The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [97]
I assured the Reverend I did not. Dinner at the Benedicts’ had apparently gone even worse than the Professor and I had imagined.
“You should meet Mrs. Schoonmaker. She is an extremely distinguished woman. Did you intend to remain in Philadelphia overnight?”
“Alas, no. I must return directly to New York.”
“A pity,” he said. “I was hoping you might witness for yourself the outpouring of support for our cause.”
“I’m sure that everyone in the city applauds your efforts.”
“Oh, no,” he exclaimed with a wag of his finger. “Not everyone. There are those in the medical profession who believe that it is perfectly acceptable to go against Scripture simply to satisfy morbid curiosity.” His features puckered. “The worst is this Canadian … man named Osler….” He pronounced it Ah-sler instead of Oh-sler. “This Osler dared come to see me, to try to convince me that carving up the dead was part of the advancement of science.” His jaws began to work back and forth at the memory of it. “Blasphemy,” he muttered.
“Quite so,” I replied. “I would like to return to your efforts to serve those who have died without funds for burial. Does your League pay for those burials as well?”
A cloud passed over the Reverend’s plump face. “It is the city’s responsibility to provide services for the indigent,” he said. “Private citizens cannot simply bury who they wish.”
I smiled, with what I hoped was a conspiratorial glint. “Nonetheless, Reverend Squires, I have heard that you have sometimes taken it upon yourself to provide a more dignified service than that offered by the city.”
“Where did you hear that?” he demanded, looking far less jolly than a moment before.
“I would not be much of a reporter if I could not unearth a story. Especially of a man who does God’s work with such zeal. I would, of course, not include any details that might prove embarrassing to you in any article we publish, but the Sun would be that much more interested in a man who takes risks for his convictions.”
Reverend Squires was eager to demonstrate that he was indeed such a man. “Of course, we provide burials,” he said. “It is a far more humane alternative than letting the poor be dumped in a hole in the ground.”
“I could not agree more strongly,” I said. “But it must stretch your resources to provide services for so many.”
“It is one of our most pressing expenses. You would be surprised, Mr. Harvey, at everything that is involved. One must obtain the space at the cemetery—we use St. Barnabas—hire men to prepare the site, obtain suitable transport….”
And bribe Charlie to keep his mouth shut, I thought, but instead I asked, “But how can you possibly keep track of everyone?” I asked. “The task is so laborious.”
“That is true, Mr. Harvey,” the Reverend replied. “But it is imperative that we know where each of these unfortunates has been laid to rest in the event a friend or loved one surfaces.”
“But are not many of those for whom you perform this service anonymous? How then …”
The Reverend smiled broadly. “An excellent question, Mr. Harvey. An excellent question.” And one to which I hoped he had an excellent answer. “Come,” the Reverend continued, “let me show you.”
Reverend Squires led me through the rectory to an office in which two young women were busily working on open ledgers. “We keep scrupulous accounts of everything we do here,” he said, walking to a shelf and removing an oversized journal. He hefted the book to the table and swung it open. “These are the records of this month’s interments,” he told me. “As you can see, every soul for whom we are accountable is identified, if not by name, then by physical characteristics, as is the exact location where the poor unfortunate has been laid to rest.”
“This is most impressive, Reverend.” I turned and smiled at him. “So, then,” I continued, running