Resurrectionist

11

“Well, well.” Surgeon Quill looked up. “Officer Hawkwood. Back so soon? This is indeed an honour.”

The surgeon was standing over one of the examination tables, scalpel in hand, paused in mid slice. Laid out before him was the body of a man. Quill had already begun his dissection. A Y-shaped incision had been carved into the corpse’s chest from each shoulder to the base of the sternum and on down to the pubic bone. The skin had been peeled back to reveal the ribcage, muscles and soft tissue that lay beneath. Each of the surgeon’s brawny forearms was streaked red to the elbow.

“You’ve got a couple of bodies,” Hawkwood said. He was in no mood for preamble. He tried not to look at the bloody mess on the table and suspected that Quill was probably grinning inwardly at his discomfort.

“I do indeed. In fact, I have several.” The surgeon extended an arm to encompass the examination room. The movement shook a gobbet of blood from the scalpel blade on to the floor. Quill appeared not to notice the splatter. He paused only to wipe the blade on his filthy apron and raise an eyebrow. “I take it you have specific ones in mind?”

“They were delivered this morning?”

“Ah, yes, indeed.” The surgeon nodded.

“I’d like to see them,” Hawkwood said.

The surgeon showed his teeth. “I thought you might. This way.”

Hawkwood followed the surgeon to a table in the centre of one of the vault’s dimly lit alcoves. Retrieving a candle from a nearby niche, Quill held it aloft. A sheet covered the table and its contents. It was almost as filthy as the surgeon’s apron. Quill drew it back.

“Behold,” he said.

Hawkwood sucked in his breath, and stared down. A chill moved through him that had nothing to do with the temperature in the vault.

The discovery had been made in the early hours, by two Night Patrol constables. The officers had been making their rounds, protecting the capital from rogues, vagabonds, creatures of the night and assorted mischief-makers, when the snow began to fall. Already cold and miserable, the pair had decided to seek temporary shelter inside the archway at the entrance of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, with the intention of fortifying themselves for the rest of the patrol with a pipe of tobacco and a warming sip of grog from the small flask each of them carried.

It was as they were scurrying towards the hospital entrance that sharp-eyed Constable John Boggs alerted his companion, Constable Patrick Hilley, to the two figures skulking inside the hospital gates. Neither of the patrolmen was particularly inquisitive by nature, despite their office, and in the normal scheme of things would probably have hesitated before proceeding. But both men were aching from the cold and did not relish seeking alternative shelter by venturing further than they had to in the snow flurries that were beginning to swirl around them. Also, the quick snifter of grog had served to imbue them with a sense of confidence they might not otherwise have enjoyed.

Somewhat inevitably, it was Boggs, the younger of the two, who broke into a trot first, holding his lantern aloft, announcing his identity and calling for the shadowy figures to show themselves.

The two figures appeared to be male. One was of average height, his companion was taller, a lot taller, and big with it. Each bore a load of some kind, but as the underside of the archway lay in deep shadow it was hard to make out details. Boggs saw the ease with which the bigger man moved with the object on his back, unlike his companion, who seemed to be struggling with his burden. Both had shown an impressive fleetness of foot, though with two constables in pursuit, it was hardly surprising.

It soon became clear to the constables that the fleeing men were now empty-handed. Whatever they’d been carrying had been left behind in the rush to evade the constables’ clutches.

Arriving at the hospital entrance, Hilley and Boggs watched their quarry fade into the darkness beyond the falling snow, knowing it was pointless to follow. Not too dispirited at the thought, the constables returned to the archway to see what the disappearing duo had discarded.

Lanterns held high, they approached with some caution. A short way inside the entrance, arranged against the wall, were three large wicker hampers. Hesitantly the constables lifted the lid of each hamper and peered inside. All three were empty. The two men looked at each other, mystified.

Then Hilley spotted the sacks. They were lying between the last hamper and the wall, and looked as if they’d been flung there in a hurry. While his companion raised both lanterns overhead to shed light, Hilley took out his clasp knife and, with shaking hands, cut through the binding of the nearest sack. He was already conscious of the awful smell.

Hilley was the first one to throw up. Boggs wasn’t far behind him.

“Intriguing,” Quill said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

God Almighty, Hawkwood thought. He stared down at the horror before him and nodded dully. He tried to close his nose against the smell, but it was impossible.

Quill used the scalpel as a pointer. “As you can see, incisions have been made in both cadavers, allowing access to the internal organs, a number of which have been removed.”

“Organs?” Hawkwood said.

“Spleens, kidneys …” Quill began, then looked at him. “You don’t want the entire list?”

“No,” Hawkwood agreed.

“Curious that many of them are digestive in nature,” Quill mused.

“Is that important?” Hawkwood asked.

“I have no idea,” Quill said cheerfully, and then pointed. “As you can see, sections of skin have also been excised from the forehead and cheeks, the upper arms and thighs, the calves and the back.” The surgeon turned. “You’re going to ask me if it was the same person, aren’t you?”

“Was it?”

The surgeon looked down at the bodies and frowned. “Well, the similarity’s striking; especially with regard to the facial excisions. Whoever wielded the knife on these poor women certainly did so with the same degree of skill as the person who removed the facial skin of the body I examined earlier.”

“You mean they had medical knowledge?” Hawkwood said.

“Almost certainly.”

“A surgeon?”

“Quite probably. If not, then it was definitely someone with an intricate understanding of anatomy. I can also tell you that the procedures were carried out not only post mortem but post burial. They were found outside St Bart’s, I understand?”

Hawkwood nodded.

The surgeon pursed his lips. “Not an unusual occurrence.”

Quill was not wrong. The three wicker hampers stowed inside the hospital entrance gates were proof of that. They had not been left there by a forgetful hospital porter. They had been placed there deliberately, for the convenience of the resurrection men. Most of the gangs were in league with hospital staff; porters or dissection-room assistants working on behalf of surgeons, and the baskets made it easier for the sack-’em-up men to transport bodies, especially if they needed to deliver the merchandise to their customers in multiples.

The surgeon gazed at the remains and frowned. “Though, I confess it’s unusual for bodies to be in this condition prior to delivery. Interesting that all the teeth are still intact.” Quill inserted the blade of the scalpel between the nearest corpse’s lips and levered open the mouth. “See?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Hawkwood said.

“And the hospital has denied all knowledge?”

Hawkwood nodded. He suspected, however, that if the Night Patrol men had arrived ten minutes later, the bodies would have been in one of the hampers and probably on their way to the dissecting room. The hospital would have been unlikely to query the cadavers’ condition. Hospitals were so hard up for specimens they’d probably have accepted the things, no questions asked. It had been the thieves’ misfortune to be spotted before the bodies were picked up. They hadn’t even had the chance to drop them in a hamper. Even so, the discovery might have gone unreported if the two constables had opted to forget what they’d seen and go find somewhere else to have a drink and a smoke. They probably would have done just that, if they hadn’t leapt to the assumption that they were dealing with victims of cruel murder rather than medical malpractice. While Hilley had remained with the bodies, his partner had alerted Bow Street. It had been the two constables’ reports and description of the awful wounds that had aroused Hawkwood’s interest. He stared down at the dead grey flesh.

“You look perplexed, Officer Hawkwood,” Quill said.

“I am,” Hawkwood said. “I’m wondering how and why a dead man did all this.”

James Read’s expression was one of incredulity.

“What exactly are you telling me, Hawkwood? That you expect me to believe the individual who violated the women’s corpses and the person who murdered and mutilated the Reverend Tombs are one and the same?”

“Surgeon Quill seems to think so.”

“Is that what he said?”

Hawkwood hesitated. “Not exactly, but he said it was a possibility. Parts of the women’s skins had been removed, including around the face. He said whoever had done it knew their anatomy.”

Read looked sceptical. “The bodies were found outside a hospital. They originated from there, surely?”

“No. The constables saw them being delivered. In any case, porters wouldn’t have left bodies either in sacks or in that condition. Hospitals don’t dump bodies, they take them in. They certainly don’t leave pieces of them lying around. They’re far too valuable for that. It was Hyde. I know it was.”

The Chief Magistrate sighed. “It seems to me that we – you – don’t know anything for certain. And even if it was Hyde, why would he be cutting up dead bodies?”

“He’s a surgeon. It’s what he does.”

James Read’s expression continued to mirror his doubt. “You think he was one of the men who left the bodies?”

“I don’t know. Either way, I doubt he dug them up. And he must have a roof over his head. He needs a place to work. Which means someone’s helping him.”

Read shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Hawkwood, I fail to see it. This is all pure speculation. Colonel Hyde’s dead. He took his own life. You saw him die.”

“I saw him jump. I didn’t see him die.”

The Chief Magistrate sat back in his chair and steepled his hands. “So, what of the bodies recovered from the church? You visited Quill, you saw the remains – or had the memory slipped your mind?”

Hawkwood shook his head. He knew the Chief Magistrate was right, of course. The idea was as insane as any of Bedlam’s patients. And yet …

He felt a stirring at the back of his mind; a memory of his meeting with Apothecary Locke. He tried to recall the conversation; it had involved the Reverend Tombs. What was it? And then, suddenly, it came to him. It was the reason for the parson’s visit being later than usual. The apothecary’s words came back to him: … attending to parish matters. A burial, I believe it was.

And a tiny thought began to grow.

The Chief Magistrate returned to his desk.

“I need you to arrange something for me,” Hawkwood said.

Read looked up. “What is it?”

Hawkwood told him.

The Chief Magistrate looked sceptical. “What you’re asking is highly irregular. It might even be considered unethical. And what would be the purpose? I’m not certain it will prove anything.”

“It’ll ease my mind,” Hawkwood said.

The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips. “Your peace of mind is hardly sufficient grounds for carrying out such a serious procedure.” Read sighed. “However, I can see by your face that you have the bit between your teeth. You are not going to let the matter rest, are you?” Read favoured Hawkwood with a shrewd look. “No, somehow I didn’t think so. Very well, I will make the necessary arrangements. Though I fail to see what good it will serve, other than to raise more questions. Was there anything else?”

“I might need a little help.”

“I was afraid of that, too.” There was a weary acceptance in the Chief Magistrate’s tone. “And did you have anyone particular in mind?”

“Hopkins. He struck me as a capable lad. And he’s young and healthy.”

James Read raised an eyebrow. “Is that relevant?” Hawkwood grinned. “Someone has to do the digging.”

The fire had done its work.

The tower was still standing, as was the body of the church, but they had been gutted by the flames. The bruised and blackened stonework told the story. Glass splinters from the broken windows lay strewn over the ground like shattered eggshells. Inside the nave, two charred roof beams rested in disarray across the remnants of the altar and half a dozen scorched pews. All the decorative material items – tapestries, altar cloths, drapes and the like – had been reduced to strips of tattered rag. The snow that had fallen during the night, and which had helped dampen the fire, had melted away, leaving glistening streaks of moisture in its wake. The smell of burnt wood hung uneasily in the damp air.

Sexton Pegg stared at the ruins. His face was haggard. Judging from the devastation, Hawkwood doubted there was much left worth saving but he was reminded that the sexton had lost not only his livelihood but his wife as well.

He had assigned Hopkins to find the sexton and bring him to the church. The old man’s first words on seeing Hawkwood had been, “When am I going to get ’er back?”

It had taken a second for Hawkwood to realize that the sexton was referring to his late wife. He sensed Constable Hopkins throwing him a despairing look behind the old man’s back.

“We’re still making enquiries,” Hawkwood said tactfully. “It might be some time.” And you wouldn’t want to see her anyway, he thought. Not the way she looks now.

The old man accepted the news with a philosophical shrug. “She could be a right cow, but she’ll need buryin’ all the same.”

There was an awkward pause.

“There was a burial …” Hawkwood said into the silence. “A man, maybe middle-aged. Buried a few days ago; probably late afternoon or evening. It would have been Reverend Tombs’ last funeral.”

The sexton looked up. His forehead creased at the change of subject. “That’s right. Name of Foley.” Then he frowned. “Why you askin’?”

Hawkwood jerked a thumb towards Hopkins. “Because he’s going to dig him up.”

The sexton’s jaw dropped. Even Hopkins looked taken aback, and he’d known what to expect. “You ain’t serious? I can’t let you do that. It ain’t …” the sexton searched for the right word “… legal. Is it?”

“I’ve a paper says it is,” Hawkwood said. “Signed by a Bow Street magistrate.” Hawkwood wondered why Hopkins had not warned the old man beforehand, and then it occurred to him that the constable had opted to play it safe, absolving himself of the responsibility by leaving it to Hawkwood to break the news. At least it proved that Constable Hopkins had a mind of his own.

The sexton peered around him vaguely, at what had once been his place of employment. He looked like a man wading slowly out of his depth and knowing he was powerless to prevent it. When he spoke, his voice was a subdued murmur. “Still don’t seem right.” His narrow shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Why don’t you show us the grave,” Hawkwood prompted. “We’ll need a shovel and a couple of lanterns.”

“Lanterns?” The sexton looked doubtful. “It’s broad daylight.”

“Just get them,” Hawkwood said.

The burial ground lay adjacent to the church. The grave was sited off to one side, close to a small hummock and the stump of what might have been a long-dead oak tree. There was no headstone, only a small wooden cross on which had been carved, in none too neat lettering, the name of the deceased.

“Cross was temporary,” Pegg explained. “Mason’s still workin’ on the inscription for the stone.”

The young constable looked first at the shovel, then at Hawkwood, and then at the task in hand. When Hawkwood had told him what his assignment was, Constable Hopkins had been curious, then strangely excited by the prospect. Now, faced with the imminent unearthing of a dead body, enthusiasm had rapidly given way to a growing feeling of unease.

“Look on the bright side, Constable,” Hawkwood said. “It could be worse. It could be raining.”

Hopkins looked neither happy nor convinced.

“You do know what a shovel’s for, Constable? You use the big end to shift the dirt from one place to another. It’s easy, once you get the hang of it.”

The constable blushed.

“He’ll ’ave ’is bleedin’ work cut out,” Sexton Pegg said morosely. As if to emphasize the validity of his observation, the sexton followed his remark by clearing his throat and expectorating the resulting sac of mucus against the side of a nearby tomb marker. “We buried this one deep.”

Hearing the sexton’s words, the constable’s heart sank further. But then he remembered that Hawkwood had asked for him by name, which at the very least meant that the stern-faced Runner did not consider him to be a total numbskull; unless, of course, no one else had been available. This could be the chance he’d been waiting for, the opportunity to show he was ready for advancement. What was it they said about mouths and gift horses?

Bolstered by a fresh surge of self-confidence, Constable Hopkins squared his shoulders and began to dig.

Fifteen minutes later, the constable paused in his digging. Despite the cold, it was proving warm work. The soil was hard on top while underneath it was damp and heavy and clung to the blade of the shovel like fresh dog turds. Rain might have been a blessing. At least it would have cooled him down. He removed his cap and jacket and hung them over the grave marker. Taking a gulp of air, he pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his brow. The old man had been right, it was taking longer than he had expected. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, half expecting to be met with a cold glare, but Hawkwood had his back to him. Wrapped in his riding coat, the Runner looked to be deep in thought, gazing out across the burial ground like a lookout atop a masthead. Hopkins wondered what was going through his mind.

“Not far to go now,” Sexton Pegg said, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re almost there.”

It took another ten minutes. By the time he had dug down to the coffin lid, Hopkins was already counting the blisters on his hands and the number of aching muscles in the small of his back. His russet hair was plastered to his scalp.

Under the sexton’s gaze, the constable scraped away the last of the soil and waited for orders.

Hawkwood stared into the hole, at the all too familiar jagged crack that ran across the top end of the coffin lid.

“Open it up.”

Hopkins swallowed nervously.

“Don’t worry,” Hawkwood said. “It’s empty.”

The sexton and the constable both turned and stared at him.

Hopkins jammed the blade of the shovel under the lid and bore down on the handle. Then, with a creeping sense of dread, he levered off the broken section of lid and propped it against the side of the grave.

“Well?” Hawkwood said.

Hopkins knelt down and peered into the open coffin, wrinkling his nostrils at the loamy smell that rose to meet him. He looked up. “You were right. There’s nothing there. How did you know?”

Hawkwood ignored the question. “What was he wearing when they buried him, Mr Pegg?”

“’Is Sunday best.”

“You said there’s no body, Constable. Is there anything else? Clothing, maybe? Get down. Have a good look. Feel around.”

The constable did as he was instructed. Feel around? He was going to need a new uniform after this, he thought gloomily. He looked up and shook his head. “There’s nothing.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, sir.” Why was Hawkwood so insistent? he wondered.

“All right, you can come up.” Hawkwood held out a hand. Hopkins grabbed it and hauled himself over the lip. “And I’ve told you before; don’t call me sir.”

The constable reddened.

“The bastards took him.” Pegg spat another mouthful of green phlegm into the earth.

“No,” Hawkwood said. “They didn’t.”

The sexton nodded down at the half-open coffin. “Pissing thing’s empty, ain’t it? Course they got him!”

Hopkins ignored the outburst. “How did you know it would be empty?” he asked again. The armpits of his shirt were stained dark with sweat from the digging. He rubbed his breeches to remove the worst of the mud and reached for his cap and jacket.

“I didn’t; not for certain. It was a guess. I wanted confirmation.”

“It wasn’t the Borough Boys?”

“Evil buggers!” the sexton hissed, to no one in particular.

Hawkwood shook his head. “It wasn’t the resurrection men.”

The sexton’s head swivelled.

“Why do you say that?” Hopkins asked.

“Because whoever dug him up took the whole damned lot,” Hawkwood said.

Hopkins looked back down at the hole. “I don’t understand.”

“A corpse is fair game. Take a body, the law can’t touch you. Steal the clothes, it’s theft. You can be taken down for that. Whether he’d been dressed in a smock or a winding sheet, it’d make no difference. Two weeks in the hulks and a voyage to Botany Bay. But there’s nothing down there except the coffin. Whoever did it took everything. If it had been the sack-’em-up men, they’d have thrown the clothes back.”

“If it wasn’t them, who was it?” Hopkins asked, nonplussed.

Hawkwood did not reply. At the outset he’d outlined what they were going to do, but he had not told Hopkins the reason behind the exhumation; for the moment he was content that the latter should remain ignorant. In any case, Hawkwood had concluded, it was probably best if only he and the Chief Magistrate knew the full extent of his failure and embarrassment if his theory was proved wrong.

He stared at the church, at the tower and the walls that were left standing, and turned to the sexton. “The man who was buried here. How did he die?”

“Crossin’ the street. Got knocked down by a carriage. Driver lost control. The poor bugger was caught underneath the wheels an’ dragged ’alfway down the road before they were able to stop it. Broke ’im up some. It weren’t a pretty sight.”

The male corpse examined by Surgeon Quill had suffered, among other things, a broken leg, a broken arm and a fractured skull. Both the surgeon and Hawkwood had accepted the evidence at face value, consistent with injuries sustained by falling from a great height. They could equally have been caused by a collision with a carriage travelling at speed.

But if Hyde had dug up the body and substituted it for his own, there was still the matter of his escape from the fire. Hawkwood and scores of witnesses had seen him cast his body into the flames. And by that time the place had been engulfed. Hawkwood continued to gaze towards the tower, stark against the cold winter sky.

“Bring the lanterns,” Hawkwood said.

The constable and the sexton looked at each other. Neither said anything, but the unspoken question was there. Then, taking up a lantern each, they followed Hawkwood towards the church.

When they got there, Hawkwood looked up. It was a long way from the tower window to the ground. There had been no hesitation when Hyde had jumped into the flames. One second he was there, the next he was gone, his leap accompanied by the tolling of the bell. No one could have survived the drop, or the fire. There was a bird, Hawkwood knew, the Phoenix, which burned itself every five hundred years, only to rise rejuvenated from its own ashes. But that was a myth and this hadn’t been a bird; it had been a man. Nothing arose from a pile of ashes, except perhaps the smell of them.

Hawkwood turned. The sexton was leaning against a section of wall, breathing hard.

“The church,” Hawkwood said, “when was it built?”

The sexton blinked at this new enquiry.

“This isn’t the original building,” Hawkwood said.

“Course it bloody ain’t.”

“That’s because the one before burnt down as well,” Hawkwood said. “Didn’t it?”

“Everyone knows that. They all went up in smoke, the whole bleedin’ lot, and ’alf the city with ’em.”

One hundred and fifty years ago, it had been, or as near as made no difference, and there were parts of the capital that still hadn’t recovered. It had started, so it was said, in a baker’s, and the close-packed wooden houses had stood no chance against it. The Great Fire had raged across the city destroying all in its path, including all but a handful of parish churches, and the King had commissioned Wren to rebuild them. Over fifty had been completed. St Mary’s had been one of them, built, like so many others, on the foundations of the old; a Phoenix made of brick, glass and stone.

Hawkwood grasped the sexton’s arm. “Is there a crypt?”

The sexton winced. “Course there’s a bloody crypt. It’s a church, ain’t it?”

“Where is it?”

The sexton tugged his arm free and pointed to the tumble of burnt and broken debris that looked as though it was the result of a bombardment from a battery of howitzers. “Where do you think? It’s under that lot.”

“Show me,” Hawkwood said.

The sexton muttered something unintelligible under his breath, as if fed up to the back teeth of being told what to do, but he crooked a finger and stomped off with Hawkwood and the constable following him into the ruined building.

Picking his way through the wreckage, the sexton led them towards what had been the head of the nave. The smell of charcoal hung in the air. The rain had turned the ash into a black sludge. Hawkwood could feel it sticking to the soles of his boots. Looking around, he was struck by the amount of damage the church had suffered. Rafferty had said the fire started suddenly and intensified at a surprisingly quick rate. It was clear the colonel hadn’t just lit a match and hoped for the best.

“The bugger used the lamp oil,” Pegg said. “We’d just ’ad a fresh supply delivered to see us through winter. The barrels were stored in the vestry.”

That’s how it had been done. Hyde had distributed the oil around the inside of the building, emptied it over the pews and the altar and up the stairs in the tower. And the wall hangings and the tapestries and the linen altar cloth, soaked in the oil, would have acted like wicks. It explained how the flames had been able to take such a strong hold.

The old man stopped suddenly and pointed through the two splintered and blackened beams to the crushed remains of the altar. “Down there.”

Hawkwood assessed the extent of the damage. Beside him, the constable’s face fell. Hawkwood straightened and took off his coat. He found a length of beam that was relatively dry and draped the coat across it. Then he turned to the constable. “Jacket off, lad. There’s more work to be done.”

The sexton joined them, though Hawkwood could see the multitude of questions in the old man’s eyes. At first sight, the task seemed overwhelming, but Hawkwood had seen that much of the immediate wreckage, although considerable, was not immovable. With the three of them doing the work, it did not, in the end, take long. Mostly, it consisted of careful lifting and leverage, but by the time they had cleared the worst away their clothes and faces were caked in ash and grime.

Before them, at the base of the flame-blackened altar, lay what had once been some sort of floor covering. The flames and the melted snow had rendered it down to a misshapen strip of water-sodden, ash-singed matting. To one side, cut into the stone floor and clearly visible, was the outline of a trapdoor. Inset into a recess in the door was a large iron ring.

Hawkwood felt a quickening inside his chest. Lifting the ring, he bent his knees, braced himself, and pulled. The stone lifted with remarkably little resistance, almost taking him by surprise. Hawkwood slid the stone to one side. A waft of cold, moist air rose to meet him.

“Ain’t much down there,” Pegg said, sniffing. “’Cepting a few bones.”

The constable paled. Hawkwood reached for his coat and held out his hand. Wordlessly, the sexton passed over one of the lanterns, then reached into his pocket and passed Hawkwood a small tinderbox.

Hopkins put on his jacket and picked up the second lantern. He had no idea why Hawkwood wanted to enter the crypt, any more than he’d understood why the Runner had wanted to examine the grave, but as he’d come this far, it didn’t seem right to hang back now. Besides, he was becoming more and more intrigued by Hawkwood’s bizarre behaviour. Something strange was going on. He didn’t know what, but if he remained in Hawkwood’s shadow there was a possibility he would find out.

Hawkwood lit the lantern and handed the tinderbox to the constable. Holding the lantern over the hole, he looked down. A set of grey stone steps came into view.

If Hyde had taken shelter in the crypt, how had he been planning to get out? There would have been no guarantee he’d be able to open the trap again. The two collapsed roof beams, which Hawkwood, Hopkins and the sexton had just moved, were proof of that.

“There’s another entrance,” Hawkwood said. He turned to the sexton. “Isn’t there?”

The sexton’s head came up. “Aye, that’s right.” His eyes narrowed. “’Ow come you know about that?”

“Where is it?”

The sexton nodded back the way they had come. “There’s a tunnel. Comes up in the corner o’ the burial ground. Inside the old dead house.”

Hawkwood recalled seeing the small stone structure, shaped like a miniature castle keep, complete with crenellated battlements, while he’d been waiting for Hopkins to excavate the grave. Common to a few churchyards, they were used to store coffins. Increasingly, they were also used to store bodies, sometimes for weeks, in the hope that the resulting putrefaction would prevent grave robbery. Hawkwood wondered if Foley’s body had been stored there. He didn’t know enough about the deterioration rate of bodies after death to know if the cadaver he’d seen in the mortuary had begun to putrefy before it had been consigned to the flames. Quill hadn’t said anything, but then even if it had been in storage, the extent of decay might not have been noticeable because of the fire damage. Not that it mattered now.

Hawkwood considered the distance between the nave and the dead house. It meant the tunnel had to be close to eighty or ninety paces in length.

The sexton read Hawkwood’s expression. “It’s old. They reckon there was another tunnel, once, which came out nearer the river. They say it was used for carryin’ the dead to the plague boats for shippin’ downstream. Not there now though, if it ever was. Probably one o’ them fairy tales told to scare the little ’uns.”

Hopkins, who had been listening to the exchange, took a step back.

“Don’t worry, Constable,” Hawkwood said softly. “It was a long time ago. It’s probably safe enough.”

“You might need this,” Pegg said.

Hawkwood looked down. The sexton was holding out a key.

“What’s this for?”

“Key to the dead-’ouse door. Didn’t think you’d want to come all the way back again in the dark. You can let yourselves out and bring it back to me later.”

Of course the place was going to be locked, Hawkwood thought. They wouldn’t store fully laden coffins in the place and then leave the bloody door open, would they? But then Hyde would have had to open the door to gain his freedom, and the sexton had just handed him the key. Which must mean …

“How many keys are there?” Hawkwood asked.

“Two. Vicar kept the other one.”

“In the house?”

“That’s right.”

“Is it still there?”

“’Ow the ’ell should I know?”

“Find out.”

“Eh?”

“I want to know if the other key’s still there. Do you know where it was kept?”

“With the rest of ’em. They’re all on hooks behind the scullery door.”

“Won’t take you long to check, then, will it?”

“But the place is locked up,” the sexton said. “On order of the bishop.”

“Break in, then,” Hawkwood said, putting his foot over the lip of the trapdoor.

Pegg stared at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as Hawkwood sank from view.

Hopkins was still thinking about Hawkwood’s use of the words “probably safe enough” in relation to the amount of risk involved in treading in the footsteps of plague victims. It was the “probably” that worried him. If I don’t get a commendation after this, he thought dolefully, there’s no such thing as justice. Lighting his lantern, he returned the tinderbox to the sexton.

“Was ’e serious about breakin’ in?” Pegg asked hesitantly. “Not sure I should do that.”

“Put it this way, Mr Pegg,” Hopkins said, “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if he finds out you haven’t done it.”

“But –”

“Do it, Mr Pegg. Don’t think about it, just do it.”

“Right, well, just so you know, it ain’t my responsibility, is all I’m sayin’.”

“Understood, Mr Pegg. Best not waste any time though, eh?” The constable smiled. Then, gritting his teeth and leaving a reluctant Sexton Pegg to investigate the vicarage, he pressed his cap firmly on to his head and followed Hawkwood down the stairway.

Hawkwood could see immediately that the chamber was very old. The walls, from what he could make out in the darkness, looked to be a mixture of ancient brick and crumbling stone. The roof was low and curved. It reminded him of Quill’s mortuary, though a less well-lit, smaller and more claustrophobic version, and it undoubtedly predated the remains of the church above them, if not the one that had gone before, and, quite possibly, the one before that. He heard Hopkins’ boots clumping down the steps behind him and moved aside to give the constable room.

Holding his lantern at shoulder height, Hopkins surveyed his surroundings. Shadows played across his pale face. “What are we looking for, s—, Captain?”

Maybe I’ll know it when I see it, Hawkwood thought. He left Hopkins’ side without answering and moved away from the steps, following the line of the wall. The roof wasn’t much more than a foot or so above his head. The urge to tuck his neck into his shoulders increased with every step he took. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw there were cavities along the walls. Some of them held stone coffins. There were carvings on them: skulls, leaves, crosses, Roman numerals. A few of the lids carried effigies, some in ecclesiastical dress, others in what appeared to be military garments. Like the crypt that housed them, they appeared ancient.

He heard footsteps behind him and saw that Hopkins had also begun to explore. At the bottom of the steps they’d had the advantage of daylight slanting through the open trap, but the further they moved away from the point of entry, the darker their surroundings became. The lanterns only served to illuminate a few yards on either side of them. Nevertheless, they cast enough of a glow to reveal that Hawkwood and the constable were not the only ones down there.

Hawkwood had spotted several rats out of the corner of his eye, their sleek fur rippling in the candlelight as they scampered for cover. He’d felt more than one brush past his feet. Judging from the expletives voiced by Hopkins, the constable had felt them too.

But he could not see any evidence of recent human occupation.

He heard a faint skittering sound close to the ground and felt the contact of tiny claws running across the toe of his boot. Instinctively, he kicked out and heard the high-pitched squeal as his foot made contact, accompanied by the brittle sound of glass striking stone.

He looked down. There was no sign of the rat. The rodent had survived to fight another day. What the lantern glow did pick up was a reflection. He squatted down, thinking it might have been a trick of the eye, but then he saw it, lying on its side at the base of one of the stone coffins: a long-necked bottle, lying on its side. A little further back in the alcove he saw a tin plate and a cup. He picked up the bottle and brought it closer to the lantern. It was corked and there was liquid inside it. Hawkwood put the lantern down and levered the cork from the bottle. Pouring a small measure of the contents into the mug, he took a sniff, then a tentative sip. Wine; still drinkable.

He straightened as he heard Hopkins emit a sharp intake of breath.

The constable was standing a few yards away with his back to him. He was motionless, staring at something ahead of them. Hawkwood put the mug and bottle down, picked up the lantern, and walked forward cautiously.

’Ceptin’ a few bones, the sexton had told them.

Only there weren’t a few. There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, rising out of the earthen floor; a wall of bones, as wide as a door and piled as high as a tall man, extending down the centre of the chamber as far as the light could reach, like the fortifications of some ancient underground citadel. There were more bones in the side alcoves. Every available space, recess and shelf was crammed with them. Skulls, large and small, so many that from a distance they would have looked like pebbles on a beach, the empty, eyeless sockets and hollow nasal cavities black with shadow in the lantern glow. And alongside them, thighbones, stacked from floor to roof, like stored winter logs.

The constable was rooted to the spot, as if he couldn’t quite take in what he was seeing. Hawkwood moved past him. As he grew closer to the bone piles, he realized their sheer volume was reflecting the light, extending the radius of illumination. The chamber was more than a crypt. It was a charnel house.

The place must have been in use for centuries, Hawkwood realized. As the burial ground became clogged, the older remains would have been relocated by generations of gravediggers, transferring the bones direct via the tunnel from graveyard to crypt without the need to carry them through the church. The skulls and thighbones were the most prominent because superstition dictated they were necessary for the Resurrection. He looked to his right. The constable’s hand was twitching.

“They’re only bones,” Hawkwood said. “They won’t bite.”

“There was a charnel house beneath my father’s church,” the constable said hoarsely. “There were men working. One day the floor gave way and two of them fell through. They landed on a pile of skulls. It collapsed on top of them. They were down there in the darkness for hours. It was said that by the time they’d got them out, they’d both lost their minds. They wouldn’t stop screaming.” The constable’s voice faded away.

No wonder Hopkins had shown reluctance to accompany him, Hawkwood thought.

They moved on, following the bone wall. Occasionally there would be a crunch underfoot as a boot heel bore down on a stray shard of skull. The crypt was a lot bigger than Hawkwood had expected.

He estimated they had travelled about sixty or seventy paces from the entrance when the bone wall came to an abrupt end. He saw that the section of crypt that lay ahead had begun to narrow. There was a muttered oath from Hopkins as the top of his cap grazed the chamber roof. Hawkwood suspected they were probably about to enter the tunnel leading to the burial ground entrance. Both men were forced to lower their heads. Their shadows formed strange humpbacked silhouettes on the walls as the earth pressed in around them. Transporting the bones of the dead down the tunnel and into the charnel house must have been like working in a mine. But at least those involved in the grim work would have had some light to guide them. A series of eye-level niches had been hacked into the walls on either side of the shaft. Set into the base of each one was a short stub of unlit candle.

Hawkwood was reminded of the shafts he’d seen during his army days, dug by engineers to undermine enemy ramparts by means of well-placed explosive charges, where the men doing the excavating had been forced to crawl on hands and knees. Sometimes mistakes were made and charges had been detonated before all the sappers had made their withdrawal, burying the men alive. It had been a terrible way to die.

The tunnel floor began to slope upwards. A break appeared in the floor ahead. Hawkwood could see the base of another set of stone steps, rising towards a closed wooden door. They moved in that direction.

Hawkwood went first. The door was unsecured and opened outwards and he found himself emerging into the dark confines of the dead house. The relief at being able to stand upright once more was almost intoxicating. The lantern glow revealed a square, windowless storage space containing six wooden trestles. Four of them held cheap coffins, all with lids closed. There was a smell to the place that he couldn’t identify, like sickly, sweet incense. He suspected that at least one of the coffins held a body that had started to putrefy. With the vicar dead, he wondered how long it would be before the bodies were consigned to the ground. And what would the smell be like then? He crossed the room quickly, inserted the key in the lock of the outer door, and hauled it open.

Inhaling the cold fresh air, Hawkwood felt a surge of excitement. The cup and plate and the half-finished bottle of wine were an indication that the crypt had been visited recently, although there was no proof they’d been placed there by Hyde. Still, it was a possibility, and it meant he at least had something to take back to the Chief Magistrate other than the dried mud and rat shit on his boots and the streaks of ash on his face and cuffs. But was it enough to convince James Read that the colonel might still be alive?

He heard a sigh of relief as Hopkins emerged into the room behind him. Followed by an exhalation of air as the constable’s nose picked up the smell from the dead house’s other occupants.

Hawkwood turned. As he did so, the corner of the nearest coffin lid, trapped by the light spilling through the open doorway, caught his eye. The lid was not lying flush, he saw, as if it hadn’t been fastened down securely. He could also see there was something poking out between the coffin and the lid. Curious, Hawkwood moved closer. It looked like material of some kind. Lining perhaps, although the coffin didn’t look to be of good enough quality to warrant a lining. Hawkwood reached out and rubbed the dark cloth between his fingers. It felt too coarse for a lining. It felt more like …

Placing the lantern on the top of an adjacent coffin, Hawkwood hooked his fingers under the lip and lifted the lid.

He heard the constable gasp in surprise.

The faded white dress showed that the body was female, as did the slender form beneath it. The crumpled black coat and matching breeches lying across the body and head as if they had been thrust there in a hurry, however, were undeniably male. By the light from the lantern, Hawkwood could see that they were heavily stained and speckled with what looked like white dust. He lifted the clothes from the coffin and stepped away, taking them towards the open door. They felt slightly damp to the touch. Hawkwood turned the coat over in his hands. There were more marks on the sleeves and on the coat tails. He held the coat up to his face. The smell was instantly recognizable. It was smoke. He knew then that the white marks hadn’t been caused by dust. They were minute flakes of ash.

And then from what seemed a mile away, he heard Hopkins say in a small, very still voice, “Officer Hawkwood, there’s something here I think you should look at.”

Hawkwood turned. Hopkins was staring into the open coffin. “Sir?” the constable said again. There was a new urgency in his voice.

Hawkwood walked back. Hopkins was leaning over the coffin, his lantern held close to the body. He was peering at something. His eyes were narrowed, as if he couldn’t quite make out what he was seeing. Suddenly he straightened. Sensing Hawkwood beside him, he turned. His face was transfixed, an immovable yellow mask. Then his lips parted. They continued to move in silence, his throat constricting, as though he was about to disgorge something recently swallowed. No words were uttered. It was the expression of horror in the constable’s eyes that compelled Hawkwood to look down.

“Look at her face,” Hopkins whispered.

Hawkwood did so.

Affixed to the front of the corpse’s skull, in perfect alignment with the eyes and nose, cheeks and jaw, was what appeared to be some kind of visor. It was the nature of the material the visor had been fashioned from that had caused the tremor in the constable’s voice. The visor was not made of metal, neither was it cut from cloth or hide, though it did bear some semblance to seasoned leather. It also gave the impression the deceased had suffered from some terrible flesh-wasting disease. It was a mask of human skin.