Resurrectionist

13

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.

A movement on the floor caught Hawkwood’s eye and prompted a buzz of chatter, but it was short lived when the crowd realized it was only the dressers bringing in linen and towels and a pitcher of hot water. Nevertheless, the air of expectation remained as it was now apparent that the operation and lecture were only minutes away. The two dressers appeared unconcerned at the reaction their appearance had caused and went about their business calmly and unhurriedly, placing the linen on the centre table, and the towels and pitcher on the oak cabinet next to an enamel basin. Another small square table was positioned near the main operating table. On top of it sat a deep-sided wooden box and a small tin bowl. One of the dressers began to transfer a selection of surgical instruments from box to tabletop. When they had finished laying out all the equipment, they moved to the side of the room and stood in silence, hands behind their backs, waiting.

Suddenly the level of conversation dropped. Hawkwood felt the students on either side of him tense. Three men entered through a door in the corner of the theatre, their footsteps resonating on the wooden floor. Two of the men were dressed in dark tailcoats, and the younger one was holding the arm of a third man, who was wearing a white calf-length nightgown and slippers. The young man ushered the nightshirted individual to the table and invited him to sit, leaving his companion to take the floor.

So this was the great man, Hawkwood thought.

Carslow had presence, there was no denying it. Tall, well built, with a bearing that was almost military and a high forehead crowned by swept-back hair, his elegant stature and steady, unflinching gaze reminded Hawkwood of Arthur Wellesley.

A hush fell over the lecture room.

“Lithotomy, gentlemen. Cutting the stone. From the Greek: lithos – stone – and thomos – cut. The removal of one or more calculous formations that cannot exit through natural channels and must therefore be extracted by means of surgical incision.”

The speaker turned and indicated the man in the nightgown. “The patient is a forty-three-year-old male and a merchant by trade. His symptoms – abdominal pain and acute discomfort while urinating – indicate the presence of a stone in the bladder. This afternoon I will be operating to remove the offending object.”

The spectators turned their heads towards the patient seated on the table. His brow was bright with sweat. Dark stains were visible under his armpits. There was a noticeable tremor in his right leg. The man looked terrified.

“The operation to remove a stone or stones is one of the most important a surgeon can perform. It requires not only a detailed understanding of anatomy, but also a mind that never wavers and a hand that never shakes.” Carslow paused in his address and ran a stern eye over the faces of the onlookers.

Then the surgeon turned to the waiting dressers and removed his coat. “Let us begin.”

A dresser stepped forward to take the surgeon’s coat, exchanging it for an apron that had been hanging on a hook next to the door.

Carslow addressed the room once more. “There are only two safe routes to enter the bladder; the first is from directly above, through the lower abdomen. This is referred to as the high operation. The second is by way of the perineum, known as the lateral operation. It is the latter that I shall be performing today. However, before I begin the procedure, I shall require the services of two more assistants.”

Carslow placed a forefinger to his lips. His eyes swept the encircling tiers. Hawkwood, watching from above, had the impression this was a charade enacted before every operation. He could see students nudging each other and grinning as if it were a contest where the team captain got to pick his right-hand man.

The surgeon’s gaze settled on the second tier down, to the left of where Hawkwood was standing. He pointed. “You, sir, and the young gentleman to your right; if you’d be so kind as to join us. Your names, please? Mr Liston and Mr Oliver, is it? Very well, if you would attend my colleague Mr Gibson, he will instruct you.” Carslow ushered the two students in the direction of his companion, who was still standing by the table, his hand placed reassuringly on the patient’s shoulder.

“Now, gentlemen, if you’d kindly prepare the patient by placing him in the lithotomy position.”

The audience watched as the hinged headboard was raised to form a shallow angle and locked. A linen cloth was placed over the table. The patient was then laid on his back, hands by his sides, with the back of his head resting against the slanted board. His legs extended out beyond the end of the table, above the tray of sawdust.

The patient’s nightshirt was lifted and rolled back over his chest. Beneath the gown, the man was naked. His skin was as pale as paper. On Carslow’s instructions, a strap was secured around each of the patient’s ankles. On a further nod from the surgeon, the patient’s knees were drawn up and back towards his chest, and his legs were pulled apart until his genitalia and buttocks were fully exposed.

Carslow again addressed the onlookers. “The patient must be restrained and kept absolutely still. The slightest deviation, a slip of the blade for example, could mean inadvertent damage to the patient’s leg or rectum, or even the surgeon’s finger, and we would not want that, now, would we?”

A polite ripple of laughter ran around the room. The look of alarm on the patient’s face made it clear that at least one man present did not share the surgeon’s sense of humour. His body was visibly quaking.

Carslow moved towards the foot of the operating table. His hands hovered over the row of instruments.

“Mr Liston and Mr Oliver, a wrist each, if you please. Mr Allerdyce and Mr Flynn, if I may direct you to take the patient’s ankles and knees. A firm hold is required, gentlemen. Are you ready, Mr Ashby?”

It was the first time the patient’s name had been used. But from the stricken expression on his face, Hawkwood suspected that the poor man had probably forgotten what his own name was. There wasn’t even so much as a weak nod.

Carslow cocked an enquiring eye at the dressers, the two students and his colleague, Gibson. All five helpers nodded back imperceptibly. Hawkwood saw the muscles along their forearms stiffen as they took up the strain.

The surgeon’s hand dropped to the table. It rose into view holding a straw’s-breadth metal rod, curved at one end like a large un-barbed fishhook. The implement was held up for the audience to see. “The bladder sound. Note the groove in the outer curve of the staff.”

Holding the rod in his right hand, Carslow leaned forward, took hold of the patient’s flaccid manhood with his left hand, held it upright and, without pausing, placed the hooked end of the rod into the tip of the penis and pushed it down inside the shaft.

Christ Jesus! Hawkwood clenched his fists at the unexpectedness of it.

A bellow of pain erupted from the patient’s mouth and his body arched. The table became a mêlée of thrashing arms and legs.

“Hold him still, gentlemen! Hold him! Calm, Mr Ashby! Calm!”

It was clear from the speed with which the two dressers hauled down on the straps that they were accustomed to grappling with patients. The two students, however, despite their hold, had plainly been taken by surprise at the ferocity of the resistance. It was only with the help of the surgeon’s chief assistant, Gibson, who laid himself across the patient’s chest, that they were finally able to renew their grip.

It took several seconds before the man on the table was held fast. Through it all his head continued to whip from side to side like a newly landed fish.

Hawkwood found that his palms were slick with sweat. It had been an extraordinarily unnerving scene. There couldn’t have been a man watching who hadn’t imagined himself in the patient’s position as the probe went in.

Ignoring the patient’s yells, Carslow continued where he had left off. Gripping the metal staff once more, he began to feed the rod down the inside of the penis. His voice remained measured, though louder than when he had started, to counteract the noise from the man struggling on the table. “We place the rod through the urethra and into the bladder, like so, and we listen …”

Hearing the surgeon’s words, Hawkwood was suddenly aware of how still the rest of the room had become. It was as if everyone was holding his breath. Even the patient’s cries subsided into a series of low mewling sounds, though the pain must have been excruciating. Then, to Hawkwood’s astonishment, the surgeon bent and placed his ear to the base of the patient’s cock.

“There!” Carslow announced. “The villain is located.”

Hawkwood realized the surgeon had been listening for the click as the curved end of the rod knocked against the stone.

Swiftly, keeping a hold on the end of the rod, which was sticking out of the patient’s penis like a stopper in a decanter, the surgeon reached for his scalpel.

Hawkwood’s stomach twisted.

“Hold him fast, gentlemen, if you please.”

The dressers bore down on the patient, exerting pressure. The leather straps were pulled tight.

“Now for the first incision. I place the blade against the perineum, so. And remember, slowly and deliberately …”

Placing the point of the blade against the skin behind the patient’s scrotum, he pressed in and drew it carefully down towards the patient’s rectum. The flesh parted like grape skin. Blood welled. A bleating wail rose from between the patient’s clenched teeth.

Hawkwood sucked in his breath.

The patient writhed as the surgeon continued. “I divide the prostate gland and with the point of my blade I press against the bladder wall, feeling for the groove in the bladder sound, while taking care to avoid damage to the surrounding tissue.”

Blood, Hawkwood could see, had started to drip from the incision.

A pig-like squeal rose from the head of the operating table.

“Heads!” The shouts came out of the blue, from the top tier away to Hawkwood’s right. “Heads!”

Jesus, now what? Hawkwood wondered. And then he realized the calls were coming from spectators who were unable to see the operation because the heads of the dressers were blocking their view.

Other students took up the chant. Obligingly, the dressers leaned away from the table, still maintaining their control of the patient’s legs. As the cries ceased and the onlookers settled down, Hawkwood could see that the patient also seemed to be becalmed, as if he’d surrendered to the inevitable. Carslow’s assistant, Gibson, was stroking the man’s sweat-streaked head and whispering in his ear.

The wound had started to bleed profusely. A thin dark-red stream was seeping down the cleft of the patient’s buttocks and dripping into the blood box beneath the table.

“Having located the groove, I cut through the wall of the bladder, using the groove in the sound as my guide.” The surgeon’s voice rose from the foot of the operating table. “I take my forceps, insert them through the perineum and on into the bladder, and remove the stone. Note that the insertion and extraction is gradual rather than sudden.”

With his left hand pressing down on the exposed end of the bladder sound, the surgeon insinuated the forceps into the incision. The look on his face was one of studied concentration.

The patient gave a piercing shriek.

Hawkwood took a surreptitious glance around. There was more than one student who was looking a bit unsteady; he presumed they were the ones attending their first operation.

Suddenly there was a grunt from the direction of the operating table and a collective gasp from the gallery. Hawkwood turned quickly.

At the foot of the table, Carslow was holding the forceps aloft, a look of satisfaction on his face. Caught in the metal jaws was a round, dark object the size of a hen’s egg. It was dripping blood.

With a flourish, the surgeon dropped the stone into the metal bowl and withdrew the bladder sound from the end of the penis. As if on cue, the onlookers burst into a round of applause.

Carslow held up his hand. The room fell silent.

The surgeon returned his attention to the patient, who was lying motionless, with the exception of his chest, which was moving up and down with the rapidity of a fiddler’s elbow as he fought to recover from his exhausting ordeal.

“Bravely borne, Mr Ashby, the ordeal is over. My assistant, Mr Gibson, will attend to you. Mr Liston and Mr Oliver, you may return to your places.”

The patient gave no sign that he had heard.

The surgeon waited while his two recruits made their way back to the gallery and the envious smiles of their friends, before addressing the audience: “Remember, it is the surgeon’s duty to tranquillize the temper, to beget cheerfulness, and to impart confidence of recovery.”

Behind Carslow’s back, Gibson had turned the patient on to his side and was staunching the blood seepage with pads of soft lint.

The surgeon raised an eyebrow towards one of the medical staff standing on the lowest tier of the gallery. “How long, Mr Dalziel?”

“One minute and forty-three seconds, Mr Carslow.”

A murmur went around the room. Hawkwood wondered if that meant it had taken longer or shorter than expected. To the patient stretched out on the table below, it had probably seemed like hours.

The surgeon accepted the time with a thoughtful nod. “Thank you.” He looked up at the students. “It is said that my illustrious predecessor, William Cheselden, could perform the operation you have just witnessed in under one minute. While swiftness is an admirable trait, never let the desire for speed dictate your actions. Let expediency be your guide. Cheselden was quick because he was a good surgeon and because he knew his anatomy. Anatomy is the cornerstone of surgery. Remember that, and you will not fail …” Carslow paused. “It is also incumbent upon me to point out that Cheselden did not pioneer the operation, he merely refined it. It was, in fact, a man of humble origins, one Jacques Beaulieu, who developed the lateral perineal approach. As you may have gathered from the name, he was a Frenchman. There are no frontiers in Science and Medicine, gentlemen. You would do well to remember that also.”

Cheselden. The name had been on some of the pamphlets in Colonel Hyde’s cell, Hawkwood recalled.

As the students filed out of the lecture room, their faces animated by what they had seen, Carslow walked over to the pitcher, poured water into the enamel basin and began to wash his hands.

Hawkwood picked up his coat.

In the small waiting room behind the lecture theatre, Carslow finished drying his hands and passed the damp towel to his dresser. “Please inform Mr Savage that rounds will begin on the hour.”

The dresser, with Carslow’s soiled apron laid over his arm, nodded, handed the surgeon his coat and left the room, taking the towel with him. The surgeon watched him go, then turned with a frown.

“Now then, Officer … Hawkwood, was it? What is so important that you feel the need to disrupt my afternoon lectures?” Carslow slipped an arm into his coatsleeve.

There were dark stains running down the legs of the surgeon’s trousers, Hawkwood saw. Many of them looked crusted over, as though they’d been there for some time. Others looked fresh. He remembered the blood that had run from the last patient’s arse and assumed that it hadn’t been the day’s only operation. He suspected also that a lot of the stains weren’t just blood but had probably come from other body fluids. Some of them looked like dried pus.

“The sight of blood disturbs you, Officer Hawkwood?” The surgeon inclined his head.

“Only if it’s mine,” Hawkwood said.

Carslow considered Hawkwood’s response and allowed himself a taut smile. Close to, Hawkwood was struck by the ruddy hue in the surgeon’s cheeks; it was a complexion that would not have been out of place on a gentleman farmer. He wondered about the surgeon’s origins. In the lecture theatre, Carslow’s voice, while not strident, had reached every corner of the room, and his delivery had been clear and concise. But despite the well-modulated tones, there was a detectable burr that hinted at an upbringing some distance from the capital. The occasional rolling consonants suggested somewhere to the east, Suffolk or Norfolk, perhaps.

“Now, sir, I do believe we were on the point of discussing the reason for your visit?” Carslow made a display of shooting his cuffs and moved to a small wall mirror, where he proceeded to adjust his collar and stock.

“Colonel Titus Hyde …” Hawkwood began. “I’d like to know why his Admission Bond at Bedlam Hospital carries your signature.”

The hesitation was so slight that, if it hadn’t been for the tightening of the material across the shoulders of the surgeon’s coat, Hawkwood might well have missed it.

Carslow turned, his fingers playing with the knot of his cravat. “I wondered whether someone might come.”

Hawkwood waited.

“The answer is simple. I signed my name to the bond because I felt it was my duty to do so.”

The surgeon paused, considering his words.

“Titus Hyde and I were students together. We were from different backgrounds, but similar in age. We attended the same lectures. We had the same teachers. Our mentor was John Hunter. You’ve heard of Hunter, of course?”

Only from the book spines in the colonel’s rooms, Hawkwood thought. He shook his head.

Carslow looked surprised. “Really? He was a great surgeon. A pioneer. He taught us so much: anatomy, respiration, the circulation of the blood … Hunter changed the way students were taught. Our lessons weren’t just about medicine. They included chemistry, natural history, physiology, the function of living things; even philosophy. Hunter wanted to sweep away all the old superstitions. He wanted students to question, to think for themselves. He once said that hospitals were not just places where surgeons gained experience before trying their luck on the wealthy, but centres for educating the surgeons of the future. Titus and I worked as his dressers during several of his operations. We were like explorers, charting the oceans, discovering new worlds …”

Apothecary Locke had said much the same thing, Hawkwood remembered. It could have been an echo.

Carslow smiled. “He would tell us not to make notes during our lessons because he was a student himself and his views were constantly changing. I recall someone – it may even have been Titus – challenging him on that, and Hunter said that by altering his views he hoped to grow wiser every year. I know there were some who judged his style too informal, and it was true that he had a tendency to meander, but Titus and I found his methods wonderfully liberating.

“He used to call the body ‘the machine’. He was the finest surgeon of his age, and yet he had a profound respect for the healing powers of nature. He was the one teacher who told us that surgery should only ever be considered as a last resort.” Carslow paused. “He was an inspiration; an exceptional man.”

The surgeon fell silent. The colour in his cheeks deepened. He looked vaguely embarrassed. “Forgive me, Officer Hawkwood; it would appear that I’ve inherited my mentor’s gift for obliquity. You are here, after all, to ask me about Titus Hyde.”

Obliquity? Hawkwood thought.

The surgeon collected himself. “After our studies in London were complete, we went our separate ways. I spent time in Paris. Titus travelled to Italy. Their anatomy schools enjoy a particularly fine reputation. When I returned, I entered private practice. Titus embarked on his military career. His father was in the army; his grandfather too. He saw it as carrying on the family tradition. He was fortunate in having the patronage of John Hunter to assist in his deployment. Mr Hunter had recently been appointed Surgeon-General. It was through Hunter’s help and family connections that Titus was able to purchase his commission.”

Hawkwood had wondered about Hyde’s rank. Army surgeons commonly held the rank of captain. Few, if any, held the rank of colonel. There was an old saying about rank having its privileges. In the army it was often the other way round.

“What was his regiment?”

“The 6th Regiment of Foot.” Carslow’s face softened. “It’s a sad fact, Officer Hawkwood, that the battlefield provides great opportunities for the surgeon. It offers him the chance to investigate all manner of injury. I think it was Larrey who said that war carries surgery to the highest pitch of perfection. He’s Bonaparte’s chief surgeon, so I’m more than content to take his word for it. Ironically, the vast number of casualties returning from Spain has allowed civilian surgeons like myself the chance to hone our particular skills.”

Hawkwood thought back. From what he could remember of Hyde’s regiment, they’d been in the thick of it from the beginning. The 6th had probably seen as much action as the Rifles. As a regimental surgeon, Hyde would have had his work cut out, that much was certain.

“Titus and I continued to exchange letters, though our correspondence became more infrequent as time went by. A few months would pass, sometimes a year, and then a letter would arrive telling me of his travels in some distant land. I would write back about my life in London, and then another year or two would elapse. Then, just when I thought I would never hear from him again, a letter would turn up out of the blue. And so it went on.”

The surgeon hesitated. There were two chairs in the room. Carslow took one and indicated that Hawkwood should take the other. “It was in his letters from the Peninsula that I first began to notice the change. It had been a while since I’d received any correspondence from him, though he did send a brief note from Ireland – I remember he was not taken with the weather there. It rained so much, he thought he would rust. The next letter was from Spain. There’d been a battle, Rol … I forget the precise name. I –”

“Rolica,” Hawkwood said.

“Yes, that was it.” There was a questioning look in the surgeon’s eyes.

“I was there,” Hawkwood said, and wondered immediately why he’d felt the need to admit it.

The 95th had played a crucial role in the battle and the lead-up to it. Hawkwood had led raiding parties against the enemy’s rearguard, employing hit-and-run tactics that had infuriated the French general, Delaborde. The weather had been blisteringly hot, Hawkwood remembered. Hyde would have found it vastly different from rain-sodden Ireland.

Carslow stared at him. A shadow fell across the doorway. It was one of the dressers. “Time for rounds, Mr Carslow.”

Carslow turned. “Thank you, Mr Flynn, you may tell Mr Gibson to begin. I’ll join him presently.”

The dresser frowned, threw Hawkwood a curious glance, then left.

Carslow leaned forward. “So you were there?”

“I was a soldier,” said Hawkwood.

For a moment it looked as though the surgeon was waiting for Hawkwood to expand on his statement, but the dark shadow in Hawkwood’s eyes must have told Carslow that was not going to happen.

“Titus wrote that there were many wounded,” Carslow said.

Hawkwood nodded.

“His letter said that conditions in the aid posts were very bad.”

That was an understatement. Hawkwood glanced quickly at the surgeon’s blood-smeared trousers. Conditions in the forward dressing stations and battalion field hospitals hadn’t been bad, they’d been appalling.

“You said there was a change in him?” Hawkwood prompted.

The surgeon looked thoughtful. “Not then, but later, over the following year, as his letters became more frequent. He wrote of other battles. Vimeiro was another one I remember.”

Carslow’s expression grew solemn. “That was the first time his letters had shown real anger. They were very descriptive, too. He wrote of the men he worked with, the soldiers he tended, the type of wounds he had to treat; the lack of proper equipment, the dreadful food, and the filth. The list of diseases was endless: dysentery, typhus, pneumonia, cholera – you name it. More men were dying of infection than from their wounds. He described how the wounded were left on the field of battle, often for days, before they were retrieved. How local villagers would descend like wolves to steal personal belongings from the dead and dying. You could see in his words that he was becoming disillusioned by the knowledge that he could not save them all.”

Hawkwood listened to the litany without interruption. He’d seen it for himself. He didn’t need any embellishment. He’d known the treatment stations and the tents where patients lay two to a bed, where the overwhelmed staff had to light fir-log fires to try and conceal the stench of so many men packed together. He’d stood by the burial pits, too, and watched the orderlies torching the bodies to prevent contagion. The reality of war was never far from the minds of the men who had served and, more importantly, survived.

Carslow pursed his lips. “Titus felt that surgeons were too quick to intervene. He believed that meddling with wounds often resulted in a worse outcome than if the wounds were left to heal on their own. He’d learned that from Hunter. He worked among the French prisoners, sometimes with captured French surgeons. He said their methods were just as bad, that they preferred to amputate rather than let nature’s balm take its course. Though he and his French counterparts were in agreement that evacuation of the wounded from the battlefield should be much quicker. Were you at Corunna, Officer Hawkwood?”

Hawkwood nodded. We all were, he thought.

The winter retreat from Sahagun to the sea had taken nearly three weeks, over some of the most inhospitable terrain Hawkwood had ever encountered. There had been no mobile hospital facilities. The severely ill and injured had been left by the side of the road. Of the survivors who’d made it back to England on the transport ships, nearly a quarter had still required treatment.

Carslow’s mouth tightened. “When the troops arrived home, the government closed the hospitals in Gosport and Plymouth. There were not enough beds. They had to use barracks, storehouses, hospital ships, anything they could find. Some of the casualties were even placed in hulks. There weren’t enough surgeons, either. Local medical students offered their services and military surgeons were sent down from London. According to Titus, the conditions were bestial. That was the word he used: bestial.”

Hyde had returned to the Peninsula the following April with the rest of the army to begin the advance into Spain. Conditions hadn’t improved; still not enough transport or food. The commissariat hadn’t been able to cope. Many of the soldiers, fresh from English barracks and newcomers to the climate, fell victim to the heat and the hard marches. The vast bulk of the army had been on half-rations, some troops on even less. Hyde’s work had begun the moment he’d disembarked from the transport ship. It must have seemed as though he’d never been away.

Listening to Carslow’s account, Hawkwood had no trouble picturing the scene. He was also aware from the Bethlem hospital documents that it must have been around this time that Hyde’s “distraction” had begun to manifest itself.

“Titus’s next letter to me was written shortly after his arrival in Portugal. It was sent on a packet from Lisbon. Mostly it concerned details of the voyage and the conditions on board ship. That was the last letter I received. It was not until I was approached to cover his bond that I learned what had happened to him.”

The way Carslow described it, the colonel’s continuous remonstrations over the inadequacies of the medical facilities and what he had perceived to be gross dereliction on the part of the general staff, had begun to irk both his fellow surgeons and his superiors. According to the latter, the colonel’s manner had started to become increasingly erratic. In the end, he had been relieved of duty, examined, and admitted to one of the base hospitals. From there he was taken back to the coast and transported home.

“A part of him must have remained lucid for him to have mentioned our friendship. I was asked if I would co-sign his bond. How could I refuse?”

“Who was the other signatory?”

“James McGrigor.”

There was a pause. For one awful moment Hawkwood thought Carslow was referring to the coroner’s irascible surgeon. Then he realized, from the Christian name and the subtle difference in pronunciation, that it was someone else entirely, and yet a person with whom he was familiar.

“The Surgeon-General?”

Carslow nodded. “He knew Titus. They’d met when they were out in the West Indies. He worked with him again after the evacuation of Corunna. And it was McGrigor who commandeered makeshift hospitals in Portsmouth for the returning troops. He supported a number of Titus’s ideas, such as better transport for the wounded and training for the surgeon’s mates. He knew when Titus was brought home the army had lost one of its most experienced surgeons. He was as saddened as I was.”

“Did you ever visit Colonel Hyde in Bethlem?”

“To my shame, I did not.”

“Why was that?”

“The pressure of my work here had much to do with it. Also – and this might sound selfish – I wanted to remember Titus as he used to be. Fortunately, I am not unknown to the hospital governors. So, although I was not able to see him, the governors were kind enough to keep me apprised of his progress.”

“You didn’t call on your oldest friend?” Hawkwood said.

The surgeon stiffened. It was the first time Carslow had looked annoyed. “Allow me to describe my day, Officer Hawkwood, then perhaps you will understand. I rise at five, sometimes at four. I conduct experiments in my dissection room until breakfast, after which I give free consultations until lunchtime. I then come here, where I attend rounds, present lectures and perform operations. Afterwards I visit my private patients, who sometimes require operations which I carry out in their homes. I return to my house for a brief supper, usually around seven, after which I’m out visiting more patients or lecturing. I’m rarely in my bed before midnight. Now, does that answer your question?”

James Read would probably have called that a recalcitrant moment, Hawkwood thought to himself. But Carslow’s reaction had been interesting.

The surgeon definitely looked more than a little uncomfortable. Hawkwood wondered whether Carslow had also stayed away from Bethlem because of the stigma that was attached to madhouse residents. The surgeon was a man with a reputation to maintain. It was possible that he wouldn’t want his association with a lunatic to become public knowledge, fearing that it would drive away his more prestigious patients.

“When I arrived, you said you’d wondered whether someone might come. Why was that?”

A flash of irritation showed in Carslow’s eyes. “When the governors informed me of Titus’s death and the violence involved, I thought it possible that my connection with him would prompt a visit from the authorities. I understand, however, that his murderer was chased down and that he took his own life? Is that correct?”

“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.

The doctor was wearing his apron again. It seemed to have gathered a few more stains since Sawney’s previous visit. The front was black and shiny. It looked as if it had been daubed with paint. A piece of cloth was tucked in the apron’s waistband. Dodd lifted it out and began to wipe his forearms and hands, working it in between his fingers.

“You told me I was to come back,” Sawney said, “see if you wanted any more … things.” As he spoke, he bit down inadvertently on his injured tooth and let out a grunt.

Dodd’s eyes narrowed. “Are you well, Sawney? You sound as though you’re in pain.”

Sawney shook his head quickly. “It ain’t nothing. Just a bleedin’ tooth giving me gyp is all.”

Dodd stepped forward, tucking the cloth behind his apron strings. “Let me see.”

Sawney took an involuntary step back. The pain was bad enough as it was. He didn’t want some bloody quack doctor rooting around there as well. God only knew what manner of hurt would ensue. The only thing was, in his haste, he hadn’t realized one of the chairs was directly behind him. Before he knew what was happening, Sawney was sitting down and the doctor was bending over him holding the candle up to his face.

Sawney made to get up but found that Dodd was standing too close to the chair, trapping his legs. The doctor put a hand on Sawney’s shoulder and pressed him down in his seat.

“I told you,” Sawney said, trying to get up again, “it’s nothin’.” The doctor’s grip was surprisingly strong. Sawney tried to disguise a rising sense of panic.

“Open your mouth,” Dodd said softly.

The last thing on earth Sawney wanted to do at that moment was open his mouth, especially having been invited to do so in the dead of night by a man holding his upper arm in one hand, a candle in the other, and wearing a blood-smeared apron. At least, Sawney assumed it was blood. He wondered what else it could be and, more to the point, what Dodd might have been trying to remove from his hands with the cloth. The doctor’s long fingers didn’t look any cleaner than they had before he’d wiped them. His fingernails looked as though they were encrusted with shit. And the meaty smell coming off the apron wasn’t anything to write home about, either. It looked like the type of thing Maggett might wear in his slaughter yard while quartering a carcass.

Dodd moved the candle closer to Sawney’s face.

Sawney shrank back.

Dodd’s face was eight inches away from his own. “If you don’t let me look, I won’t be able to help you. I can help you, Sawney.”

Sawney realized that Dodd’s hand was stroking his shoulder. The movement was gentle, almost a caress.

“Tell me where the pain is,” Dodd said.

Instinctively, Sawney moved his tongue to the injured tooth.

Dodd nodded. “On the left? Place your head back.”

Sawney blinked. Then he realized that Dodd had traced the location by the slight bulge of his tongue against the side of his jaw.

“Open,” Dodd said. It came out more like an order than a request.

Sawney hesitated.

“I can take away your pain, Sawney. You’d like me to do that, wouldn’t you?”

Sawney stared at him, his jaw pulsing. He nodded wordlessly.

“Well, then,” Dodd said.

Against his better judgement, Sawney eased his mouth open. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

Dodd leaned forward and peered into the open maw. There was a pause. Sawney, fists clenched in anticipation of further twinges, held his breath and wondered what was taking so long. He had rarely felt so vulnerable.

Then Dodd said calmly, “You’ve lost part of a molar. The tooth will need to be extracted.”

Sawney felt the sweat spurt from the underside of his arms and down the crease of his back. He clamped his teeth shut, jarring the nerve in the process.

“But not at this moment,” Dodd said, straightening. “However, I will give you a salve for the pain.”

Turning away from the look of relief that flooded across Sawney’s face, Dodd moved to a wooden chest on the floor behind him. On it rested a black bag. Dodd rummaged in the bag and brought out a small glass phial. From another pocket inside the bag he took a thin glass pipette. He brought them to the table. Removing the phial’s stopper, he dipped the pipette into the phial and placed his finger over the opposite end to create a vacuum. His movements were unhurried. Removing his finger, he drew a small amount of the phial’s contents into the slender pipe. Resealing the end of the pipette with his fingertip, he instructed Sawney to open his mouth once more.

Apprehensively, Sawney did as he was told.

Dodd inserted the end of the pipette inside Sawney’s mouth and released the contents on to the broken tooth and the exposed nerve.

The effect was almost instantaneous. Sawney couldn’t help but let out a low moan of relief as the pain melted away. Tentatively, he lifted a hand to his jaw.

“Oil of cloves,” Dodd said. “Some say it’s as valuable as gold.” He smiled thinly. “Tell me, Private Sawney, did you ever consider, while you were removing the teeth from the bodies of your fallen comrades, that you might one day require some of them for yourself?”

Sawney froze.

Dodd placed the stopper back in the phial and put it back in the bag along with the pipette. “Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

Sawney stared at Dodd. His tooth no longer ached, but now the back of his throat felt strange, as if he’d just swallowed several large cobwebs. Deep in his stomach, the spiders responsible for spinning the webs began to stir.

“You look surprised,” Dodd said. “What? Did you think I knew nothing about you, about your service in Spain, as a driver with the Royal Wagon Train? Very convenient for your extracurricular activities.”

Sawney regarded Dodd with awe.

Dodd said nothing. He merely returned the stare.

Suddenly, Sawney’s eyes widened. “Jesus!” he said.

“Ah,” Dodd said. “I wondered how long it might take you. Not that we ever met face to face, of course.”

Sawney’s face continued to mirror his shock.

“Normally, I’d suggest a libation to steady your nerves,” Dodd said. “But that might not be such a good idea. We wouldn’t want that tooth to flare up again.”

“You were the surgeon Butler worked for in the hospitals.”

“Well done, Sawney. Butler thought you would catch on eventually. That was one of the reasons he recommended you; because of our previous association, indirect though it was. If you cannot trust your former comrades-in-arms, who else is there? After all, that’s why you and Butler went into partnership together, was it not?”

“You ain’t in uniform now,” Sawney said.

“No. Those days are long past.”

“Don’t recall Butler mentionin’ any surgeon called Dodd neither.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Titus Hyde said.

“It ain’t your name. Why’d you change it?”

“Oh, reasons. The nature of our work, both yours and mine, dictates that we must conduct our business beyond the view of prying eyes. People are afraid of that which they do not understand. There are many who look upon our work as sorcery, branding us as heretics. They’d burn us at the stake if they could, even if they still cling to the old ways, the superstition and the spells. Butler vouched for your integrity, but I had to be certain for myself.”

Sawney said nothing.

“You can see that, can’t you?”

There was a silence. “S’pose so,” Sawney admitted grudgingly.

“I still require your assistance, Sawney.”

“Is that right?”

“A revolution is coming, Sawney; in medicine, in science, in so many things. It began with Harvey and Cheselden and John Hunter; men who weren’t afraid to turn away from the old traditions and step towards the light; brave men who were prepared to risk their reputations to explore beyond the existing boundaries of knowledge. The only thing that limits us, Sawney, is the breadth of our imagination. There’s a new way of thinking we call natural philosophy, and it’s going to change the world.”

“An’ you openin’ this new school ’as to do with it?”

“School?” The question was accompanied by a frown.

“This place,” Sawney said, indicating the room and, by inference, the house.

“Ah, yes, I see. Indeed it has. More than you will know.”

“So you’ll be wanting us to bring you another one, then?”

“Correct.”

Sawney considered the answer, and nodded. “All right, I can do that.”

Just so long as I don’t have to salute you, Sawney thought.

“There is one thing, however,” Hyde said. He moved to the table and sat down. “While the last specimen you supplied far exceeded the quality of the first two, I do have a more … specific … requirement.”

“There was something wrong with it?” Sawney frowned.

“Wrong? No. Butler’s faith in you is well founded. As I said, the previous specimen was most satisfactory. I’ve made excellent use of it.” Hyde leaned across the table. “No, my only concern is that it was – how shall I put it? – still not as fresh as I would have liked.”

Sawney’s brow creased. “Fresh? You ain’t going to get them any fresher. Jesus, any fresher, and they’d be walkin’ and talkin’. Christ, they’d be knockin’ on your bleedin’ door, askin’ to be let in.” Sawney grinned, shook his head in amusement and let go a coarse chuckle. Then he saw that Hyde wasn’t sharing the joke. In fact, there was no humour whatsoever in the doctor’s gaze. What there was looked more like … expectancy. A little bird began to trill and flutter its wings deep inside Sawney’s chest.

Hyde remained silent. His gaze was unwavering, and unnerving. Time seemed to slow down.

Then, suddenly, Sawney understood. He sat up. “You serious?”

At first, Hyde said nothing. He was as still as a statue. Then he said, “Can you do it?”

“Well, it ain’t like pullin’ a rabbit out of a bleedin’ hat,” Sawney said. “It’ll cost you extra, and it won’t be pennies.”

Hyde nodded. “I understand. I’ll pay you twenty-five guineas, and no questions will be asked. It will be at your discretion.”

Twenty-five guineas. Three months’ earnings for the average working man; the equivalent of six or seven retrievals – not counting pregnant women, children, and cripples, of course.

Sawney stared at the doctor, at the sharp widow’s peak and the dark, raptor’s eyes. The seconds ticked away; one, two, three …

“Thirty,” Sawney said, and waited.

Hyde reached into his apron strings and took out the cloth. He began to wipe his hands as he had done before. “Half the payment now, half on delivery.”

Sawney let out a slow breath, and nodded.

“I’m relying on you, Sawney. It’s important that I complete my work. An early delivery would be appreciated.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sawney said, thinking that maybe he should have asked for more. He noticed the doctor’s hands were turning raw from the chafing of the rag. “What about the last one? You goin’ to ’ang on to the remains, or do you want ’em taken away?”

“My space is limited. I’d like it removed.”

Knew I shouldn’t have asked, Sawney thought, and wondered why he had.

“I’ll send someone round.”

“There is one other thing,” Hyde said.

“What’s that?”

“I mentioned before that there are those who would view seekers of the truth, such as myself, as dabblers in necromancy. It’s come to my attention that they may have enlisted the services of a base member of the constabulary. While I’m sure a man in your line of work is adept at avoiding the attention of the authorities, I would urge you to be extra vigilant, especially given the terms of our intended transaction. Though, as someone who managed to evade the clutches of the army provosts for so long, I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty maintaining your anonymity.”

Sawney had no idea what necromancy was – probably another word for trading in the dead, he guessed – so he just nodded. “Don’t you worry, I won’t have no problems giving the Charleys the slip. They couldn’t find their own arses in the dark if they used both hands. Do you know the bugger’s name?”

“Hawkwood.”

Sawney didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He knew the shock was written across his face.

Hyde’s fingers stilled. “You know him?”

Deny everything, was Sawney’s immediate instinct, but it was too late for that. “Yeah, I know ’im, sort of. But he ain’t no Charley. He’s a Runner.”

“Indeed.” Hyde’s eyes darkened. “You’ve had dealings with him?”

“Indirectly,” Sawney said cautiously. “He crossed paths with some business associates.”

“Recently?”

“Recent enough.” Better not to mention Tate or Murphy, Sawney thought.

“How much of a nuisance is he likely to be?”

Sawney hesitated and then said, “Word is he’s former military, and a bastard.”

“Really?” Hyde fell silent. His expression was noncommittal.

“How come you know about him?” Sawney said.

“What?” Hyde snapped out of his reverie. “Oh, just some information that happened to come my way.” Hyde tucked the cloth back into his apron and rose to his feet. “Wait here.” He left the room.

Sawney got up and moved quickly to Hyde’s black bag, opened it and peered inside. Three seconds later the phial containing the clove oil was in his pocket. He closed the bag and sat down.

Hyde returned carrying a small cloth pouch. There was a dull chink as he placed it in Sawney’s palm.

“I assumed you’d prefer coin of the realm.”

“That’ll do nicely,” Sawney said, getting to his feet. He opened the bag’s drawstring and tipped the money into his palm. It was a fair weight, and immensely reassuring. Coinage was always best. Easier to divide up, easier to spend. Notes could be a bugger. Besides, you started flashing paper money around and you were asking for trouble. Especially given Sawney’s haunts.

Sawney poured the money back into the bag. “So how come you picked the name Dodd?”

“Why not?” Hyde said, unsmilingly. “It’s as useful a name as any.”

Sawney absorbed the reply. “S’pose so.” There didn’t seem anything else to add. He slipped the bag of coin into his pocket. There was an awkward silence. “Right then. Time to go to work.”

Sawney paused when the doctor laid a hand on his arm. A fresh light shone in Hyde’s eyes.

“No need to leave just yet. This Hawkwood fellow – tell me what you know about him. He sounds most intriguing.”