(Sick)
Is that . . . ?
PURL
No.
(Shakes head, tries to close it again)
Oh, no.
BOWKER
(Grabbing it from him)
Let’s us just all have a good look, shall we?
He spills the contents out across PURL’S desk: A RATTLE OF KNIVES, blunted by cloth, plus the sound of a GLASS JAR FULL OF LIQUID, sliding over wood.
POACHER
God, what a stink!
MRS. BENTHAM
So much—blood.
LEAN
What’s that in the jar?
SECOND BOY
I think it’s . . . a baby. Before it’s been born, like.
BOWKER
That last one—she was expecting, or so they said.
LEAN
What d’you mean?
BOWKER
Obvious, isn’t it? What kind of doctor hauls around a bloody
bunch of knives and a baby in a bloody jar?
PURL
Bowker, please don’t do this.
BOWKER
Oh, it’s not what I’ve done, doctor. Sir.
MRS. BENTHAM