James McGee - Resurrectionist

Hawkwood’s eyes moved to the two signatures on the bottom right-hand side of the page.

The first signature was illegible. Had the top half of the document not been ruined, it would have been possible to read the official scribe’s notation, with the names clearly rendered, but water damage had made that impossible. In any case, it was not the name of the first signatory that had drawn Locke’s attention. It was the second, more legible signature over which his finger hovered.

Eden Carslow, FRCS.

Hawkwood read the name again. “ The Eden Carslow?”

Locke nodded. A little cautiously, Hawkwood thought.

“You’re sure?”

“I doubt there’s another,” Locke murmured.

While there were many men whose names commanded instant respect, the number whose reputation bordered on the supernatural based solely on their profession could be counted on the fingers of one hand. If the Army had Wellington and the Royal Navy had Nelson, the world of medicine had Eden Carslow.

“They say he makes over fifteen thousand a year from private practice alone,” Locke said. There was a note of awe in his voice. “And that his lectures to students command audiences of four hundred or more.”

“Which makes you wonder why he’s bothering to stand as security on a?100 bond for a patient in a madhouse,” Hawkwood murmured.

Locke was silent. At first Hawkwood presumed it was because the apothecary was still overwhelmed by the proximity of greatness. But it turned out it was because he was preoccupied with another of the pages. “There’s more,” Locke said quietly, passing over the page. “Look.”

It was a letter, written in an elegant hand: Whitehall, 27th October 1810 Gentlemen, It is my recommendation that you continue to detain in your hospital as a fit and proper subject the patient, Titus Xavier Hyde, a lunatic, who is at present under your charge. It is also my recommendation that care shall be taken that the customary expense of clothing, etc, together with the expense of his funeral, in case he should die, shall be settled. I have the honour to be your most obedient humble servant, Ryder

“Hawkwood read the words, his mind turning. Finally, he pushed himself away from the desk and took a deep breath. Someone had to say it.

“All right, Doctor, I’ve two questions for you. The first is: why would a man of Eden Carslow’s standing put up a bond for a patient in your care? The second is: would you mind telling me exactly how many of your other patients have had their discharge from the hospital denied by a personal note from the Home Secretary?”

Sawney and Hanratty were in the Dog.

“Done some checkin’, like you asked,” Hanratty said. “On that Runner.”

“Oh, yes?” Sawney sucked on a tooth cavity and winced as a nerve twanged. “An’ what ’ave you found out?”

“He’s a right bastard.” Hanratty slid into the booth.

“Jesus, I could’ve told you that,” Sawney said, shaking his head in disbelief. Ever mindful of earwiggers, he took a quick look around. The Dog was filling up. The floor was already awash with spilt beer, black sawdust and spit.

“What I mean is, he’s a bigger bastard than most, and useful with it.”

“Probably why Tate and Murphy didn’t make it then,” Sawney said scathingly. “Serves ’em bleedin’ right.”

“Rumour is, he used to be army.”

Sawney felt a vague ripple of interest. “Is that right?”

“Makes two of you, don’t it? Be funny if’n you’d met up before.”

“That ain’t likely,” Sawney grated. “I’d ’ave remembered. What else did you find out?”

“About what?”

“The price of apples. Christ! This bleedin’ Hawkwood, of course.”

“I ’eard he was the one who shut down that old witch Gant and her brood a while back.”

“That the one with the idiot son?”

“That’s her. Likely they’re somewhere off the Malabar Coast by now, spewin’ their guts over the side of a bloody transport.”

“Maybe we should be buyin’ the bugger a drink then,” Sawney said sarcastically.

“How about I set my boys on him? They’d make sure.” Hanratty grinned lopsidedly. “’Sides, they could do with the exercise.”

Sawney shook his head. He’d already come to the conclusion that Hanratty had been right in the first place. Sending Tate and Murphy after Hawkwood had been a mistake. With both of them dead, or at least one dead and the other having disappeared or gone to ground, it was probably best if everyone calmed down.

“We’ll take things easy for a bit,” Sawney said. “But we’ll keep our eyes open in case he comes sniffin’ round again. Not that the bastard’s got anything on us. Far as anyone here’s concerned, Tate and Murphy were just two ’pads tryin’ their luck. The verger ain’t around any more, so that trail’s gone cold.” Sawney gave a grin. “In a manner of speakin’.”

Hanratty drew a blunt finger down his stubble. “What about Sal?”

“What about her?” Sawney’s eyes narrowed.

“People ’ere will ’ave seen her with Symes, seen that she knew him.”

“If you mean like in the scriptures,” Sawney said, “that’d apply to ’alf your bleedin’ customers, or all the ones who’ve ever ’ad money in their pocket, at any rate. Christ, that’d include anyone with a pulse between here and Limehouse Reach. Besides, who’s goin’ to say anything? Sal sure as hell ain’t. It’ll be all right. We’ll take a breather, the fuss’ll die down and that Runner’ll get bored and move on. It’s already been a couple of days.”

Hanratty shifted in his seat.

“What?” Sawney said.

“I heard he ’as a few eyes and ears over on our side of the street.”

“Meanin’?”

“There’s word he’s been seen with that bastard Jago.”

“Jago?”

“Jesus, Rufus, you should get out more. He’s definitely one you don’t want to cross. Runs the rackets over St Giles’ way.”

“An’ that’s supposed to impress me, is it?”

“Bleedin’ impresses me,” Hanratty said with feeling.

“Well, just as long as ’e keeps to ’is patch and stays upwind…” Sawney said.

“Let’s hope so. I’ll keep diggin’, though. See if there’s anything else I can find out. Never does any harm, keepin’ an eye on the opposition.” Hanratty hawked and spat. “Far as the rest of it’s concerned, we sit tight then, right?”

“You can sit tight,” Sawney said. “Some of us have work to do.”

Hanratty frowned and stroked his crown. “Thought you said we should take things easy.”

“So I did, but that don’t mean we should stop altogether. There’s mouths to feed. We’ll put an ’old on our regular stuff. I’ve got a client who’s prepared to pay big money for special deliveries. That should tide us over for a bit.”

“You got a job on?” Hanratty asked.

“Could be. Won’t know until I get the nod. I’m meetin’ ’im later. You seen Maggsie or the Ragg boys, by the way?”

“Think Maggett’s over in ’is yard. The Raggs took a couple of the girls upstairs a while back. They like to do ’em together and swap ’alfway through.’ Ave to say, you wouldn’t catch me putting my old man anywhere either of them ’as been.”

Sawney passed no comment. The appetite of the Ragg brothers had long since ceased to impress, repel, or even interest him. Provided they did their bit and followed orders, Sawney couldn’t care less what they did with the rest of their time. They could have had a troupe of monkeys and a marching band upstairs, for all he cared, long as they kept the noise down, of course, and didn’t attract the attention of the law.

But that didn’t mean that Sawney couldn’t indulge his own appetites. He had several hours to kill before he was due to pay the doctor a call. Sal was upstairs, and when he’d left her to nip down for a swift wet, the look in her eye had made it clear that, once his thirst had been slaked, it would be worth his while if he hurried back. As Hanratty left the table and returned to the counter, Sawney slid out from the booth and headed for the stairs. Be a shame to let the mood go to waste, he thought.