves and hates and desires similar to yours.’
The students were mesmerized by this introduction. Glancing around, Sherlock could see that the lecturer’s words had hit home. A few of the students were swallowing nervously,
educated – desks lined up in rows with a teacher in front at a blackboard – but the room he found himself in was more like the theatre where he had seen the violinist, Pablo Sarasate, a
few weeks before. The stage was smaller, and the slope downward from the top row of the audience to the bottom was much steeper, but the general feeling was similar. Except, he noticed, that there
were no seats. Instead, the students were lined up – in some places crowded up – against a series of railings that ran around the edge of their balconies.
The noise was very much the same as in the theatre, with all of the students apparently talking at once to their neighbours, or yelling across from one side of the lecture theatre to the
other.
Sherlock and Chippenham had come out on the top balcony. Chippenham quickly wriggled through the crowd, moving down the nearest set of steps to where a group of his friends were based. Sherlock
stayed on the top row and found himself a gap in the crowd where he could stand against the railing and look downward.
They were just in time. The lecture hadn’t started yet, but the lecturer himself was in position. Beside him was a table, covered with a white cloth. On the table, covered by the cloth,
was a lumpy object that Sherlock, with a slight chill, realized was probably a dead body.
The lecturer was a tall man with bushy eyebrows and a bald spot on top of his head that shone in the glare of the flickering gaslights that were placed around the lecture theatre. Sherlock could
smell the press of all of the students’ bodies, as well as their various shaving lotions and hair tonics. Beneath that smell was the smell of the burning gas, and beneath that was a sharp
smell, like disinfectant.
The lecturer stepped forward. Immediate silence fell. He was obviously highly respected, or a strict disciplinarian, or both.
‘A word before we start, gentlemen,’ he said in a deep voice that carried to every nook and cranny of the tall room. ‘Shortly you will watch me as I take a body apart, piece by
piece, demonstrating to you at every stage what the various bits do and how they are connected to the rest. Next year you will, if you are allowed to return to this college, take a body apart
yourselves. These are important – even vital – parts of your education. If we go back in history, people have believed all kinds of odd things about the human body that have turned out
not to be true, and that have only been proved false by direct observation of the
insides
.’ He paused, gazing around with his penetrating eyes. ‘Please remember two things,
however. Firstly, bear in mind that students in your situation are fortunate enough to be living in an enlightened time, when students who wish to become doctors or surgeons are able to see how the
human body works by examining an actual human body. There have been times, not that many years ago, when such things were forbidden, for religious or for ethical reasons. Secondly, these bodies,
which we so casually dismember, were once living people, and that they have donated their body voluntarily for your education. Treat them with the respect they deserve.’ He placed his hand on
the sheeted body beside him. ‘This is Mr Adam Bagshawe, lately of this parish. We are indebted to Mrs Rachel Bagshawe for donating her husband’s body for the purposes of medical
research, as per the wishes expressed in his will. I may inadvertently refer to Mr Bagshawe’s body as “it” later, as if I was referring to a piece of machinery, or a block of
wood, but try to keep in mind, as I will try, that there was once a man’s soul inhabiting this machine, this block, and that he had loves and hates and desires similar to yours.’
The students were mesmerized by this introduction. Glancing around, Sherlock could see that the lecturer’s words had hit home. A few of the students were swallowing nervously,
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