James McGee - Resurrectionist

“Yes.” How easily the lie came.

“And that he was a priest? That cannot be true, surely?”

“I understand the colonel had a child, a daughter?” Hawkwood said, sidestepping the question.

The surgeon hesitated and frowned. “Yes, that is so.”

“The child died?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“And his wife?”

The surgeon’s eyes darkened. “He did not marry. There was a brief

… liaison. It was a long time ago. I’m not in possession of the full details, though I know the lady was… well… there was another man… and Titus’s regiment was sent to the West Indies. He did not know she had been with child until some years later.”

Carslow dropped his gaze and then stood up, smoothing his coat. “You must forgive me, Officer Hawkwood, but I’m beginning to find this quite distressing. You’ve awakened memories that I would rather have left dormant. If you have no objection, I would like to continue my rounds.” The surgeon took out his watch. “My students will be growing restless. If there’s nothing further…?”

Hawkwood rose to his feet. “Not at this time. Though I may need to talk with you again.”

The surgeon slipped the watch back into his pocket. “Tell me, Officer Hawkwood, if the murderer is dead, why are you here, raking over the ashes?”

Hawkwood raised an eyebrow. “Now there’s an interesting choice of words.”

“What?” The surgeon seemed taken aback by Hawkwood’s brusqueness. Then a faint blush rose in his face. “Ah, yes, dashed poor taste. A slip of the tongue. I meant nothing by it.”

“And I just wanted to get my measure of the man, Mr Carslow. That’s all.”

The surgeon held Hawkwood’s gaze for several seconds before giving a faint nod. “Then I trust I have been some help to you. I’ll summon one of my dressers to see you out. The hospital can be a maze to those who do not know their way around.”

“Thank you. I’ll make my own way.”

“As you wish.” The surgeon hesitated. “Titus Hyde was an exceptional surgeon, Officer Hawkwood. He was not afraid to try new procedures. One could say he was ahead of his time. From what I understand, he was highly thought of by his patients and the men under his command. There were many who hoped that his distraction might only be temporary and that he would be able to resume his duties. Sadly, that was not to be. He died a deeply troubled man, Officer Hawkwood, in terrible circumstances. Those of us who cared for him and who valued his friendship pray that the peace of mind he searched for in life will at least be visited upon him in death. He deserves that much.”

“Don’t we all,” Hawkwood said.

Deep down, Sawney knew it could only be his imagination, but there was a feel to the house that made him distinctly uneasy. And that, Sawney had to admit, was strange, for he was not a man who was often discomforted. In his line of work, discomfort was a punishment he usually visited upon others.

The place had a dark, brooding presence, as if it was lying in wait for someone. There were other anatomy schools that he did business with during twilight hours — the ones on Great Windmill Street and Webb Street to name but a couple — but even allowing for the grim aspect of his trade, none of them seemed to exude the same degree of menace as this particular location, especially with the shutters closed.

Sawney didn’t consider himself a religious man, so he felt a little self-conscious reaching into his pocket for the silver cross. He turned it over in his hand. You couldn’t help but admire the beauty of it. Sawney recognized good craftsmanship when he saw it. He’d been intending to sell it on at the earliest opportunity, but somehow he hadn’t yet got round to it. Curious that. What was also strange, though Sawney wouldn’t have confessed to it in a month of Sundays, was that holding it between his fingers with the night all around him felt oddly comforting.

Suddenly aware of what he was doing, Sawney swore softly and returned the cross to his waistcoat. I’ll be singing hymns in the bloody chapel next, he thought. Good thing Maggett and the Ragg boys hadn’t witnessed his moment of piety.

Sawney rang the bell, waited for admittance, and winced.

He’d been suffering minor toothache for a couple of days, ever since he’d bitten down hard on a mutton shank. He’d tried to ignore it, and in the general run of things had gotten used to the dull throb, but every now and then the nerve would send a reminder that relief was purely transitory.

And it was bloody freezing; a sure sign that more snow was on the way. Not that he should be complaining. Winter was a good time for the schools and the stealers. The cold preserved bodies longer, keeping decay and putrefaction at bay. Huddled in the lee of the drawbridge, Sawney decided it was about time he got himself a decent bloody coat. Not that he intended shelling out good money for one. Stealing one would give him far more satisfaction.

The rattle of a turning key sounded behind him and the front door swung open. It would be the first time Sawney had been admitted to the house. The other times, he’d only got as far as the underground stable.

As before, Dodd stood half concealed behind the door, his face in shadow, as if wary of being seen by passers-by. Sawney stepped inside.

Dodd closed the door. “Your lieutenant has the night off?”

He meant Maggett. Sawney nodded. “He ’ad other business.”

Maggett was back in his slaughter yard, sharpening knives and hooks and doing whatever else he had to do to prepare for tomorrow morning’s meat market. It was probably just as well. Things had been a bit tense after their narrow escape from the law. When they’d got back to the Dog, words had been exchanged. Maggett had told Sawney they should have dumped the bodies at the first opportunity instead of lugging them halfway across the bloody city. All they’d ended up with were stiff backs and sore feet. Maggett had also skinned a knee slipping on a patch of snow at the corner of Long Lane. He’d limped off in a mood, leaving Sawney to reflect in solitude upon the night’s fiasco. They hadn’t even had the chance to remove the teeth, Sawney reflected glumly. They’d lost out on all counts.

Dodd nodded. “Good. We can discuss our business in private.”

Sawney followed Dodd down the hallway, past two closed doors, into a small, square vestibule from where a flight of stairs climbed steeply towards the upper floors.

Taking a furtive look around, Sawney could see that there was a fine layer of dust on every flat surface. It looked as though the house hadn’t been lived in for a while, which seemed odd. He wondered how many students attended Dodd’s anatomy classes. Maybe the doctor hadn’t started taking in pupils yet, which would explain why the rooms looked unused. But then why would he have wanted Sawney to retrieve bodies, if not for lessons? Dodd was probably still in the process of assembling the specimens he would be using in his lectures, Sawney decided. He sensed eyes upon him. When he looked up, Dodd was studying him intently.

“This way,” Dodd said. The doctor led Sawney behind the stairs into a cramped room containing a table and chairs.

There wasn’t so much dust here, Sawney noticed. There were several newspapers on the table, along with a plate that held the remnants of a meal along with a half-full bottle of Madeira and an empty glass. Sawney’s gaze moved over the news-sheets, taking in some of the headlines. A newly formed regiment was heading for Spain, a church had burnt down near the river, and the Prince Regent was to attend a pageant at Drury Lane. Dodd stepped forward and turned the pages over.

Sawney eyed the bottle. He was still feeling the cold. A snifter would help to warm him up. But he suspected Dodd was not about to offer him a glass.