Murder in the Bedroom by Katherine Pym

 

Buy Here

~*~*~*~

Ready to do murder

Apparently, bedrooms are perfect for murder. The victim is usually already in a prone position (won’t fall and break anything). The victim is usually already asleep so there’s no resistance to their demise. The mattress will soak up the blood, if that’s the way a murderer wants to perform the act. All he or she has to do is cover up the dead body with blankets already on the bed. Easy-peasy. 

The kitchen below 'the room'.

Authors have often killed off a person in the bedroom. Take Anya Seton in her Dragonwyck. She used the oleander flower to brighten up a sick room. I’ve read this plant is extremely poisonous. Even if a bee takes its pollen, and you later gather honey from said bee’s nest, eat the honey, you can fall very ill. I haven’t heard if you can die from the honey, though. Anya Seton merely had her naughty protagonist set an oleander plant near his sick wife’s bed. The next morning she was dead. Very cleanly done. No blood. Her body was already covered with blankets. 

Is she dead?

 Back in the day (maybe even now), some innkeepers (sort of like the dastardly couple in the musical Les Mis) would kill a wealthy customer for the gold he/she carried. One couple who owned the Crane near Reading UK murdered wealthy patrons for years without getting caught. 

 

Their process was elaborate. They outfitted a bedroom located above the kitchen (nice and warm in the winters I expect, what with heat rising, so a coveted room). The innkeepers nailed the bed to a trapdoor located over a huge boiling caldron used to brew beer. When the trapdoor opened the poor victim fell off the bed into this boiling caldron, clothes and all, he never had a moment to cry out but would be immediately parboiled, then drowned (sort of like the play Sweeny Todd but with water). The innkeepers would mount a ladder into the bedroom, steal all his goods, and reset the trapdoor. The body would then be cast into a local river. 

That seems like a lot of hard work. 

Then Thomas Harding (another author) wrote of a woman whose husband continually imbibed. One night she couldn’t take it anymore and sewed her dead-drunk husband very tightly in the bedclothes. She unstitched him the following morning to find him quite expired. The coroners said it was a stroke. On her wedding night with her next husband, she very casually told him what she had done. I’d wager he didn’t sleep well that night. 

Ready for the plunge

There are many bedrooms that are ghost ridden due to suicides, murders, and just plain natural deaths. There was a time when if you tried to sell your home, the estate agent would ask if anyone died there. If you answered yes, the house would be difficult to sell. So, what do you say? 

 

Nothing, and do sleep well, tonight. 

 

Post Script: The Ostrich Inn near Heathrow Airport has the same stories. You can decide where to stay and see how haunted these inns are. 

~*~*~*~

 

Many thanks to: Warm & Snug, The History of the Bed, by Lawrence Wright, First published 1962 by Routledge & Keagan Paul, Ltd. England

Pictures come from Wikicommon, public domain

March Is For Murder

March Is For Mysteries

 

Though today is St. Patrick’s Day and I have a smidgeon of Irish in my blood, I would rather talk about writing mysteries and suspense. Murder and Mint Tea was my first ebook and still remains one purchased. 1998 is a long life for a book. I did have to do some updating when I reissued the book. House phones and station wagons area thing of the past. So I had to give my heroine a cell phone, something she reluctantly uses and give her friends new rides. I’ve lost track of how many copies of the book were sold over the years but the number is many.

I’ve written only one romantic suspense. Code Blue began as Code Blue but the first publisher changed the name to Obsessions. When Book We Love took over the story we went back to the original title. That pleased me. This is another book that has been around for a long time and has also had some updating. Not enough according to one reader but that’s all right. The interesting thing I discovered is the rough draft of another medical suspense put away after my long ago critique group and some doctor friends were upset with the subject. I’m going to rework this story because I really enjoyed reading what I wrote and so some day you can read Committee of Angels.”

It's the Most Stressful Time of the Year by Stuart R. West

Warm your holidays up with some chills!

Sing with me, everyone! Huzzah! The holidays are nearly over!

No more fruitcakes (no, no, not the food...that ONE uncle. Yeah, you know which one I'm talking about). Say goodbye to the wrasslin' wranglers of the store aisles, the ones who give soccer players a run for their money. So long to false smiles when you open a box of tighty-whities (I killed the snickers when I threatened to model them). And no more uncomfortable hugs. Especially uncomfortable hugs.

I think I'm the only one who has a problem knowing when to hug. Hugging protocol isn't in my armory. In my family, if you accidentally touch someone, the knee-jerk reaction is to jump like an Olympic kangaroo. Yet, there's my wife's family, the huggin'-est family around. No problem with that, as I love 'em all, truly I do. I think it's nice, actually. So I studied and watched them. Maybe it's an Oklahoma thing, I naively thought.  When the Fed Ex man rang the doorbell, I put what I'd learned into play, welcoming him with a big ol' bear hug.

Well, turns out I still have a bit more to learn.

Anyway, Christmas time. I used to look forward to the holiday. Not so much anymore. Call me a curmudgeon or a realist, I'm okay with both.

Several years back, our Christmas was different in many ways. For instance, I only heard the cloying "Santa Baby" song whenever we went shopping. Usually it's a mainstay that digs into your head like a dentist's drill. But on Christmas day, the song of choice seemed to be "Let It Snow,"  a song I loath because the sentiment is treasured only by children and drunk television weathermen. Obviously the singer lives in Florida.

This particular holiday was filled with more than its fair share of excitement, not the particularly good, cozy gather-around-the-fireplace type, either.

A niece I adore decided to get married on December 21st in Midwest Kansas, home of winter blizzards. So, that Saturday morning at 6:30 a.m. (my wife's a hard-charger), we set off for Hays, attempting to stay one step ahead of "Storm (I think they named it) Dumbledore." You know, the storm that blew the socks off everyone in the States (Canada, I'm looking at you!).

We got there okay, albeit bleary-eyed, delirious, and pumped up on caffeine and sugar. My daughter woke up in the back seat, yawned, and with a happily contented tone said, "Wow, that trip wasn't so bad." Even though she was 21 at the time, I I still grounded her for life.

BOOM! Flat tire after lunch. 22 degrees outside. (Merry Christmas, everybody!) Freezing, yet determined to show my masculine side, I changed the tire in, say, fifty-five minutes. Much cursing ensued. Icing on the cake? My wife ("accidentally," she says) kicked me in the nose. Grease-stained, sniffing, and broken-nosed, we're just in time for wedding pictures.

The next morning (6:30 a.m. again) I'm dreary and suffering a bad back from the lousy hotel bed. And the ice machine, birthing baby cubes right outside our door, kept us up all night. (Happy Horror-days!) But I pulled up my big-boy britches 'cause it was time to go to Oklahoma to celebrate Christmas with my wife's family. 

At one stretch, the highway was covered with huge chunks and stalactites of snow. It felt like we were four-wheeling (it's a Midwest thing, folks, don't worry about it). And we nearly got stuck in the parking lot of a "Pilot" store getting gas.

And these stores...you know, I never knew there was such a variety of "quick in and out stores." I think we visited them all across the Midwest. There was the aforementioned "Pilot," the downtrodden "Stop-Shop (home of the world's filthiest bathrooms)," numerous "Kum-n-Go's (tee-hee)," and, of course, my personal new favorite discovery, "The Wood Shed." I'm telling you, "The Wood Shed" is Nirvana. It's what the Stuckey's of my childhood used to be. Their logo is great, a Beaver or something glaring at you with googly eyes. When you open the door--just like a carnival funhouse--a ginormous fan blasts you with a ghostly groan and a seriously threatening whirlwind of heat. (While I was waiting for my wife, I amused myself by watching newcomers freak out when they crossed the Barrier of the Damned.)  After you survive tornado alley, a giant blow-up snowman with an evil grin looms over you! Fantastic! And the bathrooms...the glorious, wondrous, old-fashioned, smelly bathrooms with antiquated machines boasting of  mysterious treasures such as "Big Wally" and other enticing sundries. Plus there was a plethora of crap for tourists to get suckered into. Gave me Christmas chills.

Then the trip turned nightmarish. My wife ran over a red squirrel in the highway. His eyes still haunt me. Took me seconds to shake it...

Had a great time with my wife's family. But I was sleep-deprived and loopy the whole time (kinda' like how I was during college). I found myself drifting off on many occasions--taking a Scrooge-like trippy side-trip--looking down on the proceedings as if I'd died or something. Maybe I did for a minute. With a turkey leg in my mouth.

Finally...it was over! And this Christmas shall to come to pass.

Merry Christmas everyone and God help us one and all!

In fact, you know what I think? I think Peculiar County would look mighty nice under a Christmas Tree this year... 

Click For Thrills, Chills, Mystery, Nostalgia, Romance, and Laughs

The Dreaded Black (Socks) Friday

More Fun Than Shopping on "Black Friday!"

One Thanksgiving, not too long ago but far, far away from home, I realized I forgot to pack socks. A family member suggested I could borrow socks. Well, no. Thanks, anyway, but, um, no.

Socks are important. They're a crucial component of life. I mean, really, without socks, society would break down into violence. We'd be nothing more than savages without socks.

So, I ventured out, looking for socks on Thanksgiving night, the worst possible time to go sock shopping. Because "Black Friday" has now turned into "Deep, Dark, Blacker Then Black Full-On Week Friday," a week long orgy of no holds barred, sometimes violent, shopping free-for-alls.

At Walmart, folks scrabbled, pushed, screamed and raced toward what they perceived as good deals. The sock aisle was relatively barren, yet the over-all ambience of the store was one of menace. Agonized howls rang out through the aisles--not children, but older folks who should know better. Lines were longer than the wait at the driver's license bureau. Menacing glares were exchanged over the last video game available. Eyes were void of hope, yet full of greed. Sam Walton won this round.

It got me thinking about the true meaning of Thanksgiving. It's an American holiday based on how the Pilgrims gave thanks to the Native-Americans for basically saving their lives. And, of course, we know how well that turned out for the Native-Americans. Greeting card companies and big business want us to forget that little tid-bit. From the depths of a wiped out culture rose a Hallmark moment. Thanksgiving now means familial togetherness and love. We get together with our families for one day, get it all over in one fell swoop and move on with our lives.

Yet...it's come around again. Thanks to Corporate America, Thanksgiving's returned to its roots. Once again, it's about violence and survival of the fittest. Weak shoppers will be trammeled over and forgotten. Those with the strongest stamina, pocketbooks and pepper-spray will persevere, no matter who has squatter rights.

I did come away from my Black Friday experience with socks. It took a helluva' long time. While my feet stink less, I feel like a pawn in the Big Plan Of Things. Next Thanksgiving to protest, I'm going to defiantly wear dirty socks. Join me if you will.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Speaking of disorganized chaos, Boundless Book Reviews calls Murder by Massage: "Chaotic, fun and hilarious." It's book #2 in the ongoing Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Collect 'em all!

Avoid those holiday shopping lines, by clicking!

How To Get Away With Murder In Your Sleep by Stuart R. West

I murder a lot of people in my sleep.

Click on through to the other side for murderrrrrr...

Wait, wait, wait... Before you call the police, let me explain. No, I don't sleepwalk and stab snoozily away, nothing like that. Rather, I have a recurring nightmare where I've killed someone (that and the horrifying nightmare where I walk into the world's grossest public restroom barefoot, but that's a dream better left untold).

The odd thing is I never dream the actual killing, nor do I have any idea who my victims are. You'd kinda think those two issues might be important, but no my Id chooses to cut to the Dostoevsky-like chase: waiting for the noose to tighten around my throat as Johnny Law moves in.

What does this say about me as a person? According to the intronets, I have a guilt-ridden mind. Of what? No idea.

I searched my back history for various explanations... Maybe that kid in Kindergarten who I helped to harass because everyone else was? Maybe how I rudely ghosted a woman I dated in college? How about when I used to smoke, I'd toss the butts out on the highway? Or perhaps Karma's getting back at me for cutting in line for a roller-coaster at Worlds of Fun. I don't know...

But these dreams are long, stressful and convoluted. The other night I had my victim all ready to go, trundled up in a plastic trash bag (I assume they were extra, EXTRA strength), and ready to put out on the curb for trash pick-up day. Once the body was picked up and put in the back of the trash truck, I'd be in the clear. However...dogs kept sniffing around the bag. I had to continue shooing them away. Then neighborhood kids kept circling on their bikes, moving in closer, wanting to know what was in the bag ("You kids get outta my yard!"). Then, cop cars started slowly crawling by my house...looking...

How'd it all turn out? Beats me. I ended up at some ridiculous bus station with a miles-long line of people waiting to board the bus, on the lam with my mug plastered on newscasts throughout the terminal.

Much scarier than any horror flick or current political administration.

Apparently, my "guilt-ridden mind" doesn't stop at nightmares, either. Whenever I see a cop, I break out into a cold sweat, start humming some nonsensical tune, hoping the cop will ignore me, view me as an inconsequential, law-abiding citizen. It doesn't matter that I am a law-abiding citizen. It's just one of those things. "Capiophobia" is what my research assistant, Ms. Google, calls this bewildering fear of cops.

Clicky for...um...murder most massagey.

So. I figured that's why I gravitate toward murder mysteries, both writing and reading them. Unlike my nightmares, I can control the destiny and fate of my characters (mwah, hah, hahhhh!), ensuring that justice is served, and that the good guy and/or gal (generally falsely accused) are cleared of any bogus murder raps. It helps to set my day world right, even if there's nothing to be done about my nightmarish night-life.

And like my nightmares, the murders are never gruesomely delineated. It's the aftermath that's important.

Huh. As a kid, I always thought episodes of "Columbo" were boring. Why? Because they always showed from the on-set who the killer was. It became ninety long minutes of watching the killer sweat it out while Columbo ("Just one more thing...") circled the drain. 

I suppose I might like Columbo better now as I can definitely relate with the killers' increasing paranoia.

Sorta like my character, Zach, in the Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Only he's innocent. You see, Zach (a vapid, but big-hearted male entertainment dancer--don't call him a "stripper!"), has an uncanny knack for stumbling across dead bodies, generally becoming blamed as the killer. It's up to his sister sleuth, Zora, to investigate and clear his name, usually with her entourage of four kids in tow. Together they traverse a warped path to the truth, complete with characters straight outta my nightmares: The hippy parents! The singing and dancing detective! Menacing nannies! The paranoid computer geek! Corrupt politicians! Frenzied furries! Rival strippers! Murderous televangelists! The list goes on...

So, take that, guilt-ridden mind! (Freud would be proud.)

Click it like it's hot!

Hearing Your Book

Hearing Your Story

 

Recently my book Murder and Mint Tea came out in an audio version. Now I’m the kind or writer who sits and reads out loud the final draft of the mss to make sure there are no awkward places. The problem is that while I’ve been reading aloud, I haven’t been listening to more than pacing and flow. I also have trained to read my words loudly and without expression.

Hearing the book read by a professional reader was a surprising treat. There were times when I wondered if I’d really written those words. Several times I had to look in the print copy and those words were there but somehow they took on a different meaning. Sometimes the meaning was more sinister than I thought and sometimes showing an undertone I hadn’t realized was there.

Many thanks to Virginia Ferguson for her reading skills. Now I’m hoping for more reviews like the one that’s already there from one of the prior editions of the book.

Thinking about Books Written #BWLPublishing, #MFRWauthor #Murder

Today, I spent some time thinking of the books I’ve written and how some seem to be like the energizer bunny. They keep going and going. One of these books is Murder and Mint Tea. The book has been around since 1998 and is still selling. There have been some changes in the book but not in the story. I updated it to include minivans rather than station wagons and I gave the heroine a cell phone which she often forgets to use. Rather like the writer here. I once remember an editor wanting to make changes in the book to bring the murder up to the front and have the heroine busily solving the story. I didn’t make that change since then it wouldn’t be my books. The story is sort of Who is going ot kill her? I once had a reviewer write, if she doesn’t die soon, I’m going ot kill her. So in a way, it’s not quite a mystery. But the book continues and so do I.

Amazing to think of all the books I have out there waiting for readers. I’m funny since I don’t count how many there are. I know there are stories still to be told. Hopefully the new ones will have long lives, too. There are a number of other books that have lasted and been updated and continue to go on. That’s one of the great things about being a writer. Age ahs nothing ot do with putting the words on paper as long as the imagination is there.

Imagination is what I do when I begin a story. Right now I’ve been involved with dragons and evil wizards and battles physical and mental. My next story will be a romance. Soon my imagination will travel from a fantasy world to the one I’ve seen around me.

Day 2 of Amazon Adventures: Museums, Manatees and Misery by Stuart R. West

Click here to read about the "wilds" of Kansas City!

Hola, fellow explorers! Herein resides more adventures in the heart of the Amazon River and Iquitos, Peru! I can't wait to get writing books set there...quite a stretch from my usual stomping grounds of Kansas.

Our second night, "Jungle Momma (the group coordinator)" told us to get lots of sleep because the next day would be jam-packed. I scoffed, nothing to it. Hey, I lived through a heart-pounding motokar city-wide trek!

Dumb. I'm soooo dumb. So very, very, very city-dumb.

I showed up in shorts. Jungle Momma chastised me, said "Nope. No. No way. You need two shirts, a long-sleeved shirt over a short-sleeved shirt. And long pants."

Grousing, dragging, I hauled myself upstairs and changed, wondering what the big deal was. I mean, it was a thousand degrees out and humid as Satan's sauna. Oh, what a naive, spoiled American I am!

First stop! The Belen market. The market is huge, supplying all of the food and goods for the entire city of Iquitos, population around 371,000 (plus ignorant tourists such as myself). 

But something didn't seem quite right. On the bus, there were two guards: one, a man strangely named "Clever" and a guy whose name I never caught. Clever warned us to watch our pockets, wallets, purses, and leave all but our necessities on the bus.

Hmm... Odd.

Ye gads, talk about overwhelming. More fish on display than an ocean could house, I wondered about the sanitation of it all. Clearly I needed to get over my Western way of thinking. Dogs and cats meandered about nonchalantly, inches away from food. Dead mice lay gutted at the foot of chicken corpses. Strange men mosied up, smiled, performed a kinda one-armed chicken dance. Ghastly things lay splayed out on merchant tables. Giant turtles were cut open with their eggs on display. Alligator heads and tails decorated tables.

 Thumb-sized larva and grubs ("Suri") wriggled about in baskets before being skewered and cooked. Like that annoying kid in eighth grade science class, I held one, showed it to the females until they "ewwwed." To get the full effect, I was willing to eat one until Jungle Momma shut me down.

Our guards stayed attached to us and I'm pretty dang glad they did. At the end of an hour-and-a-half, claustrophobia  set in. I couldn't move. An unwelcome realization dawned over me with the sledgehammer inevitability of a "duh" moment: "Hey, I think the locals might realize I'm a tourist." Not only am I the whitest guy in Kansas, but my Hawaiian shirt and camera were probably a giveaway.

Sweat began to percolate as we boarded the bus (air conditioning!). I thought I knew sweat. Turned out I hadn't even mounted the sweaty trail.

Up next was a visit to a medicinal herbal garden. (Our group was composed primarily of pharmacists, so it was kinda a big deal for them. Which made me arm candy, I suppose. Maybe more like an arm grub). But, I thought, "This will be a nice pleasant five minute stroll. We'll just drive up, park, get out, "ooh" and "ahh" over some plants, get back on the bus, and bask in air conditioning." Oh, naivete, your name is Stuart.

My wife grabs her purse, thrusts it at me to stuff into my backpack. (Embarrassing disclaimer: I've never worn a back-pack before. Back in my day {pay attention, whippersnappers!}, we carried our books.) Suddenly, Jungle Momma is tucking her pant legs into her socks. (The hell...?) Bug spray is lacquered on. Sun hats are strapped on. Shirt sleeves rolled down, buttoned, and double-checked. (Uh-oh...)

Just off the bus and already sweating, I follow the others' precautionary efforts. I don't really understand what all the fuss is for over a simple stroll through a garden. Right? RIGHT?

 That "simple stroll" turned into a three hour tour (worse than Gilligan's nightmares) through the jungle. And I'm wearing double shirts, long pants, and carrying my wife's forty pound purse (clearly she packed her bowling ball collection) in my backpack. Naturally, every intrepid explorer carries purses into the jungle.

On the left, my beautiful wife. I'm the guy wearing mustard so the anacondas can see me better.

We climbed up trails, slalomed down them, slipped through mud, dodged branches, the whole nine yards. I thought we'd never reach civilization again. I also thought a daily five miles of treadmill walking had prepared me for strenuous hiking. Such is the life of city sissies. Jumpin' Jehosophat, by the end of the tour--and with my "moobs"--I looked like I'd been hosed down for a wet t-shirt contest.

Tired travelers, weary pharmacists, and soaking wet big dumb guys in mustard.

Back on the bus, I sucked down a bottle of water and juice in seconds, dehydrated as a shrunken head. But relief was on the way as the next visit turned out to be a relatively low-key visit to a nature habitat dedicated to saving animals on the brink of extinction (due to hunting, eating, other "civilized" products) such as manatees, turtles (of which we saw the grotesque end result earlier), monkeys (monkey-head soup's big), and others. Great cause. Still, it's outside. And once I broke my sweat-seal, I never stopped draining. In fact, between the three men on the trip, we had a bit of a sweating competition. Hands down, I won, glad to know I'm good at something.

A tour of two museums followed. First up was the Museum of Indigenous Amazonian Cultures. Amazingly, there are still 200 tribes in the jungle who flat-out refuse to "civilize." The not so amazing reason is due to white man unleashing a lotta diseases and vile behavior on the indigenous in the past. Honestly, after seeing some of the lifestyles in Iquitos (and boorish American behavior), I kinda think the tribes made the right decision. 

Our final stop proved to be the most grueling one yet, the Boat Museum. While fascinating, the displays and tour took place on a boat. In closed, non-air-conditioned rooms. During the hottest part of the day. Give me the jungle heat any day. Now I know why they're called steamboats.

Finished! Back in the room, my shower was perhaps the finest I'd taken in my life, definitely in the pantheon of Top Three Showers ever.

On the next blog post, we travel down the Amazon River to...Monkey Island!

Speaking of traveling, you guys ever been to Kansas? No. What're you waiting for? Kansas is a nice, exotic, wonderful, getaway of a vacation for... Ah, who am I kidding? Kansas is downright goofy. But don't take my word for it. Click here to read about some of its inhabitants.

A rollicking, good-natured mystery comedy.

More Frightful Murders and other Horrible Deeds by Katherine Pym

17th Century Physicians Dissecting a Body 

My era is 17^th century London when medical doctors used hanged convicts to study anatomy. They would cut up the dead to see how men and women’s organs worked. Plague victims were also dissected. Opening the body, physicians who survived the pestilence found evidence of the buboes on lungs and other innards, or so they wrote.

The Royal Society used live animals to experiment on, like transferring blood from one dog to another then documented the results. Generally, one dog lived (the one receiving the gift of blood) and the other (who gave the blood) died. Unfortunate.

Body Snatcher at Work

Into the 18^th century the laws changed. There were fewer hangings and more deportations to penal colonies. This caused slim pickings in the London cadaver field.

Medical men faltered a bit, then someone came up with an idea. Why not snatch bodies from the grave? I mean, no one will know. The dead person won’t care. For the fellas digging up the bodies, they can take rings and gewgaws left on the body as an added incentive. Everyone’s a winner.

Well, not really. Families of the dead and gone got wind of these ‘body snatchers’ and protected their loved ones with a mortsafe (dictionary.com says a mortsafe is a heavy iron cage or grille placed over the grave of a newly deceased person in order to deter body snatchers.). These would be used until everyone felt certain the poor dead person wouldn’t be ‘fresh’ enough for dissection. 

Mortsafe

During the early 19^th century if you were caught digging up a body you could be heavily fined or deported. Not fun, but hey, the reward was worth the danger. Men in the medical field took the bodies no questions asked. Everyone was happy—or so one would think. Unfortunately, greed got in the way of a good thing. 

A man in Edinburgh owned an inn for pensioners. One fellow died owing Mister Hare £4 which annoyed him. Along with another fellow (Burke), Hare removed the pensioner’s body from the coffin, filled the said box with something equivalent in weight; then hid the cadaver in an empty room down the hall. The parish authorities took the coffin away, blissfully unaware there was no body in the box.

Hare and Burke sold the body to a physician for £7, 10s, making a tidy profit. The process was relatively safe. No middle of the night dig in a cemetery. No worries of getting caught, being fined or deported. The men did not suffer driving rain or snow down their collars while at a dig, nor did they have to fret over sharp winds that could easily blow off their caps. Their new boots and carpets remained clean from graveyard dirt. (After all, the men had to spend their newfound wealth somewhere.) Hare and Burke had found a sweet deal at the pensioners’ inn.

Hare loved this new, lucrative end of the business. When another pensioner dropped off the twig, he and his partner repeated the process, but when another pensioner took too long to pop off, they smothered him with a pillow. It was worth the effort, for they received £10.

After a while, the inn ran dry of almost dead persons so Hare and Burke lured vagrants, drunks and prostitutes into their fine abode. They plied them with drink then smothered them after passing out. If they wouldn’t obey by slipping into a drunken sleep, “Burke would pin him down while Hare smothered him, holding his hands over the victim’s nose and mouth.”

As you would expect, Hare and Burke became reckless. “First, they killed Mary Paterson, a voluptuous 18 year old—so free with her body that it was recognized by the physician’s medical students.” When they “murdered ‘Daft Jamie’, a familiar, good natured imbecile who made his living running errands on the streets of Edinburgh”, suspicion raised its dark brow.

The men were eventually arrested. Burke hanged before a large crowd some say that numbered in the 30,000’s. His body was dissected on the physician’s table he and Hare had sold so many bodies to.

But Hare escaped this wicked end by giving state’s evidence, which meant he pointed his finger at the physician and his assistants. While in the school, the physician was stormed by a mob but police intervention saved his life. Even though he protested his innocence, he lost his profession and was hounded out of town.

And so goes a sad, woeful tale of murder and other horrible deeds.

~~~~~~

The People’s Almanac by David Wallechinsky & Irving Wallace, Doubleday & Co., Inc., New York 1975

All pictures come from Wikicommons, Public Domain

Buy Here