James McGee - The Reckoning

Using the edge of his hand, he continued to heel the mud away gently, gradually revealing the rest of the features. The dark blotches were instantly apparent, as were the indentations in the cheekbone, which beneath the mottled skin looked misshapen and, when he ran the ends of his fingers across them, felt uneven to the touch. Tiny specks in the corners of the eye were either tiny grains of dirt or a sign that the first flies had laid their eggs.

Hawkwood let go a quiet curse. There had always been the chance that the body had been left in the grave out of desperation and the worry – probably by a relative – of not being able to afford even the most meagre of funeral expenses. Had that been the likely scenario, Hawkwood would have been willing, if there had been no visible signs of hurt, to have left the corpse in the sexton’s charge with an instruction to place the body in the most convenient poor hole. But the bruising and the obvious fracture of the facial bones prevented him from pursuing that charitable, if unethical, course of action.

He probed the earth at the back of the skull on the off-chance that a rock or a large stone had caused the damage post-mortem but, as he’d suspected, there was nothing save for more mud.

He was on the point of rising when what looked like a small twig jutting from the mud caught his eye. He paused. There was something about it that didn’t look right, but he couldn’t see what it was. Curious, angling his head for a better look, he went to pick it up. And then his hand stilled. It wasn’t a broken twig, he realized. It was the end of a knotted cord. Her wrists had been bound together.

“What is it?” the sexton enquired from above.

Hawkwood sighed and stood. “We’re going to need a cart.”

“A cart?” It was Gulley who spoke. The question was posed without enthusiasm.

“It’s a wooden box on wheels.”

Hawkwood’s response was rewarded with a venomous look. It was clear the gravedigger had been resentful of the sexton’s act of civic duty from the start. Hawkwood’s sarcasm wasn’t helping.

“You do have a cart?” Hawkwood said.

“It’s in the lean-to.” Sexton Stubbs pointed helpfully with his cane towards the cottage and the ramshackle wooden structure set off to one side of it.

“One of you, then,” Hawkwood said, pointedly.

The directive was met with a disgruntled scowl. Mouthing an oath, Gulley turned to his protégé. “All right, you ’eard.”

Looking relieved to have been delegated, the young gravedigger turned to go, anxious to put distance between him and the pit’s contents. His commitment to the job looked to be disappearing by the second.

“Leave the shovel,” Hawkwood said. “You’ll get it back.”

The apprentice hesitated then thrust the tool blade-first into the mound of dirt.

“And bring more sacking,” Hawkwood instructed. “Dry, if you have it.”

He glanced towards the sexton, who nodded and said, “There’s some on a shelf inside the door. You’ll see it.”

With a wary nod the youth about-turned and hurried off through the drizzle and the puddles.

Hawkwood addressed the older man. “You have something to say?”

The gravedigger jerked his chin at the open trench. “Don’t see why we can’t leave the bloody thing down there. We throw in some soil, we can cover it up.”

“ Her ,” Hawkwood snapped. “Not it . And no, we can’t. Unless you’ve a particular reason you don’t want her brought up?”

The gravedigger’s jaw flexed.

Hawkwood felt his anger rise. “Had the idea you might make a few pounds, maybe? Got an arrangement with the sack-’em-up men for the one on top? Throw in this one and you’d make a bit extra? That it?”

It could also account for the shallowness of the trench, he thought, because it made the task of exhuming the bodies that much easier.

The look on the man’s face told Hawkwood he’d struck a nerve, but he felt no satisfaction, merely increasing repugnance. Gulley wouldn’t be the first graveyard worker who earned extra spending money by passing information on upcoming funerals to the resurrection gangs, to whom freshly buried corpses were regarded as regular income, and he wouldn’t be the last. Interesting, too, that Gulley had referred to the body as the “thing”, which was what the resurrection men called their hauls.

The expression on Hopkins’ face told Hawkwood that he wasn’t the only one recalling the run-in with the carrion hunters. Some of the darker memories from that experience had evidently been awakened in the constable’s brain; images that were best left undisturbed.

For a moment it looked as though the gravedigger was about to offer further protest, but Hawkwood’s expression and tone of voice must have warned him that an argument was futile and might prove detrimental to his own health.

It was then that the wisdom of what he was about to do struck Hawkwood forcibly and he cursed his rashness. It was too late now, though, for he had no intention of giving Gulley the satisfaction of knowing he might be dealing with a police officer who’d just made what could well turn out be a very unwise decision. But as he caught the sexton’s eye, he was rewarded with a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement, or it might have been gratitude.

Over the constable’s shoulder, he saw that Dobbs was on his way back, pushing a flat, two-wheeled cart before him, the sacking folded on top. The cart’s wheels had become clogged with mud, making progress difficult. The older gravedigger, Hawkwood noted, could see that his assistant was struggling but made no attempt to assist. By the time the cart rolled to a halt, the apprentice was perspiring heavily.

Hawkwood addressed Gulley. “Your turn. Get down here – and mind where you step.”

The gravedigger’s knuckles whitened against the handle of his shovel.

“You won’t need that,” Hawkwood told him.

Sensing tension in the air, the constable went to step forward again.

Hawkwood, wondering what assistance Hopkins intended to offer while still holding his coat, waved him away.

It took a further ten minutes to scrape away the mud and, with Gulley taking the feet and Hawkwood the torso, and with the apprentice Dobbs helping to take the weight, lift the sack and its contents up and out of the grave, though it seemed more like a lifetime. The mud was reluctant to release its grip and by the time Hawkwood and the gravedigger were helped out of the pit, their boots and breeches were wet to the thigh and caked in clay. Hawkwood had also been uncomfortably aware of the ominous creaking sounds that had come from beneath his and the gravedigger’s feet as they’d taken the weight of the corpse between them. It had been with great relief that he had stepped back on to solid ground.

“I want her delivered to the dead house at Christ’s Hospital,” Hawkwood instructed as the cadaver was placed on the cart and covered with the dry sacking.

“You know it?”

The constable nodded.

“For the attention of Surgeon Quill. He’s to expect me later.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good.” Hawkwood took back his coat, but did not put it on. “Dobbs can assist. Make sure the body’s covered at all times. I’m probably in enough trouble as it is; God forbid an arm should come loose and frighten the horses.”

Hawkwood knew that wasn’t likely to happen, but having the two men watch over their gruesome load was one way of ensuring it would arrive safely. The other reason for the precaution was that during the excavation it had become obvious that inside the sack the corpse was naked. A clothed cadaver being carted through the streets was bad enough. The ramifications, if the state of this one ever came to light, didn’t bear thinking about.