Fiona pointed to one of the post-mortems. “This one’s not too bad, gives details but not too much

Fiona turned to Martha. “So did they have enough doctors specialising in pathology to carry out the postmortems?” she asked. Martha shrugged. “Dunno. There was no university then, so no professors of forensic medicine. “They’d have had to use just regular doctors, I guess. Main man here seems to be a Dr Donald Anderson. He’s signed off most of them but there are some other signatories.”

She flicked through the pages and pointed at signatures.

“How could they tell a body had actually been involved in the disaster and not just drowned?”

“They used rectal temperature to assess the length of time since death and the state of rigor mortis.”

Fiona squirmed. “God, what a job. Presume it’s all a bit less grim nowadays?”

“It’s certainly more precise.”

“Right, so how accurate could the doctors have been in 1880?”

Martha shrugged again. “Well, they must have had so many bodies all at once, it would have been a sort of production line.

“The body would first have to be identified by family, desperate for news. Then, once it had a name, they’d have examined it and written the report.”

“So, any injuries not caused by just drowning would have been noted too?”

“Yeah, some had injuries caused by boat hooks or grappling irons used to recover the bodies from the water. Not all of then were conveniently washed ashore.”

Standard

Fiona sat down and pulled a pile towards her. Martha pointed to the one on the top. “They’re all done to a standard formula, so they have the cause of death at the top under ‘Disease.’

“Then the doctor’s name, the name of patient, age, when they died. We can cross-reference them to the list from the Tay Bridge memorial.”

“Okay, so what are we looking for, M?” “Anything that gives basic facts about the dead, but nothing too gruesome; we’re hoping loads of school kids will be coming to the exhibition.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about kids and gruesome. Jamie loves grisly detail, he asked me what the drowned bodies looked like!”

“Okay, so more a matter of dignity.”

“God, yes. Of course.” Fiona looked upwards, eyes screwed tight in concentration. “So, let me think, the great-grandchildren of those who died are all middleaged now?”

“Yeah.”

“We won’t be putting the names with the postmortems on display though, will we?”

“No, just relevant snippets from the causes of death. No names.”

An hour later, Fiona pointed to one of the postmortems. “This one’s not too bad, gives details but not too much.

“Name is John Mitchel. I’ve cross-referenced him, says he’s an engine driver.”

“Wonder if he was the actual train’s driver. No way of knowing as we don’t have any records of the working crew’s names.

“Apparently lots of off-duty train personnel travelled free on Sundays, so he could have just been a passenger.”

“The memorial list says his address was 18 Peddie Street, Dundee. That’s the other side of the Hawkhill.”

Fiona’s finger hovered over the page and pointed. “Here’s what it says. Death by drowning. Dr Anderson was the doctor. John Mitchel, aged 36, died December 28 1879. Post mortem third of January, 1880.

“It says he was washed ashore at Broughty Ferry beach and taken to Tay Bridge Station for examination. Presumed drowned in the River Tay.

Important

“It says he was five foot nine inches, shoulder circumference 41 inches, and then it goes on to describe the state of his heart, kidneys and so on. But its the lungs that are most important.”

She pointed at the paper.

“Left lung over-inflated with fluid and congested. Right lung over-inflated and contains considerable quantities of serous fluid.”

She traced her finger down the page.

“Then, look here, torso bloated . . . consistent with methane gas produced and trapped inside body . . . considerable quantities of water and debris in stomach . . . changes related to decomposition delayed by the temperatures of the deep water of the River Tay.”

“So the methane gas build-up while they were submerged eventually caused the bodies to rise to the surface.

“Then they’d have been washed ashore, many at Broughty Ferry,” Martha said, nodding.

“My God, can you imagine if you arrived at the

A Fife police spokesman tells of finding the grave of John McNeill who was whipped as a punishment when he was 10 years old. beach one morning and just saw all these bodies strewn on the sand. Horrible.”

Fiona shivered.

“Dad told me about a beached whale there once, when he was a boy.

“The entire city was out in force, trying to get it back into the water.

“Pretty sure they managed.”

Fiona pointed to the paper in front of her. “Anyway, what d’you think? Does this one seem suitable for the exhibition?”

“Yeah, could be. This one here’s similar.” Martha read aloud. “Name Annie Smart, says aged mid-20s. She was 24 and from 52 Union Street. She was a weaver.

“Death by drowning, but this one also mentions hypothermia.

“Again, there’s mention of lungs over-inflated, filled with water, serous fluid in the pleural cavity. Also mentions white froth in the airways.” Martha grimaced.

“Bloody hell, what a way to die, they must have struggled under the water, but I suppose the water was so cold, it can’t have taken long.”

“Horrible. I noticed another one had lesions on the forehead, presumably from being bashed against the rocks.

“Or against something in the train – crashing into the carriage or part of the engine or something.”

Selection

“Thanks for helping, Fi. I’ll take our selection to the boss once we’ve done them all, see what she says.

“She might think we can’t display any of them, but at least without names it’s just representative of the disaster, not of any specific family.

“Thankfully there were no photos in those days in morgues.”

Fiona looked at her watch. “I’d better clock off now, if that’s okay. D’you want me to do more work on these tomorrow?”

“Might need you to, but I’ll see how I get on.” She shuffled the papers and put them into a neat pile. “We’ve done up till the ninth of January.

“I’ll carry on with the post-mortems from the rest of January this afternoon and see what’s left.”

Fiona peeled off her gloves. “Thank God we’ve not come across anyone named Craig!”

She laughed and headed for the door.

More tomorrow.