Resurrectionist

14

It was early morning when Hawkwood climbed the front steps of number 4 Bow Street and made his way up to the Chief Magistrate’s office on the first floor.

Twigg was at his desk in the ante-room, head bowed and scribbling, when Hawkwood entered. He looked up, peered through his spectacles, and frowned in mild annoyance. “Could’ve wiped your feet.”

Hawkwood glanced down at his boots. They were wet with slush from the melted snow that had fallen during the night. Looking behind him, he saw the tracks he’d left across the wooden floor.

“You’d have made someone a grand wife, Ezra,” Hawkwood said. He grinned at the clerk’s pained expression. “How about if next time I take them off and carry them upstairs with me?”

The corners of Twigg’s mouth drooped. “Oh, very droll, Mr Hawkwood. You ought to be on the stage.”

Hawkwood started to remove his coat, but Twigg shook his head. “He’s not here.”

Hawkwood raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

Twigg sighed and passed Hawkwood the note. “He left a message. You’re to attend him directly. Caleb’s waiting with his carriage downstairs.”

Hawkwood pulled his coat back on and the clerk muttered under his breath as yet more meltwater dribbled from the coat’s hem on to the floor beneath.

“Sorry, Ezra – I didn’t catch that.”

Twigg nodded towards Hawkwood’s feet. “If I were you, I’d clean my boots. Where you’re going, they won’t take kindly to mud on their carpet.”

Twigg wasn’t wrong, thought Hawkwood, as he was shown into the grand, high-ceilinged room. The expression on the face of at least one of the men facing him hinted that his presence was an imposition. Nothing new there, then, he thought, not without an element of satisfaction.

“Ah, Hawkwood.” James Read stepped forward. There was no welcoming smile, just the vocal acknowledgement of his arrival.

Two other men occupied the room. One was standing by the window, the other was seated in a chair by the fireplace. They turned towards him. It had been the man by the window who had cast a dour look at the marks Hawkwood’s boots had left on the rug.

During all parliamentary sittings, a Runner was required to be on duty in the lobby of the House of Commons. The task was rotated among the squad; some considered it to be light, if unexciting, work, and were content to be away from the streets, but it wasn’t a job Hawkwood enjoyed. He found the proximity of so much hot air excruciating and was more than happy to trade places. As a consequence of being so close to the chamber, however, he had become familiar with many of its occupants, including the Home Secretary, Richard Ryder, although the two of them had never been formally introduced.

“Home Secretary,” Read said. “Allow me to present Officer Hawkwood.”

Ryder nodded, his face solemn. He was a relatively young man, only a few years older than Hawkwood, with thinning hair and watchful eyes. “Officer Hawkwood. Yes, I recognize you from the House.”

Hawkwood wondered if that was true or whether Ryder was just being icily polite.

Read turned back and indicated the man by the fireplace.

“This is Surgeon-General McGrigor.”

The Surgeon-General was perhaps four or five years younger and slightly leaner in the face than the Home Secretary, though both men had the same air of authority about them. Ryder, Hawkwood knew, was from an aristocratic family. McGrigor came from merchant stock.

McGrigor stood up and held out his hand. “Grand to meet you, Hawkwood.”

“You, too, sir,” Hawkwood said. He could see the Home Secretary was puzzled by the Surgeon-General’s enthusiasm.

“We’ve not met, though I know of Captain Hawkwood from my brother-in-law’s letters,” McGrigor explained in a soft Highland lilt. “They fought together in Spain.”

Ryder looked momentarily nonplussed until McGrigor took pity on him. “Captain Colquhoun Grant.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Ryder said. He threw Hawkwood a look, obviously as intrigued by the reference to Hawkwood’s rank as he was by his indirect relationship with the Surgeon-General.

“How is the captain?” Hawkwood asked.

McGrigor smiled. “Still giving the Frogs a good run for their money, you’ll be pleased to hear.”

Hawkwood hadn’t seen Grant for over two years, not since leaving Spain. Grant was Wellington’s chief intelligence officer, operating behind enemy lines, providing Wellington with details on the disposition of French troops and equipment. He worked closely with the Spanish guerrilleros.

It had been Grant who’d persuaded Wellington to employ Hawkwood as a liaison between the resistance fighters and British intelligence units. Hawkwood’s fluency in French and Spanish had proved invaluable. He’d fought alongside the guerrilleros, deep in the mountains, passing additional information to Grant whenever he could. When Hawkwood returned to England, it had been Grant, through his contacts in Horse Guards and Whitehall, who’d provided the rifleman with the necessary references, enabling him to take up his role as a Bow Street officer.

“So, gentlemen,” James Read said, “to the matter in hand.”

The Surgeon-General made a gesture of apology for the diversion and sat down again. Ryder remained by the window. Hawkwood was left standing, as was Read, who went and joined McGrigor by the fire. There was a guard in place, Hawkwood noted with inner amusement.

Read addressed Hawkwood. “I’ve advised Home Secretary Ryder and the Surgeon-General of our interest in Colonel Hyde’s background. That is why they have agreed to meet with us.”

Looking at the three men, Hawkwood wondered about the authority wielded by the Chief Magistrate that he could, with remarkable ease, interpose himself between a member of the cabinet and Wellington’s chief medical officer in a government office deep in the heart of Whitehall. He decided there were still aspects of James Read’s sphere of influence that would remain for ever a mystery and that it was probably unwise to broach too many questions on the subject.

Hawkwood saw that both Ryder and McGrigor were looking at him expectantly. So that was the way it was going to be, he thought. They weren’t going to volunteer information; he would have to delve for it. He’d warned Read he might have to step on some toes. Well, there was no time like the present.

“Why was Colonel Hyde held in Bethlem Asylum? It wasn’t because he was melancholic, was it?”

Both men, Ryder in particular, looked taken aback by the bluntness of Hawkwood’s question. It was McGrigor who recovered first. With a sideways glance towards the Home Secretary, he sat forward. “I take it you have some knowledge of the colonel’s medical background and his army career?”

“Not as much as we’d like,” Hawkwood said.

“Colonel Hyde ran field hospitals in the Peninsula. Guthrie reckons he was probably the bravest surgeon he’d ever met. Hyde was considerably older, of course, much more experienced. Guthrie said he watched Hyde treat wounds that would have made other surgeons hold up their hands in horror. The man’s knowledge of anatomy was astonishing.”

Hawkwood knew Guthrie. He’d met him once. For his age, the young Irishman was rated as one of the army’s best surgeons. He’d begun his military career as a hospital mate in Canada. He had the ear of Wellington.

The Surgeon-General’s face clouded. “You know Colonel Hyde and I served together in the West Indies?”

Hawkwood nodded.

“We met again after the troops returned from Corunna. I was Deputy Inspector of Hospitals for the southwest. It was my job to procure beds for the wounded. I saw the changes in him then. There were times when he appeared more than a little distracted. I put it down to the work. We’d talk about the war; the effect it had on men’s lives. We’d discuss medicine and surgery, of course, and how things were changing, and what the future held. It’s true to say that I found some of his views rather fanciful.”

“In what way?”

McGrigor pursed his lips. “He saw the human body as a form of machine, and believed that it could be mended by taking working parts from other machines. We’re already doing it with teeth, he’d say, why not skin or blood and bone? Why not the liver or the bladder, or even the heart?”

With a shake of his head, McGrigor went on: “When I suggested that such a thing would go against the laws of God, he said that when a wounded soldier’s lying on a hospital table, God has nothing to do with it. It’s the surgeon who’s wielding the knife.” The Surgeon-General paused. “I thought it was nothing more than random musings. But when he was in Oporto, there was some talk.”

“Talk?”

“Murmurs really, nothing more, that some of the colonel’s operating procedures were becoming a little … unconventional. There was no basis, at least as far as we could tell. Certainly, there were no reports of mistreatment from either the British or French casualties.”

No one queried the Surgeon-General’s statement. Treating wounded enemy combatants was a fact of war and not uncommon. Mostly it occurred in the wake of a withdrawal. It could take a long time to evacuate a field hospital and, in such a situation, speed was of the essence. The walking wounded were usually no bother, provided they could keep up with the retreat. The seriously injured, however, were often left at the mercy of the enemy, with a skeleton medical staff remaining behind to act as overseers. In the case of the British, that duty tended to fall to an assistant medical officer or a surgeon’s mate, who would be exchanged for their French counterparts at a later date.

Hawkwood remembered Oporto. The French commander, Soult, had left so fast that he hadn’t just left his stores, guns, bullion and his sick and wounded, he’d also left his still-warm dinner. There had been a lot of French casualties, he recalled.

“Anyway,” McGrigor continued, “it was put down to contention in the ranks. If the colonel had an obvious flaw it was that he was too intolerant of the conditions and some of the procedures carried out by less able surgeons. We were in a hospital in Portsmouth when I saw him berate one of his colleagues for continuously bleeding a man. Yelled at him that if he took any more blood the only things left on the bed would be boots and bones. The colonel was a brilliant surgeon and he knew it. But he tended towards arrogance, and the others resented him for it.”

“So there was no truth to these ‘murmurs’?” Hawkwood said.

There was a long pause. “None that we knew of … at least, not then.” McGrigor brushed a speck of dust from his knee. “But it had become plain that his attitude, his insinuations and his contemptuous manner had won him no friends among the other medical officers. On duty, they tolerated him. Off duty they excluded him. He began to spend his free time alone, and in doing so became increasingly isolated and withdrawn. It was at Talavera that we finally learned the truth.”

A nerve flickered along the Surgeon-General’s cheek. Hawkwood suspected that McGrigor expected mention of Talavera to cause him unease. He wondered if Ryder was aware of that part of his history. Nothing in the Home Secretary’s demeanour indicated that he knew. It was probably better if it remained that way.

“Go on,” Hawkwood said.

“Field hospitals were set up in preparation – commandeered farms, schools, churches and so forth. You know how these things work. Colonel Hyde’s hospital was located in the monastery of San Miguel. It was on the outskirts of a village about four miles from the battlefield. It took a lot of the injured.”

Talavera had been a great victory though it had been far from clean cut. French losses had exceeded those of the British, yet Wellington’s forces had been reduced by a quarter.

“They hadn’t been there long when they had to begin the withdrawal.” McGrigor scowled.

Shortly after the battle, Wellington’s scouts advised him that Marshal Soult, the man who’d fled from Oporto, had reorganized his troops and descended on the British line of communications at Plasencia. With his Spanish allies unwilling to commit, his army reduced and supplies for an extended campaign dwindling, Wellington had been forced to retreat towards the Portuguese border. He’d set up camp at Badajoz.

“A lot of the wounded were left behind,” McGrigor said. “It was hoped the French would honour their side of the bargain. They damned nearly didn’t.”

James Read frowned. “What happened?”

“When the French moved up they took the hospitals, including the monastery …” McGrigor paused, collecting his thoughts. “There were several outhouses. When the French began their inventory they discovered that one of the more isolated buildings was a winery. Most of it had been destroyed by fire, but the reconnaissance patrol thought there might be a few bottles still intact, so they decided to explore. When they broke into the cellars, they discovered a room full of dead French soldiers. All the bodies, according to witnesses, showed signs of severe disfigurement …” Again McGrigor paused. “And it wasn’t from their battle wounds.”

Hawkwood glanced towards the Chief Magistrate. Read looked back at him, his expression still.

McGrigor continued: “They also found an assortment of preparations.”

“Preparations?” Hawkwood said.

“Specimens.”

Hawkwood wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, but he knew he had to ask the question. “Of what?”

“Body parts, bones, tissue, teeth – that sort of thing. Most of them were wet.”

“The place was flooded?”

McGrigor shook his head. “It’s a term anatomists use. Preparations are either wet or dry. Wet ones are preserved in solution – spirit of wine, usually; alcohol at any rate. It was a winery. There was a ready supply. Dry refers to muscles and organs that have been air-dried, usually by hanging. As I said, there weren’t as many of those.”

“Like curing game, what?” Ryder murmured to no one in particular. He had the grace to look shamefaced as soon as he’d said it.

“No,” McGrigor said coldly. “Not like that, at all.”

Ryder’s cheeks coloured.

“How do you know all this?” Read asked.

“Captain Grant’s agents intercepted French dispatches, including a report from a French surgeon who was called to examine the scene. From the state of the bodies, he concluded that someone had been trying to perform restorative surgery. One example was a cadaver with a severe sabre wound in its skull. A portion of bone from another skull had been fashioned to size and inserted into the wound. There was one soldier who’d suffered a serious wound to the face, including the loss of an ear. An attempt had been made to rebuild the face, using the skin and ear from another man’s corpse. Two of the bodies had burns to the legs …” The Surgeon-General glanced towards Hawkwood. “You recall the fires on the battlefield?”

Hawkwood nodded. It was the smell he remembered the most, like pork on a spit.

“The burnt sections of their skin had been removed and replaced with skin taken from other bodies. Some of the adjacent corpses were missing corresponding areas of skin. According to French military surgeons’ reports, it looked as though they’d been flayed.”

McGrigor shifted in his seat. “A number of graves were also discovered. They’d not been filled in properly. Most likely they’d been dug in haste. Upon examination, it was found that some of the interred bodies had been interfered with: organs removed, flesh excised, limbs severed … A lot of the missing organs matched the ones found in the preparation room in the cellar.”

There was a pause, and then McGrigor continued: “They also found … animal parts.”

“What?”

“One of the corpses had a bowel wound. Someone had tried to join the two segments of the bowel together using a section of windpipe from a goat.”

For a moment, Hawkwood thought he must have misheard. “Did you say a goat?”

“The goat’s trachea had been inserted into both ends of the bowel, which had then been drawn together over it. I’ve heard about it, but never seen it performed. They also found that a section of the goat’s intestines had been removed. The French surgeon’s report stated that it was most likely intended as some sort of a conduit and that Hyde had been attempting a transfusion of blood.”

“From a goat to a man?” Hawkwood stared at the Surgeon-General in disbelief.

“Good God, no!” McGrigor shook his head, but then, to Hawkwood’s astonishment, he said, “Although Denys and Lower carried out similar procedures using lamb’s blood.”

Hawkwood looked over towards the Chief Magistrate. James Read’s face was pale, as was the Home Secretary’s; though presumably the latter wasn’t hearing anything he didn’t already know.

McGrigor frowned. “I read the French surgeon’s report – fellow by the name of Lavalle. He said the corpses in the cellar were not the remains of men. They were monsters. He referred to the cellar as l’abattoir.”

The word hung in the air. No translation was necessary.

“You’re telling us,” Hawkwood said, “that Colonel Hyde carried out surgery on prisoners of war using body parts taken from the corpses of French soldiers, and animals?”

“That is what I am saying, yes. The report suggested that he had been trying to mend them, using flesh, bone and blood from their dead comrades.”

“And when he couldn’t mend them and he received his orders to withdraw, he left them to their fate,” Read said, staring balefully at McGrigor. “The fire and the graves were clearly a deliberate attempt to conceal the evidence of his activities.”

“At least we know where he got the notion to burn down the church,” Hawkwood said heavily. Then he caught the look on the Surgeon-General’s face. “What? You mean there’s more?”

McGrigor hesitated. He looked uncomfortable. “Lavalle’s report also hinted that some of the casualties’ wounds would not have been considered terminal.” McGrigor paused again to let his words sink in.

“You mean their deaths were induced in order to provide the body parts?”

McGrigor nodded.

“When you caught up with him, did he have anything to say for himself?”

McGrigor shrugged. “He was remarkably calm, philosophical almost; as if he’d been expecting it. He told us we’d never understand. He said there could be no barriers in science and medicine and that our minds were closed, and if surgery was ever to advance we should open ourselves to the endless possibilities that lay before us. He even had the nerve to quote Hunter at us. I remember it distinctly. He said it wasn’t enough for a surgeon to know the different parts of an animal, he should know their uses in the machine, and in what manner they act to produce their effect. You’ll note his use of the word ‘machine’.

“To add to our woes, we’d received a direct communication from the French Commander, Victor. He sent a courier under flag of truce. Threatened that if we didn’t hand over the man responsible, we couldn’t expect French surgeons to show any mercy to British casualties. Needless to say, the medical officers we’d left behind at Talavera had already been given a rough ride, though they’d sworn blind they had no idea it had been going on. It seemed that Hyde had managed to keep his experimentation secret. Don’t ask me how.

“We presumed he’d had some assistance, probably from the lower ranks. But with all the troop movements and with so many men spread over such a large area, it was impossible to pin anyone down. We knew all about the teeth being taken from the dead, but this was different, far worse.”

“Obviously you didn’t hand Hyde over,” Hawkwood said. “How did you answer the French demand?”

McGrigor made a face. “We knew we couldn’t dismiss it. Especially since one of the letters carried by the courier was a personal request from my opposite number, a fellow called Percy.

“It was clear that Colonel Hyde had become severely distracted, but we certainly weren’t prepared to surrender him. That was out of the question. Equally, it would have been impossible for him to remain. You know what the army’s like. If word got out that our surgeons were experimenting on the wounded, there’d be panic in the ranks. We couldn’t let that happen. Our only solution was to relieve Colonel Hyde of his duties and ship him back to England. Lord Wellington advised Percy that he had taken charge of the matter personally, and that the colonel was being transported home with all dispatch. He would be dealt with, and he would not return.”

“And the French accepted that?” Hawkwood said. He was unable to conceal his scepticism.

“Victor and Percy are, for the most part, honourable men. They understood that, if Lord Wellington gave his word, the British would not go back on it.”

“So he was brought back and admitted into Bedlam? Why not a military hospital?”

“We learned that the colonel had been corresponding with an old friend, Mr Eden Carslow, who had influence with the Bethlem board of governors. I, too, am acquainted with Mr Carslow. It seemed fitting, given his influence and our personal knowledge of Colonel Hyde, that Bethlem would be more suitable. So we arranged for his admission and guaranteed his bond.”

“On the Admittance Document you stated he was melancholic. He was a lot more than that, wasn’t he? He was as mad as a bloody mule.”

McGrigor spread his hands. “To be admitted to the hospital, a patient is diagnosed as either raving, mischievous, or melancholic. We did not consider Colonel Hyde to be raving. It was clear he was suffering from a severe form of distraction, an aberration, but he was certainly not violent. As for mischievous; you and I may view the colonel’s actions as horrific and by our own standards wholly unacceptable, but from my conversations with him, I think he believed, bizarrely, that he was engaged in legitimate surgery. Once he was removed from that world, there was no reason to suppose he’d be a risk, either to the staff or his fellow patients. He was calm and coherent at all times. We didn’t think him a threat to anyone.

“Also, we were rather anxious to keep the full details of the colonel’s activities in the shadows. The trust between the public and the medical establishment is uneasy at the best of times. The line between enlightenment and ethical considerations is a thin one. In many respects, the colonel was right when he said that people do not understand. Sometimes, and I speak bluntly, it pays to keep them in the dark.”

Hawkwood looked at Ryder. “If you didn’t think he was a threat, why did you write a personal letter to the governors, stating that he was to remain detained?”

Ryder stiffened. “We made an agreement with the French that the colonel would remain incarcerated for an indefinite period. The intention was to observe his condition on a regular basis. It was possible we could look forward to his eventual discharge and convalescence. The war was unlikely to last for ever, once we had Bonaparte on the run.”

“Pity the Reverend Tombs happened along then, wasn’t it?” Hawkwood said grimly. “Not to mention the sexton’s wife.”

“Indeed,” Ryder nodded, missing the irony. “A most regrettable situation. Had we any idea at the time, of course –”

“You should have handed the bastard over to the French,” Hawkwood growled. “If you had, we wouldn’t be in this bloody mess. And I wouldn’t have to clean it up.”

McGrigor’s eyes widened.

Ryder’s face went rigid.

McGrigor, sensing a possible explosion, hastily rearranged his expression into one of curiosity. “These latest mutilations – the women’s bodies – what makes you think that the colonel is responsible?”

“The way the skins were removed. Surgeon Quill told me the mutilations and removal of the organs were almost certainly performed by someone with medical knowledge. It struck me as too much of a coincidence when I saw that parts of the women’s faces had been taken.”

“I see …” McGrigor looked thoughtful.

“But do you want to know what really convinced me?” Hawkwood said.

McGrigor tilted his head.

“It was you. It was everything you’ve just told us about him. There’s an old military saying: ‘Once is misfortune. Twice is coincidence. But three times? That’s enemy action.’ And that’s what Hyde is – the enemy.”

The room went quiet.

“Thank you, Hawkwood,” James Read said quickly into the tense silence. “That will be all. Perhaps you should wait outside.” The Chief Magistrate’s warning look made it clear this was not a suggestion.

The Home Secretary waited until Hawkwood had left the room before casting his glare at the Chief Magistrate. “You’d do well to keep your man muzzled, Read. I don’t care whose damned ear you’re close to, I’ll not have anyone talk to me that way, especially a constable. I’m a minister of the Crown, for God’s sake!”

McGrigor coughed. “Perhaps Hawkwood is right. Perhaps we should have handed Hyde to the French when we had the chance.”

Ryder swung around. “Well, I rather think the consequences of that decision rest on your shoulders, McGrigor, not mine.”

“I’ll not disagree with you, Home Secretary,” McGrigor said calmly, the lilt in his voice sounding even more pronounced. “Though it’s a decision we’ll all have to live with. I’d say we share a collective responsibility, wouldn’t you?”

Ryder stared at the Surgeon-General for several seconds before giving a noncommittal grunt and shifting his gaze to James Read. “Can your man hunt him down?”

“I believe so. He’s very resourceful. Though from what we have seen so far, Colonel Hyde may prove to be an elusive quarry.”

“Then we must pray that he picks up Hyde’s scent soon, eh? You’ll keep me informed on his progress?”

Read nodded. “Of course.”

Ryder moved away from the window, towards the door. It was a clear signal that he considered the meeting to be drawing to a close.

“You expect him to kill again, don’t you?” McGrigor said from his chair.

Ryder frowned at the interjection.

Read hesitated. “Officer Hawkwood is of the opinion that Colonel Hyde has some sort of agenda. It’s possible he could kill again if he feels that agenda to be either threatened or stymied. Our difficulty lies in not knowing the nature of the agenda.” Read looked at McGrigor. “You have greater knowledge of the man. Do you have any thoughts that could assist us? Why he might be obtaining bodies. Why he’s doing what he’s doing?”

McGrigor lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I wish I did. I’m truly sorry, I’ve told you all I know.”

“Then perhaps an educated guess?” Read said.

McGrigor pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “It is possible, if it is Colonel Hyde, that he’s doing it because he believes his work is incomplete.”

Read frowned. “How so?”

“The colonel was removed from his surgical duties against what he thinks of as his better judgement. It could be that he believes there are still lives to be saved, bodies to be mended.”

“You mean he’s obtaining body parts in order to use them?” Read looked taken aback. “On whom?”

“There you have me. I’ve no idea. You asked for an educated guess. It’s the only one I can come up with.” McGrigor gave a helpless shrug. “Frankly, any guess you made would be as valid as anything I might propose. I’m not a mad-doctor, Read. Whatever’s going on in Colonel Hyde’s brain is outside my sphere of knowledge. That’s why we signed him over to the Bethlem authorities.”

And look what good that did, Read thought.

“Dear God, the man’s insane! One might as well try and fly to the moon on a broomstick as attempt to make sense of anything he does.” Ryder stared at them both.

Read suspected the Home Secretary’s outburst derived from concern for his own office rather than the colonel’s state of mind or the danger the latter might present to an unknowing populace. The last thing Ryder would want was for his deal with the French and the machinations behind the colonel’s incarceration in Bedlam – and by association the control his department was exercising over the country’s system of asylums – to be brought before the public gaze.

Ryder glared. “Forget the whys and wherefores, Read. That isn’t your function. Your job isn’t to come up with a cure, it’s to catch him! Set your dogs loose and catch him!”

Read looked at McGrigor, who said nothing but lifted an eyebrow in silent communication of a common understanding.

Read allowed himself to look thoughtful, then nodded. “In that case, Home Secretary, I will take my leave. Your servant, Surgeon McGrigor. Thank you for your time. Good day to you both.”

“My secretary will see you out,” Ryder said stiffly, moving towards the bell-pull.

“There’s no need,” Read said, picking up his hat and cane. “I know the way.”

James Read winced as the carriage lurched over a pothole. From above them came the crack of a whip and a sharp curse from the coachman, Caleb, as they turned into the Strand. They were heading back to Bow Street.

“So our colonel’s a bloody maniac,” Hawkwood said. “No wonder they wanted it hushed up. They even kept Eden Carslow in the dark.”

“McGrigor thinks Colonel Hyde may be obtaining the bodies in order to carry out surgical procedures,” Read said.

Hawkwood closed his eyes. “God’s teeth.”

“He was unable to expand on his theory. He simply said it was a possibility.”

“What about Home Secretary Ryder? Did he have anything else to say?”

“I’m afraid the Home Secretary doesn’t like you, Hawkwood. He told me I was to keep you muzzled. He also wants you to hunt the colonel down.” Read gazed out of the carriage window. “One wonders how you can do one if you’re constrained by the other.”

“The man’s an idiot,” Hawkwood said.

“A harsh judgement.”

“Not really,” Hawkwood said. “From what I’ve seen of them, most politicians are idiots. It’s a known fact. All the trouble in the world is started by politicians. And when they realize they can’t get themselves out of trouble, they expect people like you and me to step in to protect their arses.”

“And how do you propose to protect the Home Secretary’s … er … arse?” Read asked.

“Maybe I should be looking for the men who are working for Hyde,” Hawkwood said. “If I can find them, it’s possible they’ll lead me to the colonel.”

“You’re talking about the men who left the bodies outside Bart’s?”

“You still think I’m clutching at straws?”

Read stared out of the window. Finally he turned back. “Have you thought how you are going to find them?”

“By doing something I should have done a while ago.”

“Talking to your former comrade-in-arms, perhaps?”

“With,” Hawkwood said. “Not to.”

A nerve trembled at the corner of the magistrate’s mouth.

“If anyone can get me information on them, it’s Nathaniel. Though it’s been a while since we talked.”

Read raised an eyebrow.

“I think he might have been insulted when I offered him Henry Warlock’s job.”

“You’re surprised he turned the position down?”

“Not really. I can’t see him as a Runner. Besides, he told me he couldn’t afford the drop in salary.”

There was a definite twitch along the Chief Magistrate’s jawline that time.

The carriage slowed, clattered towards the kerb, and stopped. Hawkwood got out and held the door open. The coachman tipped his hat and waited until the two men had entered the building before driving off.

“There’s a message for you,” Twigg said, when they entered the ante-room. “He said his name was Leech.” The clerk held out the folded paper.

Hawkwood broke the seal.I have information that may be pertinent to your investigation. Locke

If she dropped her price any lower, Molly Finn thought dejectedly, she’d be giving it away. Business had been depressingly slow so far and it didn’t look as though it was going to get any better any time soon.

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The market’s fruit and vegetable stalls were already enjoying a steady trade, so it wasn’t as though prospective customers were few and far between. The trouble was, even at this early hour, she wasn’t the only moll on show. With its taverns and coffee houses, the competition was starting to build up. Still, the spot she’d secured under the archway at the end of the Piazza was at least dry. Molly undid a couple more buttons of her bodice. A girl had to use what God had given her. In Molly’s case, the good Lord had been very generous. She was a pretty girl, with blonde ringlets, a shapely figure and a pout that would have tempted an archbishop.

Should have, too, but with archbishops thin on the ground, Molly had been forced to flaunt her charms to a less pious clientele; so far, without appreciable success. She was beginning to think that the Haymarket might be a better bet, though it was probably too early for that.

An army officer came striding down the colonnade, handsome in his scarlet uniform and shako cap. It was too good an opportunity to miss. Hands on hips, Molly stepped out, struck a pose, ran her tongue across her lips and favoured him with her trademark smile.

“Hello, Colonel! Lookin’ for some company?”

The colonel, if he was a colonel – flattery never did any harm – walked on without stopping. Molly sighed and watched him disappear into the crowd. Pity, she thought. He hadn’t been bad looking. She eased back against the wall, lifted her shawl over her shoulders, and looked for her next target.

“Makes you wonder if they ’aven’t all turned queer, don’t it?”

Molly turned. The speaker was leaning against the next pillar, arms folded across her breasts. She had elfin features and blue eyes, framed by a cascade of raven hair. An impish grin split her face.

Molly nodded. Rivalry among the working girls could be fierce, but it didn’t mean they didn’t chat in between punters.

“Thought I might try the Haymarket,” Molly said, drawing her shawl about her. “Might get a bite there.”

The dark-haired girl shook her head. Her curls bounced around her cheeks. “Wouldn’t bother. I was there not long back. It was as dead as old Jack. Bloody nippy, too.”

Molly was surprised the girl hadn’t agreed that a change of venue might be worth exploring. With Molly off on a wild-goose chase, it would have increased the other girl’s chances of nabbing a customer.

Molly accepted the information with a rueful smile. The girl put her head on one side and eyed Molly speculatively. “Don’t suppose …?” The girl made a face. “Nah, p’raps not, lass like you.”

“What?” Molly asked.

The girl held Molly’s gaze for several seconds, as if turning a thought over in her mind. Finally, she said, “It’s just that I’ve ’ad an offer from one of my regular gentlemen for a two-up; him an’ a pair of ladies. Nice-lookin’ toff. Likes ’is earlymornin’ exercise. Asked me to pop out and see if I could find somebody.” The girl lifted a suggestive eyebrow. “What d’you think? You interested? Probably wouldn’t take much more than an hour. ’E pays ’andsomely, too. Wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the day freezing our tits off.”

Molly thought about it. “How much is he offering?”

“A guinea for the two.”

Molly’s eyebrows went up.

“Told you he was generous.” The girl grinned. “Not bad, eh?”

Molly usually charged her customers two shillings. Half a guinea for an hour was good money. “An’ you said he was a toff?”

“Proper spoken. He’s a good laugh, too. Better than standin’ around ’ere. You up for it?”

Molly thought about it for all of two heartbeats. “All right, why not?”

The girl laughed and clapped her hands.

“How far is it?” Molly asked.

“Just round the corner. He’s got this room ’e rents, for entertaining, if you know what I mean.” The girl tapped the side of her nose and winked. “Told me when I found someone we were to go right round.” The girl took Molly’s hand. “So why don’t you an’ me go and pay him a little visit and warm ourselves up?”

The two girls left the shelter of the colonnade. Weaving between the stalls and taking care to avoid the puddles and the rats, they made their way across the Piazza.

“What’s your name, sweet’eart?” The girl squeezed Molly’s hand.

“Molly.”

“Mine’s Sally. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Molly.”

Molly grinned in return. Cutting down Southampton Street, the girls turned into Maiden Lane.

The entrance lay between two Roman columns, next to Half-Moon Alley. Above the door were two signs. One proclaimed the place to be the Cider Cellars. The other sign, in the shape of a lantern, advertised Beds.

“Says ’e likes to keep a room ’ere, so it’s nice and ’andy.” Sally giggled. “Just like me!” She tugged Molly down the stairs. The place was packed, traders mostly, enjoying a quick breakfast warmer. The reek of rough liquor, sweat and tobacco was overwhelming.

Sally led the way towards a set of stairs at the far end of the room. Her language was coarse as she slapped away the roving hands. Molly took hold of the hem of Sally’s dress and hung on. They tripped up the stairs and down a passage towards the rear of the building.

“Here we are,” Sally said brightly, stopping outside a door. She smoothed her dress, tugged her bodice down and pinched her cheeks. Reaching out, she pushed up Molly’s breasts and winked. “Might as well let ’im see the goods, eh?”

Sally took Molly’s hand and knocked on the door. There was the sound of approaching footsteps and the door opened.

Sally pulled Molly inside. “Look what I’ve brought,” she called brightly.

There were two people in the room, Molly realized. The one who had opened the door and the one seated on the bed. The man on the bed stared at Molly and ran his eye up and down her body. As the door closed he leered suggestively over her shoulder.

Molly turned.

“Hello, darlin’,” Lemuel Ragg said.