Resurrectionist

9

“Sometimes,” Maddie Teague sighed, through a cascade of auburn hair, “I think that’s all I am to you: a seamstress and washerwoman.”

“And a grand cook,” Hawkwood said. “Don’t forget that.”

The reward for that comment was a withering look and a sharp dig in the ribs. Hawkwood winced.

Maddie’s emerald-green eyes clouded with immediate concern. Raising herself on to one elbow, she ran her hand gently over the horizontal, four-inch ridge of scar tissue that marred the flesh two inches below Hawkwood’s ribcage. “It still hurts?”

“Only when I’m with company,” Hawkwood said, grinning. He braced himself for another dig, which was duly delivered, though with marginally less force than the first.

Before he could respond, Maddie lowered her head and placed her lips against another, smaller indentation high on his left shoulder.

“So many scars, Matthew,” she murmured softly.

She touched the scimitar-shaped cicatrice etched into the side of his chest below his left arm, then moved her hand to the uneven, crown-sized discoloration on his right shoulder. They were old wounds, like most of the scars on his body; the legacy of twenty years’ soldiering. Weapons of war had left their mark with varying degrees of severity, yet Hawkwood knew he was the fortunate one. He had survived. The bullet scar below his ribs and the knife wound on his left shoulder were the most recent; sustained during his time as a Runner. It was ironic, Hawkwood thought, despite having left soldiering behind, people were still intent on trying to kill him.

Maddie made no mention of the marks on his throat. She never had. Hawkwood recalled the first time they had lain together. Maddie had frowned and traced the bruising with her fingertips and Hawkwood had read the question in her eyes. Then, in a gesture that had astonished him, she had placed her finger against his lips to prevent him speaking, kissed his throat with great tenderness and, still without saying a word, lowered her head on to his chest. Since then, in the quiet moments, she had often enquired about the bullet wounds and the assorted nicks and cuts he carried, but at no time had she referred to the bruises on his neck. It was as if they had ceased to exist.

She kissed him again. “It’s getting late,” she whispered, nodding towards the window where the grey dawn light was trying to peer through a gap in the drapes. “And some of us have a business to run.”

Maddie Teague’s business was the Blackbird Inn. The tavern was situated in quiet seclusion close to the southern end of Water Lane, a short walk from Temple Gardens and King’s Bench Walk. Maddie was a widow and had inherited the Blackbird from her late husband, who’d bought the inn with profits he’d made as captain with the East India Company. The captain’s Will, however, had also included a number of debts. Hawkwood’s need for accommodation on his return to England had solved Maddie’s immediate money problems, reassured her creditors and provided breathing space for her to turn what had been a modest endeavour into a profitable one.

Like the marks on his neck, Maddie had not questioned the provenance of Hawkwood’s financial contributions. She was not unaware that military campaigning often provided opportunity for financial gain. Seamen benefited from prize money gained through the capture of enemy ships, she knew that from her late husband. But soldiering? Maddie presumed that similar opportunities arose. She was not so naïve as to think army pay, even for an officer in the Rifles, was that generous. Presumably, during his two decades of service, cities had been sacked, forts plundered, baggage trains captured. But none of that mattered. Maddie Teague trusted Hawkwood. She’d trusted him from the day he’d walked through the door. She had accepted his offer of financial assistance – there had been no preset conditions other than an agreement giving Hawkwood use of two of the tavern’s back rooms – and not once had she questioned his motives. Later she had also come to accept and value his friendship.

And she knew the feeling was mutual, even if he’d never told her so. He didn’t have to.

Besides, it didn’t hurt, having a peace officer living on the premises.

When Hawkwood arrived back at the Blackbird, soaked, chilled and in severe need of a brandy, dry clothes and a warm bed, he had not been surprised to find that Maddie was still working. The Blackbird, like most of the city’s drinking establishments, kept long hours. To its regular clientele – lawyers, for the most part, with a smattering of clergy thrown in for good measure – it was a comfortable haven away from the pressures of court and congregation. Maddie provided an excellent menu, while the girls who waited on the tables were efficient and friendly without being overly familiar. And waiting on tables was the only service they provided. Maddie had a strict rule, rigorously enforced: no soliciting or propositioning on the premises. You wanted that kind of thing, you took your business elsewhere, Covent Garden or Haymarket. No exceptions, no second chance. The Blackbird was a respectable house and Maddie Teague intended it to remain that way.

Maddie was in the kitchen, delegating chores, when Hawkwood made his presence known. Right hand on hip, she’d eyed his arrival and damp clothes with a raised eyebrow. “I hope you scraped your boots before you came in. I don’t want to go out there and find you’ve tracked mud all through my dining room.”

“And a good evening to you, too, Mistress Teague,” Hawkwood said, suspecting, guiltily, that mud might not have been the only thing he’d left in his wake. It was too late to retrace his steps. He started to remove his wet coat.

“Don’t you dare, Matthew Hawkwood! You hang that up outside in the passage by the door.”

By the time she’d completed the sentence, Maddie had both hands on her hips, a sure sign that she meant business. It didn’t make her look any less attractive. The kitchen was basking in warmth from the hearth and the cooking stoves. Maddie’s scoop-necked blouse did little to conceal the soft swell of her breasts. Her pale Celtic skin was aglow with perspiration. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s gone midnight, so it’s not evening, it’s morning.”

Hawkwood grinned.

“And I suppose you’ll be wanting a bite to eat?” Maddie enquired drily as Hawkwood turned away. She shook her head. “I don’t know why I even bother to ask.” She nodded to one of the girls by the hearth. “Give the remains of that stew a stir, would you, Hettie, and make sure it’s hot. Daisy, you go up to Officer Hawkwood’s rooms and see the fire’s lit, there’s a good girl.”

Hawkwood returned from hanging up his coat to find a place had been set at the head of the table. Maddie indicated the empty chair. “Sit. There’s mutton stew. It’ll warm you up.”

Maddie waited until he was seated, then announced, “Right, I still have customers out there who have homes to go to. Hettie will look after you.” Then, before he could respond, she was gone.

She had still not put in an appearance when Hawkwood left the kitchen and made his way upstairs.

His accommodation on the top floor was modest but comfortable; two low-beamed rooms separated by an archway. The similarity to the late Colonel Hyde’s quarters had struck Hawkwood when he’d returned to his rooms after his visit to Bethlem. He’d found it both startling and not a little depressing when he realized that the comparison extended to the furnishings. Bed, table and chairs, nightstand and desk, and over against the wall his brass-bound campaign chest.

His few possessions didn’t amount to much, but he’d been a soldier for almost all his adult life, fighting the King’s enemies, and during that period he’d probably spent more time on foreign soil than he had at home. Then again, where was home? He had no estate, no family – other than the army, and that part of his life was now over – and few friends.

He thought of other former soldiers he’d come across. It wasn’t hard to recognize them. They were the limbless cripples usually to be found in dark doorways, begging for alms from passers-by too contained within their own world to spare concern for any other unfortunates. They’d given their limbs for King and country only to find themselves abandoned and ignored by both.

Many had turned to petty crime. Sometimes it fell to Hawkwood to apprehend them. Where possible, he was inclined to turn a blind eye and let them go with a warning. Transportation or a spell in Newgate seemed poor reward for a man who, having been maimed in the service of his country, had been forced into stealing a loaf of bread or a half-side of bacon because he couldn’t afford to put food on his family’s table. More than once he had thought, There but for the grace of God …

Hawkwood had been fortunate. Thanks to character references and recommendation, albeit unconventional in nature, he had secured employment and a roof over his head, and for that he was thankful. Had that not been the case, it was more than likely, instead of sharing a warm bed with Maddie Teague, he would still have been shivering by a guerrillero campfire in some snowbound cave in the Spanish mountains.

The fire in the grate was, therefore, a welcome sight and Hawkwood mouthed a silent prayer of thanks for Maddie’s thoughtfulness. He could no longer hear the rain outside, though the steady drip of water from the gutter on to the windowsill was like the slow ticking of a mantelpiece clock.

He saw that the girl, Daisy, had even provided him with a jug of hot water to wash. It had been a kind gesture and he made a mental note to thank her. He was drying himself when a knock sounded at the door. Hawkwood slipped on his shirt, and went to investigate.

“Would the gentleman like his bed warming?” Maddie Teague asked. The light from the sconce-mounted candle in the hallway outside the door made her eyes dance.

“What with?” Hawkwood asked, eyeing the glasses and bottle of brandy balanced on the tray in Maddie’s hands. He looked up at her face and waited.

Maddie smiled. She reached up with one hand, pinched out the candle flame between finger and thumb, and walked past him into the room.

“Me,” she said.

It had been afterwards, lying naked, the blanket thrown over them to keep the chill at bay, that he had told her about his visit to the Dog and the attack on the bridge. His explanation had been prompted by Maddie’s enquiry about the stains on his coat that, in the dark, had escaped his notice. There had been blood on the hem; probably from the man whose nose had been shattered by Hawkwood’s tipstaff. So much for my powers of observation, Hawkwood had thought.

“If they weren’t footpads,” Maddie said, “who do you think might have sent them?”

“I don’t know,” Hawkwood said.

“Will they send someone to try again, do you think?”

“Maybe.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know that either,” Hawkwood said. “Not until it happens.”

“But you’ll deal with them?”

“Yes.”

“You sound so certain.”

“It’s what I do,” Hawkwood said. “It’s what I’m good at.”

He looked at her. Maddie turned her face away quickly. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ve breakfasts to prepare. If I leave those girls alone for five minutes, Lord only knows what mischief they’ll be up to.”

“Maddie …” Hawkwood said.

She shook her head and got up from the bed. Without turning, she said, “Next time it might be someone better.”

“Then I’ll be careful.”

Hawkwood watched her as she dressed. He wasn’t sure what was the more alluring, Maddie removing her clothes or putting them back on. There was a natural grace to her movements that was a constant source of wonder to him, no matter what she happened to be doing at the time.

She sensed his eyes upon her, turned and wiped her cheek. “What?”

Hawkwood said nothing. He looked at her and shook his head wordlessly.

Maddie walked back to the bed and sat down, her face serious.

“You said you thought the reason the second man attacked you after you’d told him you were a police officer was that he might not have believed you.”

“It’s possible,” Hawkwood said, shrugging. “I didn’t think about it at the time. It was only when you and I were talking that it occurred to me.”

“Well, perhaps you should think again.”

Hawkwood looked at her. Maddie’s emerald eyes gazed back at him, moving over his face.

“Did it ever occur to you that, if they weren’t footpads and somebody did hire them to attack you, the reason he still tried to kill you after you’d identified yourself was that he was more fearful of the person who sent him than he was of you?”

With that, Maddie stood, secured her fiery mane in a clasp at the back of her neck and left the room without a backward glance.

But she did so gracefully.

The cellar lay in semi-darkness and was as cold as a cavern. Formerly a church crypt, it was situated below an annexe of Christ’s Hospital, in an alleyway off Newgate Street. Because of its proximity to both Christ’s and St Bartholomew’s and, more importantly, because its stout doors made it impregnable to the resurrection gangs, the authorities had been using it as a mortuary for a number of years.

The flagstone floor was uneven and covered with a grainy black residue. Hawkwood assumed most of the stains on the floor were congealed blood, accumulated over God knew how long. As for the rest, he tried not to think about it. He was more than familiar with the sweet, sickly odour of death, but in the enclosed space the smell of body fluids and decaying flesh was overpowering, somewhere between overripe fruit and rotting meat. Looking around at the cellar’s contents, he decided he’d seen cleaner field hospitals.

With its low curved roof, rough brick walls and encircling ring of dark alcoves, the only difference between the crypt’s previous function and its current one was the condition of the occupants.

The walls of the alcoves were lined with narrow ledges. In the past, they’d have held coffins. Now, they were the resting places for corpses awaiting either examination or burial. The crypt had become a waiting room for the deceased; a dead house.

The main central space was being used as the examination and dissection room. In the middle of the floor were four wooden tables. Upon each of them lay a body, covered by a coarse sheet. The sheets were filthy and encrusted with gore, as was the apron of the surgeon, who, in response to Hawkwood’s arrival, did not bother looking up from his task but instead gave a brusque instruction to close the door.

Hawkwood did as he was bid.

The man in the apron still did not look up, but continued probing the body in front of him. “Good man. You are …?”

Hawkwood told him.

“Ah, yes, Hawkwood. Come away in! I’ll be with you momentarily. Name’s Quill, by the way. You’re looking a bit doubtful. You were expecting someone else perhaps? I’m afraid my predecessor has the gout. You’ll have to make do with me.” With that, the speaker finally raised his head.

Hawkwood found himself looking at a man whose stature suggested he might have been more at home running a boxing booth at a country fair than wielding a surgeon’s knife. His head, which was bullet-shaped and completely shaved, gleamed with sweat, while the blood-smeared pinner he was wearing was more reminiscent of a Smithfield slaughter yard.

Hawkwood had indeed been expecting someone else. The usual surgeon, McGregor, a large, vain, overbearing man, did not like dealing with subordinates – a category which included Runners – so Hawkwood had not been looking forward to the meeting. Seeing this new face was like taking in a breath of fresh air, which, given the circumstances, was a commodity somewhat in short supply.

The surgeon put down his knife, stepped away from the table, and wiped his hands on a cloth tucked into the apron strings. He crooked a finger at Hawkwood, beckoning him over.

“It appears you’ve been busy.”

Quill drew back the first sheet. It was the remains of the porter, Doyle. In the darkness of the crypt, the crow-ravaged eye sockets gave the grey-skinned features the hollowed appearance of a skull.

“This one died hard,” Quill said. The surgeon’s breath hung in the air like a cloud of steam. He appeared impervious to the chill in the cellar and unaffected by the smell of the cadavers around him.

Hawkwood looked again at the body, remembering how he had first seen it. Time had done little to erase the memory. His eyes fastened on the face. There was something protruding from the corpse’s open mouth, he saw. He stared. It looked like frog spawn, though he knew it wasn’t.

Quill, following his gaze, frowned, and gave a dismissive grunt. “Purge. It’s caused by an expansion of gases in the body. You’ll have seen it before, no? The gases put pressure on the stomach, forcing recent contents into the oesophagus and up into the mouth. It’s not uncommon. If he were alive, he’d either be burping or farting. Another week or two and it won’t be bile he’ll be leaking, it’ll be what’s left of his brain.”

Hawkwood said nothing. He couldn’t think of an appropriate response.

The surgeon pursed his lips. “Cause of death was a broken neck leading to asphyxiation, though I dare say you’d assumed that already.” Quill did not look up but walked around the body, lifting and peering at each of the corpse’s wrists in turn. “Interesting.”

“What is?” Hawkwood asked.

Quill raised the arm he was holding. “These stigmata. The nails were placed through his wrists and not the palms of his hands. Had that been done, the nails would not have supported the body’s weight but would likely have been torn free. One wonders where the killers learned their trade. There’s a lot of damage to the wrists, not consistent with the nailing, by the way.”

Hawkwood explained the efforts by the two gravediggers to get the dead man down from the tree.

“Could he have been alive when they nailed him up?” Hawkwood asked.

Quill did not respond immediately. He lowered the dead man’s arm and then said, “Probably done post mortem. I found traces of skin beneath his fingernails. They correspond to the scratch marks on his neck – d’you see there?” The surgeon pointed. “That would be from clawing at the rope, which would indicate he was alive when he was raised up. I would surmise he was lifted, probably with someone holding on to his arms and legs. Once he was in position, his limbs were released, leaving him to hang, struggling for air. The weight of his body, pressure on the rope and gravity would have done the rest.”

“They took out his teeth and his tongue,” Hawkwood said.

The doctor grimaced. It was the first time he had shown any emotion. “Indeed they did. And the removal, as you saw, was crudely done.”

“They couldn’t have done that while he was still alive,” Hawkwood said. “Could they?”

“Unlikely. I doubt he’d have opened his mouth voluntarily.” Quill smiled grimly. “And it is difficult to force someone’s mouth open against their wishes. Most probably they waited until he was dead, then lowered him back to the ground, performed the deed, and raised him back into place, which is when they would have hammered home the nails to keep the body in position. Somewhat convoluted, I admit, but effective, nevertheless. As I said, he died hard.”

Hawkwood wondered how many it had taken. At least four, he thought: two to hold the arms while they secured the rope, another to hang on to the feet, the fourth to do the job. It didn’t bear thinking about.

The surgeon draped the sheet back over the bloodless face and moved to the next table. The second sheet was lifted away.

“Remarkable,” Quill murmured, staring down.

Hawkwood wondered if it was his imagination or whether he had detected a note of admiration in the doctor’s voice.

Quill looked up. “A man of the cloth, I understand?”

“Reverend Tombs,” Hawkwood said.

“Interesting name for a God-botherer,” Quill observed.

If the comment had been the doctor’s attempt at humour, Hawkwood didn’t respond.

“No evidence of restraint here,” Quill murmured. “There’s no question the victim was dead before the mutilation was performed. I examined the chest; the lungs were healthy, but there was a slight engorgement of blood. I suspect laudanum could well have been swallowed, probably administered by means of a beverage. There was a faint smell around the mouth. As I perceive no other signs of injury, other than the obvious, I would deduce that the victim was smothered after the narcotic had done its work. The facial skin was removed once death was established. There was clearly a degree of expertise involved.” Quill looked up. “Curious that asphyxiation should be the common denominator, though I doubt it was the same killer. I take it the crimes are not related?”

Hawkwood nodded. Quill’s conclusions confirmed some of Apothecary Locke’s suspicions. More damningly, they also indicated that the scalpel hadn’t been the only thing the colonel had purloined from the apothecary’s bag. Hawkwood recalled the empty bottle of cordial that had been on the table in Hyde’s room. The colonel hadn’t needed to hit his victim to subdue him. He’d used the laudanum, mixing it with the cordial. It probably wouldn’t have taken too much to make the priest drowsy. Perhaps Hyde had then offered him use of his bed. Which was when the pillow would have been used.

Another nail in the apothecary’s coffin, never mind the parson’s.

Quill gazed down at the corpse. “Remarkable,” he said again.

Hawkwood had been bracing himself for the third and fourth bodies. Even so, he could never have prepared himself totally. He’d seen the effects of fire on a corpse before. In war it was inevitable, but it didn’t make this sight any more palatable.

Each body had been reduced to little more than a grossly deformed lump of charred flesh and blackened bone. There was a curious mantis-like look to the way the limbs had contracted in the heat, transforming the extremities into gnarled claws. The cadavers bore more resemblance to a species of grotesque insect than anything human.

Ashes to ashes, Hawkwood thought.

What appeared to be remnants of burnt cloth hung from the blistered bodies of both decedents, though he supposed it could just as easily have been strips of seared skin. Hawkwood felt the gorge rise to the back of his throat. He swallowed, determined that Quill should not see his reaction. He didn’t want to give the doctor the satisfaction of knowing that Doyle’s wasn’t the only stomach in the room suffering side-effects.

He listened as Quill went through the results of his examinations. Two bodies, one male, one female, the male aged in his late forties, the female older, perhaps in her sixties. Each of them burnt beyond recognition.

“Not that they died from the fire, of course.” The surgeon regarded Hawkwood with a speculative expression. “The female has a crushed larynx, probably caused by strangulation. The male has suffered a broken clavicle and splintered radius of the right arm, a cracked tibia of the right leg and fracture of the frontal bone of the skull. I would say those are injuries consistent with a high fall.”

A vision rose into Hawkwood’s mind. He saw again the black-robed figure outlined against the open window of the bell tower, turning and pitching into the flames. It had been a long way to the ground.

The porter, Doyle, hadn’t been the only one who had died hard, Hawkwood reflected. But that didn’t mean he felt any sympathy. Hyde had killed a priest and an elderly woman. Hell, Hawkwood thought, was probably too good for the murdering bastard.

Hawkwood stared down at the bodies. Quill’s examination and conclusions were confirmation that the investigation into the murder of the priest was at an end. In all respects, the outcome was final.

So, why am I suddenly not convinced? Hawkwood wondered.

Colonel Hyde, according to Apothecary Locke, had been an intelligent man. Despite the man’s mental tribulations, Locke had even admitted to consulting with the colonel on medical matters on more than one occasion. As for the killing of the priest, all indications pointed to the colonel having plotted his escape from Bethlem with murderous efficiency. There had definitely been method in his madness, if such a thing were possible. And yet, no sooner had the colonel achieved his goal than he had brought his short-lived freedom to a spectacular end by killing himself out of a sense of guilt.

It didn’t make any sense.

Chief Magistrate James Read regarded Hawkwood with what might have been sympathy.

“Sense, you say? I’m not sure that would apply in this particular instance. The colonel’s mind was clearly unhinged. Do not trouble yourself looking for rhyme or reason. I doubt you’ll find either. The man’s dead, the coroner’s surgeon has performed his duty. The coroner will reach his verdict. The case is therefore closed. It is time to move on. There are more pressing matters that demand our attention.”

They were in the Chief Magistrate’s office at Bow Street. James Read had adopted his customary stance, facing the room with his back towards the open fire. Read’s eyes flickered to the window. His brow furrowed. Hawkwood followed the magistrate’s mournful gaze and saw that a thin sleet had begun to fall.

The magistrate turned away from the weather, a weary expression on his narrow face. “How goes the Doyle investigation?”

Hawkwood grimaced. “Not as well as I would have liked. No one’s talking.”

There was a silence in the room, interrupted only by the slow, monotonous ticking of the clock in the corner and the crackle of burning wood in the hearth.

“What about the men who attacked you? Have you given any further thought as to whether they might have been working under orders rather than by their own volition? Perhaps you have informers who can make enquiries?”

He meant Jago, Hawkwood thought.

There was a sudden sharp report from the direction of the hearth. Read jumped in alarm. A stray spark, Hawkwood realized, must have struck the magistrate.

James Read sidestepped smartly and swatted the back of his right knee. “Mr Twigg!”

The door opened so promptly that Hawkwood suspected the clerk had been hovering outside, awaiting such a summons.

“Yes, sir?” Twigg blinked behind his spectacles as the magistrate turned towards him.

“A guard for the hearth, Mr Twigg. Before the day is out, if you please. That’s the second pair of breeches I’ve ruined in as many weeks.”

The clerk rewarded the Chief Magistrate with a weary I told you so look. “Shouldn’t stand so close then, your honour.”

The look Read gave his clerk was priceless. Hawkwood suspected that only Ezra Twigg could have got away with such a retort.

“Yes, well, thank you for your acute observation, Mr Twigg; straight to the nub as always. But you’ll see to it? I believe there’s a guard downstairs in the sitting magistrate’s chambers – I’m sure he won’t raise any objection.”

As if the poor bugger would have any choice in the matter, Hawkwood thought.

Twigg nodded. “Right away, sir.”

The little clerk departed on his errand, closing the door behind him, but not before he had caught Hawkwood’s gaze and rolled his eyes.

Hawkwood bit his tongue.

“You were about to say …?” Read said, frowning. His sharp eyes had evidently caught the exchange.

Hawkwood shook his head. “Nothing, sir.”

“Very good. In that case,” Read said drily, “don’t let me detain you.” The magistrate moved to his desk, sat down and picked up his pen. “But be sure to keep me appraised of your progress. That is all. You may go.”