{"product_id":"the-bedlam-cadaver-isbn-9781685890957","title":"The Bedlam Cadaver","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn late 17th Century London rich young women are being kidnapped, then murdered. Harry Hunt, formerly of the Royal Society but now a rich gentleman, is falsely accused. To clear his name, he must rely on his abandoned scientific expertise and battle the full force of the British aristocracy.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1681. London cooks in summer heat. Bonfires are lit in protest against the King’s brother, James, heir to the throne but openly Catholic. Rumours abound of a ‘Black Box’, said to conceal proof the King’s illegitimate son is really the rightful heir.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen a wealthy merchant’s daughter is kidnapped and murdered—even though a ransom was paid—the King orders Harry Hunt of the Royal Society to help investigate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA second woman goes missing: Elizabeth Thynne, England’s richest heiress. Her husband has a ransom letter from the same kidnappers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePressured by powerful men to find the killers and rescue Elizabeth, Harry uncovers a disturbing link to Bethlehem Hospital, better known as Bedlam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he is falsely accused of the crimes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo prove his innocence, he must find the real culprits. Harry’s search takes him from Rotherhithe to Whitehall Palace, and to the house of Sir Peter Lely, the famous portrait-painter, in Covent Garden.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd back to Bedlam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe has the Monarchy’s future in his hands.“Riveting… A jaw-dropping mystery that grips from the first page and doesn’t let go. This continues the author’s winning streak.” - \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e STARRED Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I genuinely can’t think of any other Restoration-set historical novels that are as detailed and compelling.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eCriminal Element\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"With its rich language, gory details of an era that was an attack on the senses, tidbits on Popish vs. Protestant politics, and shocking facts about early medical training, this is another immersive winner from Lloyd.\" - \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003efirstCLUE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"The sense of time and place is beautiful, even including a public execution at Tyburn. The exposition of the political debates and events of the period is well done. There’s a lot to get across, and Lloyd does it mainly through dialogue, without sounding forced.\" - \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eHistorical Novel Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eRobert Lloyd\u003c\/b\u003e, the son of parents  who worked in the British Foreign Office, grew up in South London,  Innsbruck, and Kinshasa. He studied for a Fine Art degree, starting as a  landscape painter, but it was while studying for his MA degree in the  History of Ideas that he first read Robert Hooke's diary, detailing the  life and experiments of this extraordinary man. After a twenty-year  career as a secondary school teacher, he has now returned to painting  and writing, and is working on the fourth book in the Hunt and Hooke series.An opportunity had arisen.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA woman had ended her own life at Bethlehem Hospital.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNo family wanting her, the Hospital gave her body to the Royal Society of London for the Improving of Natural Knowledge—or, rather, to its Secretary, Mr. Robert Hooke. He was friendly with Bethlehem’s Physician, and had, after all, designed the place.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHooke summoned the Fellows.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAbout thirty of them gathered at Gresham College, jostling by the entrance to its repository.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eEven in the shade of the colonnaded walkway, most stood hatless and holding their coats, for the midday sun was remorseless. Sweat darkened the backs of their waistcoats as they waited for admittance. Some had removed their perukes.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHooke promised an \u003ci\u003eextraordinary demonstration\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e#\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAll their talk was of the forthcoming dissection. It was to be performed upstairs in the repository—more spacious than the anatomy room, or the Reading Hall, where most of the Society’s experimental trials took place. Hooke expected more Fellows than usual; he was right.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLed by Sir Christopher Wren himself, the trial would reveal a brain and spinal cord. Then—by some method not yet divulged—Wren planned to impart movement to the limbs. The idea came from a meeting of Hooke’s New Philosophical Club at the Angel and Crown a few nights before, when John Aubrey—his speech slurry from genever—had mentioned the mouths of those beheaded continuing to move in prayer. Anne Boleyn was one such. Her eyes had moved, too, roving around her from the straw.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMay self-awareness continue even after the blade’s descent, the person knowing of their own predicament?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e#\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWord was, His Majesty might attend. At the Office of Works that morning, Sir Christopher had invited him. The King replied he was free and wanting entertainment.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWas this him now? The Fellows strained to see.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eRed-faced from their load, two men carrying a sedan entered the quadrangle from Broad Street.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOnce they had settled the chair, their passenger emerged and paid them; both looked gratified by the amount.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe newcomer wore a suit of blue silk, his waistcoat long, shirtsleeves copious, breeches beribboned. He repositioned his hat—also blue, with a swan’s feather curling around its brim. His peruke was a pristine creamy white, dazzling in the sunlight. His boots, of soft Moroccan leather, transported him silently across the grass, which had toasted over the summer.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNot the King, but Mr. Henry Hunt.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHis appearance differed markedly from their last sighting; some Fellows did not even recognise him. Despite the news of his good fortune—rewarded handsomely by the Duchesse de Mazarin for services to her, and by the King for services to the Queen—they still expected the scruffy youth they knew as Harry, in the brown leather coat scarred by his adventures. Not this gentleman of sumptuous appearance. He had gained weight, too, his features softened by new flesh.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe door to the repository’s stairway swung open, and out stepped Robert Hooke. Standing in his hunched fashion, dressed in habitual grey, he welcomed each Fellow as they filed in. All the men bowed and expressed their pleasure for the forthcoming demonstration.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA fragile-looking youth carrying a tray full of tools hastened past them. This was Thomas Crawley, Harry’s replacement as Observator, about to assist Sir Christopher. Hooke patted his back as he went inside.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOn spotting Harry, Hooke’s demeanour changed. His mouth formed a sour line. Harry, feeling shame, knew why: over three months had passed since they last saw each other, on his last visit to Gresham.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWarily, the two men bowed to one another, then shook hands for old times’ sake. Harry was careful not to squeeze too hard, for Hooke looked frailer than he remembered. Besides, all the rings Harry wore might cause him pain.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Sir Christopher awaits,’ Hooke said stiffly. His bulbous eyes, their irises mercury grey, held no warmth in them at all.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘I am gladdened to see you, Mr. Hooke,’ Harry replied. ‘I have been busy. My new house . . . its decoration, and choosing furniture.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHooke raised an eyebrow. Harry’s voice had changed. Elocution lessons raised him up a class. His spectacles, Hooke noticed, were gold-rimmed.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Grace made mention of your improvements,’ Hooke said. ‘I await your invitation to view them.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHarry opened, then shut, his mouth, and gestured that he would follow Hooke upstairs to the repository.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHooke smiled tersely. Even Harry’s attempt at courtesy seemed superior. More a command that Hooke should walk in front.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e#\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOnce upstairs and inside the repository, Harry could see Sir Christopher on the dais at the far end of the long, narrow room, setting out the tools Crawley passed to him. The new Observator exhibited—to Harry’s critical eye—a clumsiness about him. Between them and the assembling spectators stood a table supporting the cadaver, covered over by a thin cotton sheet.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe Society’s curios filled the repository. The Fellows nudged for spaces among the cabinets and chests of drawers.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHooke went crookedly through the crowd of men towards Sir Christopher. His stoop from the hunch in his back had worsened, Harry observed. Hooke was one of the few men in the room without a wig; his long hair, tied back, looked disreputably unkempt.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDenis Papin, now in all but title the Society’s Curator of Experiments—at last, Hooke could concentrate fully on the Secretaryship—waved Harry over. Harry negotiated his way around a Roman statue of a woman dredged from the Fleet; the two men embraced happily.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘The prodigal son returns at last,’ Edmund Wylde remarked in a stage whisper.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHarry ignored the gibe—which he knew to be good-natured, for he knew Edmund Wylde—and acknowledged him, and also John Aubrey, with a dip of his head. Wylde, leaning on a case full of fossils, shared an amused glance with Aubrey.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNowadays—in appearance, at least—Harry was quite the gentleman.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAt a hushing of the audience in readiness for the demonstration, they concentrated on the dais.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe tools—serrated knives, chisels, hammers—were by now arranged on a smaller table turned at a right angle to the one supporting the corpse. Harry recognised them from Gresham’s anatomy room; he had used them himself when assisting Hooke.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLoud claps and a bellowed ‘Lords, Sirs, Gentlemen . . . the King!’ made everyone turn to the door. Despite their squash, the Fellows did their best to show their servility, all getting in one another’s way as they made their bows, deep and sincere.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSir Christopher, the Royal Society’s President, descended from the dais and pushed his way through the company.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Your Majesty, you do us great favour by your visit. You—’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Let there be no speechifying!’ The King sounded cheerful, glad of the distraction anatomy could provide. ‘Sirs, I greet you all. I am most pleased with the invitation. Hmm. And, as you see, to accept it.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe waved at the Fellows to settle them. Sir Christopher led him through the opening channel of men, all still bowing.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eUnless occasion demanded, the King dressed informally. Today, in a russet-coloured suit. A head taller than most of the Fellows—his height further increased by heels and a full black wig—he looked over them as he walked towards the dais. Although the windows were open, the heat in the repository was considerable; he stayed cool and unruffled. His face, with its dark complexion and exaggerated features of his Medici forefathers, tended towards solemnity, but for now he was smiling, seeming free from the cares of Whitehall.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHooke positioned a chair at the foot of the dais. With another happy look behind him, the King sat down to observe the dissection.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eReturning behind the table, Sir Christopher tied on a leather apron. A smile played around his mouth as he waited for quiet.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDespite being nearly fifty, he was unlined and fit-looking, more like a man ten years his junior. He radiated energy and enthusiasm. Rare for him nowadays to undertake anatomy; as the King’s Surveyor of Works, his time was greatly taken up with building. But his expertise with brains—had he not illustrated Willis’s \u003ci\u003eCerebri Anatome\u003c\/i\u003e?—made him the natural choice to lead the demonstration.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘May it please Your Majesty, my Lords, Sirs, Gentlemen, Fellows all,’ Sir Christopher began. ‘I shall reveal the brain, the brain stem, and its continuation through the bones of the spine.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eApplause broke out. Sir Christopher waited for it to quieten. His expression promised there was better to come. ‘Perhaps we may animate the material of this dead woman’s brain, its folds and undulations, into giving movement to her limbs. It is, therefore, a postscript to the investigations of Dr. Thomas Willis, with whom I had the honour to work.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘You made the drawings for his excellent book!’ Aubrey cried, unable to help himself.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Yes . . . thank you, Mr. Aubrey,’ Sir Christopher said, put out of his stride by the interjection. ‘He had other help, too. Mr. Millington. Mr. Lower. The bulk of the work, though, was his—to say otherwise would do him disservice.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAll the men murmured their assent. Willis, dead five years, was one of the Royal Society’s founders, and a well-liked Fellow.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Willis studied the treelike arrangement of the \u003ci\u003ecerebellum\u003c\/i\u003e, and the \u003ci\u003ecorpora striata\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eoptic thalami\u003c\/i\u003e, the parallel lines of the \u003ci\u003emesolobe.\u003c\/i\u003e He numbered the \u003ci\u003enervi craniales\u003c\/i\u003e. He discovered God’s providential design—which we now call the Circle of Willis—allowing the blood’s flow to proceed even if one of its arteries is blocked. He avoided the usual mutilation of autopsy by cutting at a brain from beneath. He invented ways of preservation, so putrefaction did not curtail his investigations. It was these preserved brains I drew, using Mr. Hooke’s perspectograph.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAs more applause broke out, Sir Christopher gestured to Crawley.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eCrawley removed the sheet, revealing the cadaver.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBefore the dissection, Crawley had positioned the dead woman on her back. Her face was turned away from them.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAll the Fellows wondered if she made a pretty corpse. None spoke the thought.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHer skin was the colour of cream. Her age, Harry guessed, was eighteen or so. She was slim—hipbones and ribs discernible beneath her flesh—and muscular, so obviously had been active. Released from under the sheet, a gamey smell arose; not yet too unpleasant, even in the repository’s stifling warmth.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eCrawley had already shaved her head. A pile of long dark hair—almost black—lay on the floor, shining glossily. The assistant swept it further under the table with his foot.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Firstly, I shall expose the spine,’ Sir Christopher announced.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAll the Fellows shuffled forwards, as close to the dais as they could without bumping the King.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAt another sign from Sir Christopher, Crawley positioned the dead woman onto her front, turning her away from the Fellows. By the loose way she rolled, Harry could see \u003ci\u003erigor mortis\u003c\/i\u003e had faded.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSir Christopher had arranged his tools as if set out for a banquet, in the order he considered he would need them. Crawley passed over the leftmost knife.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNaming them aloud as he did so, Sir Christopher soon exposed the muscles of the back. They gleamed wetly. He sliced through the long, deeper muscles on both sides of the spine, then scooped beneath them with his fingers to lift them away.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe cut through the V shape of muscles wrapping the neck and attaching to the skull.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAll this took time; so absorbed were the men in Sir Christopher’s work that few noticed the duration. Most were waistcoatless by now; hardly anyone still wore their wig. In the crowded repository, the smell of their sweat, and of the cadaver, was rising.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eUsing a chisel, Sir Christopher removed the top parts of each of the \u003ci\u003evertebrae.\u003c\/i\u003e He named the \u003ci\u003emeninges\u003c\/i\u003e, cutting through them deftly with scissors to avoid severing the spinal nerves.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Next,’ he said, ‘I shall remove the brain while keeping it still attached to the spinal cord.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eStarting above one ear and finishing at the other, he cut over the top of the skull. Crawley helped him peel back the dead woman’s scalp, leaving her cranium covered by its fatty, fibrous tissue. Sir Christopher peeled this away, too, then cut through the muscles on each side of the head.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eCrawley passed him a handsaw.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSir Christopher sawed the forehead, working around the curve of the skull, being careful not to cut Crawley, who held it steady. Dust flew from the saw’s teeth, catching the light from the repository’s windows and then landing as a powder on the floor.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe dome of the woman’s head came away. The tough layer covering her brain released from the bone with a ripping sound. Sir Christopher sliced through it. Wanting to escape the confines of her skull, her brain bulged, but it was still restrained by cranial nerves, connective tissue, and the optic nerves.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘You may observe the \u003ci\u003eencephalon\u003c\/i\u003e,’ Sir Christopher told the Fellows as they leaned even further forward. ‘The \u003ci\u003ecerebrum\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003ecerebellum\u003c\/i\u003e, and the \u003ci\u003etruncus encephali\u003c\/i\u003e. Covered by the \u003ci\u003earachnoid mater\u003c\/i\u003e. You see this transparent covering?’ He lifted and tipped the head so they could see more clearly into the hole.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHaving cut the covering away, he announced, ‘I shall expose the whole of the \u003ci\u003emedulla spinalis\u003c\/i\u003e.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe broke open the \u003ci\u003evertebrae\u003c\/i\u003e at the top of the neck to reveal the final length of spinal cord, and cut the last attachments keeping the brain inside the skull.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Mr. Crawley, please lift her.’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBy now, Crawley looked pale, and seemed hesitant to touch the body. Sir Christopher narrowed his eyes at him. The Observator jumped forward, placing his hands under the woman’s shoulders to turn her. To prevent the brain from spilling, Sir Christopher cupped her head in his hands.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAs Crawley brought the woman to a sitting position, for the first time she faced her audience.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe still kept her last colouring: the ceruse on her cheeks, now faded; the vermilion on her lips, now smudged; and the darkening on her eyebrows, now smeared.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHer eyes were half closed; she looked mistrustful of these men observing her.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHarry felt the blood leave his face. He was in danger of fainting. His legs threatened to collapse beneath him.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eKnowing him to be squeamish, Papin looked at him sympathetically. Papin’s face changed to astonishment as Harry began to wave his arms, shirtsleeves flapping wildly.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Stop, Sir Christopher! Stop!’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIn the silence of the great pause around him, Harry was conscious of the other Fellows, and King Charles II, all turning to stare at him.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘You must stop!’\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA buzz of disapproval started up at his interruption of Sir Christopher’s extraordinary demonstration.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘She is no suicide from Bethlehem Hospital,’ Harry told them all. ‘Her name is Miss Diana Cantley. She was my neighbour in Bloomsbury Square.’","brand":"Melville House","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300063629541,"sku":"NP9781685890957","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781685890957.jpg?v=1767738299","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-bedlam-cadaver-isbn-9781685890957","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}