metallic edge.
“This way,” Thornley said as he started towards the back of the room.
“Why so many beds?” Matilda asked.
“The morgue was originally upstairs on the second floor. The administrators moved the dead down here to the basement during the cholera epidemic years ago. At one point, this building overflowed with the dead, and not only down here; bodies lined the hallways, filled the courtyard, and even occupied the roof. Today, though, there is little use for all of them.” He smacked one of the old beds as we walked past, and a large puff of dust rose through the air. “They store all these old beds here in case we are subjected to another epidemic. Emergency overflow is handled out here, with the morgue at the back. I once heard it said that ‘Should the deathbeds of Steevens’ fill, surely the Apocalypse will be upon us.’”
“Let us hope it never comes to that,” I mumbled. I counted thirty beds in this one aisle alone before I finally stopped counting.
Thornley went on. “There is one more level beneath this one, housing the boilers and other workings of the hospital. Considering the structure is over one hundred years old, it is quite a marvel of modern technology. You won’t find a more knowledgeable staff in all of Dublin, perhaps in all of Europe.”
He led us past the beds, turning right at the last row. We came upon these movable walls—each section at least eight feet wide, and went from a wheeled base at the bottom to a height of nearly ten feet, brushing within inches of the ceiling supports. I saw no door to speak of; instead, an opening of about five feet stood between two of the movable walls. A small sign hung on the left side that simply read MORGUE—HOSPITAL STAFF ONLY.
An older gentleman was perched upon a stool near the entrance, a book in hand. His face was stamped with the years, and indeed he seemed frail, too frail to be posted on sentry duty, yet there he sat. He looked up warily as we approached, setting the book down on his lap. “Not much call for visitors at this late hour. What can I do for you three?”
Thornley smiled at him. “Ah, Mr. Appleyard, I didn’t realize you were working here now. I trust you remember me from Swift’s? My sister feels she may know the unidentified man from yesterday’s paper. We hoped to view the body when few others are present, in case she is mistaken.” He lowered his voice. “We need to be discreet about such things, you know. May I escort her inside?” He concluded by pulling a pound sterling note from his billfold and handed it to the man.
Appleyard hesitated, then took the bill and quickly tucked it in his pocket. “With circumstances as they are, I thank you for your kind generosity,” he said, his eyes drifting over my sister, then me. They were milky gray in color, cloudy with developing cataracts, but he still seemed to see with more clarity than the glistening eyes of some children. He nodded towards the entrance, motioning for us to enter.
We passed through the opening and found ourselves standing amongst the land of the dead. The air was still in here, no movement at all, and any sound seemed to be swallowed by the walls, so silent that I heard the catch in Matilda’s breathing.
I counted forty-eight beds in total, eighteen of which were occupied, each occupant carefully covered in a white linen sheet. A string protruded from under each sheet and was connected to a small bell on a hook at the top left post of the bed. I approached the nearest bed and ran my finger along the string.
“The string is tied to the hand of the deceased. In the event someone believed dead in truth is not, movement of the hand will sound the bell and alert the staff,” said Thornley.
“How ghastly,” Matilda said.
Thornley went on, “It happens more often than one would expect. I have witnessed patients with no hint of a breath or a heartbeat in them suddenly sit up in bed and scream hours after it was thought all life had abandoned them. When a body is brought