James McGee - Resurrectionist

Placing the lantern on the top of an adjacent coffin, Hawkwood hooked his fingers under the lip and lifted the lid.

He heard the constable gasp in surprise.

The faded white dress showed that the body was female, as did the slender form beneath it. The crumpled black coat and matching breeches lying across the body and head as if they had been thrust there in a hurry, however, were undeniably male. By the light from the lantern, Hawkwood could see that they were heavily stained and speckled with what looked like white dust. He lifted the clothes from the coffin and stepped away, taking them towards the open door. They felt slightly damp to the touch. Hawkwood turned the coat over in his hands. There were more marks on the sleeves and on the coat tails. He held the coat up to his face. The smell was instantly recognizable. It was smoke. He knew then that the white marks hadn’t been caused by dust. They were minute flakes of ash.

And then from what seemed a mile away, he heard Hopkins say in a small, very still voice, “Officer Hawkwood, there’s something here I think you should look at.”

Hawkwood turned. Hopkins was staring into the open coffin. “Sir?” the constable said again. There was a new urgency in his voice.

Hawkwood walked back. Hopkins was leaning over the coffin, his lantern held close to the body. He was peering at something. His eyes were narrowed, as if he couldn’t quite make out what he was seeing. Suddenly he straightened. Sensing Hawkwood beside him, he turned. His face was transfixed, an immovable yellow mask. Then his lips parted. They continued to move in silence, his throat constricting, as though he was about to disgorge something recently swallowed. No words were uttered. It was the expression of horror in the constable’s eyes that compelled Hawkwood to look down.

“Look at her face,” Hopkins whispered.

Hawkwood did so.

Affixed to the front of the corpse’s skull, in perfect alignment with the eyes and nose, cheeks and jaw, was what appeared to be some kind of visor. It was the nature of the material the visor had been fashioned from that had caused the tremor in the constable’s voice. The visor was not made of metal, neither was it cut from cloth or hide, though it did bear some semblance to seasoned leather. It also gave the impression the deceased had suffered from some terrible flesh-wasting disease. It was a mask of human skin.

“Very well, Hawkwood. You’ve convinced me.”

The Chief Magistrate pushed himself away from his desk and moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “Even though you saw him fall. You and a hundred others.”

“No,” Hawkwood said. “We didn’t see him fall. We saw him jump. He didn’t trip. He didn’t overbalance. He bloody jumped. It was deliberate. He knew what he was doing and he fooled us all. That’s why we heard the bell toll. He used the rope to lower himself to the ground. Then he climbed down into the crypt, closed the trap after him and made his way through the tunnel. Came up inside the dead house and made his escape. It would have been a close-run thing. It would have taken exceptional timing, but he did it. It was bloody clever.”

“And he is not a young man,” Read said.

“No, he’s not, but Apothecary Locke told me he’s an athletic man who kept himself in good physical shape by performing regular exercises.”

“In other words,” Read said flatly, “he was preparing himself.”

Hawkwood nodded. “He planned everything, even down to the theft of the scalpel and the laudanum. The apothecary said that Tombs was a regular visitor to the colonel’s cell. Hyde used the visits to bleed Tombs for information. He’d have found out about the church, the charnel house and the tunnel, even the spare bloody key. Tombs probably made him laugh with a story of some poor bugger getting locked in, which was why they had another key made. The sexton checked the house. The second key was missing. I’ll wager the bastard even got the parson talking about recent burials during each of his visits and timed his escape to coincide with the burial of someone close to his own age and size. He knew if he could fake his own death and make us all believe he’d done away with himself, we’d give up the chase. So he waited until the right corpse came along and then made his move. Dug the poor sod up, maybe even dressed him in some of the parson’s spare clothes — he’d have found them in the house — and placed the body in the church, then he lit his funeral pyre. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been wearing Foley’s burial suit when he made his escape. Probably stowed it in the crypt in preparation. The shine I saw on his clothing before he jumped would have been water. He’d doused himself as a precaution. That’s why the jacket and breeches I found felt damp. They hadn’t had time to dry.”

“And the sexton’s wife got in his way,” Read said heavily.

“She probably disturbed him at the house, or maybe she saw him moving the body. Either way, he had to kill her; she was a witness. By God, the man was thorough, I’ll grant him that; all that quoting from the scriptures and the Book of Titus. And he’s an arrogant bastard. He couldn’t resist that final joke, leaving the parson’s face in the woman’s coffin. But his arrogance made him careless. He didn’t close the bloody lid properly.”

Read looked thoughtful. “How is the constable, by the way?”

“He might be due for a few sleepless nights, but he’ll get over it. It’s worth a commendation, though. He did well.”

“I’ll see to it,” Read said. The Chief Magistrate moved to his desk. “You still think Hyde is responsible for the mutilations?”

Hawkwood nodded.

Read stared at him for what seemed like a long time. Finally the Chief Magistrate sighed. “What do you intend to do?”

“Catch the bastard. But to do that I’ll need to know more about his background.”

“You intend to revisit Bethlem?”

“It’s the logical place to start,” Hawkwood agreed.

Read looked pensive.

“What is it?”

“My sources tell me that the hospital governors are most anxious to avoid releasing information that might alarm the public.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“They feel it would be best for all concerned if the full details of the colonel’s escape were kept confidential.”

Hawkwood stiffened. “You mean they want to cover it up?”

“Admitting that murderers can wilfully abscond from the country’s foremost lunatic asylum in order to create mayhem is hardly conducive to the retention of public confidence. Bethlem is not a country estate; it lies within a city, surrounded by a million people going about their business, most of them lawfully. Far better if they are able to sleep easy in their beds than worry about escaped murderers on the loose.”

“The bloody place is crawling with murderers on the loose,” Hawkwood said, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “That’s why you employ people like me.”

Read sighed. “You know very well what I mean.”

“So, what are they going to do: swear everybody to silence? How are they going to explain the church going up in smoke? That’s already in the news-sheets.”

“A church burned down, a parson died. A tragedy occurred.”

Hawkwood stared at the Chief Magistrate. “The parson didn’t just die, he was murdered. So was the sexton’s wife. And the murderer’s still out there, loose on the bloody streets!”

“No, as far as the public is concerned, the murderer died in the fire,” Read said.

The significance of the magistrate’s words struck home. “So the poor bloody parson’s going to take the blame?”

“A hundred witnesses heard his confession and saw him commit suicide. It suits our purpose if they continue to believe that.”