James McGee - Resurrectionist

James Read frowned. “Eden Carslow and the Home Secretary? And what was Apothecary Locke’s response?”

“He had no answer to my question about Eden Carslow. As to the other, he said there was one other instance he knew of where the Home Secretary had denied release, and that was Matthews.”

“Matthews?” The Chief Magistrate’s head came up.

“James Tilly Matthews. Apparently he was locked away fifteen years ago after he’d accused Lord Hawkesbury of treason. Reckoned Frog Revolutionaries were controlling his mind. Now, he was bloody mad. The odd thing is, it took only a year for the Home Secretary to deny Hyde his freedom, whereas in Matthews’ case it took twelve years, by which time the man he’d accused of treason had become Home Secretary, so it’s hardly surprising he wasn’t about to approve his release.”

Read’s face remained neutral. “Matthews… yes, I believe I do recall the occasion. He’s still a patient, you say?”

Hawkwood nodded. “They’ve thrown the key away on that one. I’ll say one thing for our colonel, he’s no stranger to the high and mighty.”

“So it would seem,” Read murmured.

“But I still don’t know why,” Hawkwood said. “In fact, I’m no wiser than I was before I went. Their damned records were about as much use as a one-legged mule — I hope ours are better, by the way. I’d be interested to know on whose authority he was admitted. He had no family, from what I could see. No wife. There was a daughter, Locke told me that on my first visit, but she died.”

Read frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know. The Admittance Document says he entered the hospital in October 1809, by which time he’d been in a state of melancholy for four months. So the first signs would have occurred in June. Where was he then?” Hawkwood sucked in his cheeks. “Mind you, the only other choices, apart from melancholy, were ‘raving’ and ‘mischievous’. He wasn’t either of those. Maybe the records were vague on purpose.”

“Your point being…?”

“According to the hospital documents the only thing he was suffering from, until now, was melancholy. And yet twelve months after his admission, we have a note from Whitehall — the Home Secretary, no less — recommending they keep him locked up, which seems a bit bloody harsh. Now, it’s my guess that if you get a recommendation from Whitehall, it’s not really a recommendation, it’s an order.”

“Forgive me, Hawkwood, but I fail to see — ”

“I’m saying Locke didn’t consider Hyde to be dangerous, certainly not murderous. None of them at the hospital did. But if, as we suspect, the colonel had been planning the killing and the escape for some time, then maybe he was murderous from the beginning and the fact was kept hidden, which would mean the only people who knew what he was really like were the ones who arranged his detention and who denied his release.”

“You’re suggesting he was admitted under a false diagnosis? But why? For what possible reason?”

“Maybe that’s what we should try to find out. I’d like to know what the connection is between Colonel Hyde and Eden Carslow, for a start. That certainly intrigues me.”

“You intend to question Carslow?” Read asked. There was a distinct note of caution in the magistrate’s voice.

“I promise I’ll be civil,” Hawkwood said, before he could stop himself.

“You will need to be. Carslow has powerful friends. He has influence.”

“That sounds familiar. Isn’t that what we said about Lord bloody Mandrake?”

“No, that was what we thought about William Lee. As far as we were aware, Lord Mandrake was just another of his highly placed friends.”

“Who turned out to be a traitorous bastard,” Hawkwood said.

Lee was an American adventurer who, with the support of Lord Mandrake, had been the leading agent in a French plot to assassinate the Prince Regent. Lee had died in the attempt; Mandrake had taken a boat from Liverpool and fled to safety across the Atlantic.

“Indeed. Carslow, on the other hand, is probably this country’s finest surgeon. His contribution to medicine has been outstanding. You said earlier you might have to step on a few toes. Where Eden Carslow is concerned, you would be wise to tread carefully. I mean it, Hawkwood. While I place great store on your investigative instincts, there are others of a more — how shall I put it? — refined disposition who may interpret your direct approach as a recalcitrant attitude towards authority. I urge you to be circumspect.”

“Yes, sir. Understood. In that case, may I offer you the same advice in your dealings with the Home Secretary?”

Read blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, it struck me that, while I question Carslow about his connection with Colonel Hyde, you could use your authority to find out why Home Secretary Ryder felt the need to add his name to the list of people who would have preferred the colonel to remain in Bethlem.”

“You have the nerve of the devil, Hawkwood.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. May I take that as confirmation that you will speak to the Home Secretary? After all, you do meet regularly with him on matters of security. It would be a pity not to take advantage of that. Or am I being recalcitrant, sir?”

“You’re bordering on insolent, which rather proves my point,” Read said.

“But you’ll speak to him?”

Read sighed. “One does not speak to the Home Secretary, Hawkwood. One speaks with him. I rather suspect the same principle will apply in your forthcoming conversation with Carslow.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Hawkwood said.

“See that you do. Now, was there anything else? Public chastisement of the Prime Minister, perhaps?”

“Possibly,” Hawkwood said, striding towards the door. “The day’s not over yet.”

The lecture room was full to bursting; standing room only. The five horseshoe-shaped tiers rising from the floor of the theatre reminded Hawkwood of a steep-sided cockfighting pit. Even the atmosphere wasn’t dissimilar; the closely packed spectators, the vibrant hum of conversation, the heightened sense of anticipation as the crowd waited for the spectacle to begin.

Hawkwood had presented himself at Guy’s only to be met with a lofty refusal when he stated his wish to see the hospital’s Chief Surgeon. Mr Carslow was about to perform surgery. Police business would have to wait. Knowing he had no option but to bide his time, curiosity had led Hawkwood to take his place with the rest of the gallery.

It was warm in the room due to the mass of people. Removing his coat, he draped it over the wooden rail in front of him. From his seat in the top tier, he looked down across a sea of eager young men who didn’t appear to have seen more than fifteen or sixteen summers. But then some of the boys he’d commanded and fought alongside in the Peninsula hadn’t been that much older.

He glanced up. The theatre was illuminated by a large skylight, supplemented by chandeliers suspended above the centre of the room by a system of pulleys. Directly below the skylight, occupying centre stage, was the operating table. It was a robust piece of furniture with a hinged headboard at one end and an extension leaf at the other. On the sawdust-strewn floor beneath the extension leaf was a large oblong tray containing more sawdust. In the corner of the theatre was a large cupboard. The back wall held a rectangular blackboard. Below it stood two smaller tables and a small oak cabinet.

Several chairs had been set up on the floor, facing the foot of the operating table. The seating was for distinguished visitors, some of whom had already taken their places. The lowest tier of the horseshoe was reserved for members of the hospital’s medical staff. The upper tiers accommodated the students.