James McGee - Resurrectionist

Hawkwood nodded. Quill’s conclusions confirmed some of Apothecary Locke’s suspicions. More damningly, they also indicated that the scalpel hadn’t been the only thing the colonel had purloined from the apothecary’s bag. Hawkwood recalled the empty bottle of cordial that had been on the table in Hyde’s room. The colonel hadn’t needed to hit his victim to subdue him. He’d used the laudanum, mixing it with the cordial. It probably wouldn’t have taken too much to make the priest drowsy. Perhaps Hyde had then offered him use of his bed. Which was when the pillow would have been used.

Another nail in the apothecary’s coffin, never mind the parson’s.

Quill gazed down at the corpse. “Remarkable,” he said again.

Hawkwood had been bracing himself for the third and fourth bodies. Even so, he could never have prepared himself totally. He’d seen the effects of fire on a corpse before. In war it was inevitable, but it didn’t make this sight any more palatable.

Each body had been reduced to little more than a grossly deformed lump of charred flesh and blackened bone. There was a curious mantis-like look to the way the limbs had contracted in the heat, transforming the extremities into gnarled claws. The cadavers bore more resemblance to a species of grotesque insect than anything human.

Ashes to ashes, Hawkwood thought.

What appeared to be remnants of burnt cloth hung from the blistered bodies of both decedents, though he supposed it could just as easily have been strips of seared skin. Hawkwood felt the gorge rise to the back of his throat. He swallowed, determined that Quill should not see his reaction. He didn’t want to give the doctor the satisfaction of knowing that Doyle’s wasn’t the only stomach in the room suffering side-effects.

He listened as Quill went through the results of his examinations. Two bodies, one male, one female, the male aged in his late forties, the female older, perhaps in her sixties. Each of them burnt beyond recognition.

“Not that they died from the fire, of course.” The surgeon regarded Hawkwood with a speculative expression. “The female has a crushed larynx, probably caused by strangulation. The male has suffered a broken clavicle and splintered radius of the right arm, a cracked tibia of the right leg and fracture of the frontal bone of the skull. I would say those are injuries consistent with a high fall.”

A vision rose into Hawkwood’s mind. He saw again the black-robed figure outlined against the open window of the bell tower, turning and pitching into the flames. It had been a long way to the ground.

The porter, Doyle, hadn’t been the only one who had died hard, Hawkwood reflected. But that didn’t mean he felt any sympathy. Hyde had killed a priest and an elderly woman. Hell, Hawkwood thought, was probably too good for the murdering bastard.

Hawkwood stared down at the bodies. Quill’s examination and conclusions were confirmation that the investigation into the murder of the priest was at an end. In all respects, the outcome was final.

So, why am I suddenly not convinced? Hawkwood wondered.

Colonel Hyde, according to Apothecary Locke, had been an intelligent man. Despite the man’s mental tribulations, Locke had even admitted to consulting with the colonel on medical matters on more than one occasion. As for the killing of the priest, all indications pointed to the colonel having plotted his escape from Bethlem with murderous efficiency. There had definitely been method in his madness, if such a thing were possible. And yet, no sooner had the colonel achieved his goal than he had brought his short-lived freedom to a spectacular end by killing himself out of a sense of guilt.

It didn’t make any sense.

Chief Magistrate James Read regarded Hawkwood with what might have been sympathy.

“Sense, you say? I’m not sure that would apply in this particular instance. The colonel’s mind was clearly unhinged. Do not trouble yourself looking for rhyme or reason. I doubt you’ll find either. The man’s dead, the coroner’s surgeon has performed his duty. The coroner will reach his verdict. The case is therefore closed. It is time to move on. There are more pressing matters that demand our attention.”

They were in the Chief Magistrate’s office at Bow Street. James Read had adopted his customary stance, facing the room with his back towards the open fire. Read’s eyes flickered to the window. His brow furrowed. Hawkwood followed the magistrate’s mournful gaze and saw that a thin sleet had begun to fall.

The magistrate turned away from the weather, a weary expression on his narrow face. “How goes the Doyle investigation?”

Hawkwood grimaced. “Not as well as I would have liked. No one’s talking.”

There was a silence in the room, interrupted only by the slow, monotonous ticking of the clock in the corner and the crackle of burning wood in the hearth.

“What about the men who attacked you? Have you given any further thought as to whether they might have been working under orders rather than by their own volition? Perhaps you have informers who can make enquiries?”

He meant Jago, Hawkwood thought.

There was a sudden sharp report from the direction of the hearth. Read jumped in alarm. A stray spark, Hawkwood realized, must have struck the magistrate.

James Read sidestepped smartly and swatted the back of his right knee. “Mr Twigg!”

The door opened so promptly that Hawkwood suspected the clerk had been hovering outside, awaiting such a summons.

“Yes, sir?” Twigg blinked behind his spectacles as the magistrate turned towards him.

“A guard for the hearth, Mr Twigg. Before the day is out, if you please. That’s the second pair of breeches I’ve ruined in as many weeks.”

The clerk rewarded the Chief Magistrate with a weary I told you so look. “Shouldn’t stand so close then, your honour.”

The look Read gave his clerk was priceless. Hawkwood suspected that only Ezra Twigg could have got away with such a retort.

“Yes, well, thank you for your acute observation, Mr Twigg; straight to the nub as always. But you’ll see to it? I believe there’s a guard downstairs in the sitting magistrate’s chambers — I’m sure he won’t raise any objection.”

As if the poor bugger would have any choice in the matter, Hawkwood thought.

Twigg nodded. “Right away, sir.”

The little clerk departed on his errand, closing the door behind him, but not before he had caught Hawkwood’s gaze and rolled his eyes.

Hawkwood bit his tongue.

“You were about to say…?” Read said, frowning. His sharp eyes had evidently caught the exchange.

Hawkwood shook his head. “Nothing, sir.”

“Very good. In that case,” Read said drily, “don’t let me detain you.” The magistrate moved to his desk, sat down and picked up his pen. “But be sure to keep me appraised of your progress. That is all. You may go.”

“Christ on His cross, Maggsie, will you hold that bloody light steady? I can’t see a bleedin’ thing!”

Sawney threw the big man a glare, which was difficult, given that he was on his hands and knees, head pressed to the ground, arse in the air.

“Sorry, Rufus,” Maggett whispered, and held the lantern lower. Three of the lantern’s four sides were blacked out, which made it possible to direct the candle beam in a specific direction. It also decreased the chances of the light being spotted by prying eyes.

Sawney shook his head at his companion’s idiocy and resumed his inspection of the gravesite. The two men standing guard behind Maggett’s broad shoulders looked on in nervous anticipation.

It was half an hour after midnight. Apart from the four men, the graveyard was deserted. Tendrils of mist drifted in spectral coils around the canted and fallen headstones, while on the ground a thin veneer of frost had already started to glisten.