Resurrectionist

20

Jago looked up at the front of the house. “Why here?”

“The address was on that piece of paper I found in Sawney’s waistcoat: number 13 Castle Street. I think it’s the home of Hyde’s old mentor and hero: John Hunter. Apothecary Locke told me Hyde lived here when he was a student. Hunter used to give anatomy lectures here, so Hyde would have had everything he needed for his butchery. Sawney must have delivered Molly Finn here; that’s why he laughed when he called you king of the castle.”

“No lights,” Jago observed. His eyes took in the shuttered windows and the raised drawbridge. “What would he want with Molly Finn?”

“I don’t know,” Hawkwood said. “That’s what worries me.”

Jago took the lock picks from his pocket and gave Hawkwood a wry look. “Murder, arson and burglary. Anyone ever tell you, you’ve a strange way of upholding the law? Here, hold this.”

“Just open the bloody door,” Hawkwood said. He took the lantern from Jago and drew Hopkins’s pistol from his belt.

Molly Finn came awake slowly. Her eyelids felt heavy and unresponsive. She tried to raise her head. That proved almost as difficult and when she tried moving her arms and legs, it was as if a great weight was pressing down upon them. Every movement was a huge effort. She opened her mouth to speak, but all she could manage was a weak swallow, and there was a strange taste at the back of her throat that she could not identify.

The room was candlelit, she saw, but everything was blurred. It was like looking up at the stars through a black lace curtain. She had the feeling that the room was large and her first thought was that she must be in a church or a chapel. She tried to recall how she might have got there, but her mind became a jumble of vague, confusing thoughts. She tried to concentrate, but that only made things worse. The candle flames around her began to dance and shimmer. Suddenly the whole room was spinning. It was much better if she kept her eyes closed, she decided, but when she did that, she could feel herself slipping away. The more she tried to fight the sensation, the more tired she became. In the end, it was easier just to succumb. And in truth, sleep, when it eventually came, was a relief.

“Looks like we got it wrong,” Jago said. There was anger in his voice as he stared around him. Samuel Ragg’s pistol was held loosely in his hand.

They had checked the two doors leading off the entrance hall. The rooms beyond were dark, cold, and empty. The tiny arrows of desultory moonlight slanting down through thin gaps and holes in the window shutters had revealed no signs of recent habitation. The air smelled of dry dust and abandonment.

Hawkwood said nothing. He had been so sure the answer would be here. Yet there was no sense that anyone was present, other than the two of them. He stood at the foot of the stairway and looked up towards the next landing. All he could see was a well of darkness. He held out his hand. “Give me the light.”

They were halfway up the stairs when Jago paused. “Smell that?”

Hawkwood had already noticed it. It was the same odour as had been leaking from the vats and the benches in the cellar of the Black Dog. He suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of dread. It was as though the house was starting to close in around them.

The first floor was also empty. Most of it was taken up by one large room containing rows of empty shelves. There was an ancient wooden packing chest resting against one wall; inside were some paper boxes and a collection of empty glass jars.

The smell grew stronger the higher they climbed. Jago was the first to use his neck cloth to cover his nose. By the time they arrived at the second floor it was reaching in to the back of their throats. They stopped outside a closed door. The smell coming from inside the room was intense.

Hawkwood turned the handle and pushed.

“God in Heaven,” Jago said.

When Molly opened her eyes for the second time, little appeared to have changed. She still felt as if she could fall asleep for a hundred years, and the odd taste at the back of her throat refused to go away.

The mattress was as hard as a board. She was cold, too. She could still make out the glow of candles, scores of them, arranged around the room. Her eyes tried to penetrate the darkness beyond. The walls, she noticed, had a curious, curved shape to them; so much so that they seemed to be spiralling away from her towards the ceiling. It was a most peculiar sensation.

She went to push the sheet away, only to find that she was still unable to move her arms and legs. Her first reaction was to call out, but all she could manage this time was a dry croak. She strained to raise herself up but the harder she tried, the more difficult it became. Her efforts grew progressively weaker. Finally, exhausted, feeling as helpless as a kitten, Molly sank back and closed her eyes.

There was a noise. Molly started. The candles were still burning. She could see them, flickering dimly, and she could smell the tallow. Had she been asleep? she wondered. Perhaps she’d fainted. If so, for how long? It was very cold now, and growing colder by the minute. She shivered and tried to raise her hands to lift the sheet higher, but the simple task eluded her. The walls were behaving very oddly, too, the way they were revolving around her, like a child’s top.

The noise came again, instantly familiar, even in her confused state: footsteps on a wooden floor. As she tried to locate the source of the sound, a dark shape detached itself from the edge of the shadows beyond the reach of the candle glow, and moved slowly towards her.

Hawkwood stared at the skull. It was some kind of monkey. The skull was in a jar on a shelf. The monkey’s eyes looked as if they were on the point of opening, giving the impression that the animal had been sleeping when its head had been removed. The face, although heavily wrinkled, looked strangely young. It was framed by an incongruous cap of wispy reddish hair.

The jar was one of several score that filled the shelves along the right-hand wall. They came in all shapes and sizes, each one labelled. Every single jar was full of cloudy liquid. Suspended in the liquid, like insects trapped in amber, Hawkwood saw a bewildering assortment of objects. There were lizards with two tails and baby crocodiles emerging from eggs. According to the labels, others held brains of deer, of goats and dogs, the eyes of a leopard, the testes of a ram, the foetus of a pig, kittens, mice, snakes, baby sharks, two-headed chickens … All manner of oddities and abnormalities were displayed.

But it wasn’t the freakish animal parts that drew Hawkwood’s eye. He was no anatomist, but during his time as a soldier he’d seen surgeons at work and had been both the victim and beneficiary of their administrations. Similarly, as a Runner he had paid court to coroner’s surgeons like McGregor and Quill and was thus familiar with some of the more gruesome aspects of their work. So he knew what he was looking at. They were human body parts.

Most of the specimens appeared to be internal organs, at least according to the labels: hearts, livers, lungs, bowels, kidneys … the list was extensive. Some of the contents were easily identifiable, like the coils of gut, which bore a strange similarity to empty sausage skins; others he could only guess at. The patina of dust on top of the jars and the faded ink on the labels indicated that they had been on the shelves for some time. The sealant on several of the jars had rotted away, allowing air to intrude and the liquid inside to evaporate. Whatever had been contained within them had long since disintegrated and so bore no resemblance to its original state. Beneath the shelves, a dozen or so jars lay broken, the contents having spilled out across the floor. It was hard to distinguish the remnants of their desiccated contents from the lumps of calcified rodent droppings that littered the floorboards.

“What the hell are these?” Jago whispered.

“Preparations,” Hawkwood said. His eyes moved around the room. In the darkness, he had not seen how large the room was. It occurred to him that an internal wall had probably been removed to create the space, as on the floor beneath. There were more shelves on the opposite wall. They supported another collection of jars. The middle of the room was occupied by an oblong table. He moved towards it. On top were what looked like a butcher’s cutting board and an assortment of basins, both deep and shallow. There were some familiar items lying on top of the butcher’s board. Hand tools. Not the butcher’s tools of the Dog’s cellar, however; these were much more refined. But he’d seen their like before, in the hands of Surgeon Quill. These were medical instruments.

His eyes moved across the tabletop. It took him a moment to notice the difference between the table and the specimen shelves behind him. There was no dust.

The touch on her arm came from nowhere. Molly flinched.

“It’s wearing off,” a voice said. “She’s waking up.”

When she heard the words and realized there were two people in the room with her, the memory of her ordeal at the hands of the Ragg brothers came flooding back. And with the memory came the panic. She saw again the Raggs’ leering faces, felt the wiry strength of them, smelled their rank unwashed bodies, as sour as vomit, as they took turns with her. She remembered, too, the shame she had felt in allowing herself to submit to the degradation in the vain hope that they would spare her further hurt, knowing all the while that these were men without pity, men who derived pleasure from the humiliation of others. Now, when she felt the hands upon her, Molly knew she was about to be subjected to more of the same.

But this time she was not going to give herself to them without a fight.

When she tried to lash out, though, her arms and legs refused to obey. It was as if they belonged to someone else. She felt the sheet being lifted from her body. She looked down and understood immediately why she felt so cold. She was naked.

That was the moment true fear took hold. She tried to cry out, but what emerged was still no more than a feeble croak. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, forcing her down.

“Hold her,” the voice said.

She felt her legs pinioned; then her arms. They were wrapping some kind of binding around her wrists and ankles. Her head snapped to one side and she saw the thick leather straps – and they were being drawn tight.

Molly realized then it wasn’t a bed they were tying her to. It was a table. She continued to struggle, but the more she fought, the tighter the straps were pulled. Held fast, unable to move, she saw for the first time the rest of the room and realized with a jolt of terror that it was neither church nor chapel.

The true nature of her situation struck Molly like an arrow to the heart. She stared around her in horror. From what seemed like a thousand miles away, she heard a voice she recognized dimly as her own, whispering falteringly, “Am I going to die?”

The reply, when it came, was soft spoken and reassuringly calm, almost affectionate.

“No, my dear. You are going to live for ever.”

Molly Finn’s screams were already filling the room as Titus Hyde placed the point of the scalpel in the valley between her pale breasts and, using the minimum of pressure, drew the blade down the length of her sternum.

Hawkwood heard Jago mutter a curse under his breath. He turned and followed the upturned, awe-struck gaze.

Bones; too many to count, suspended from an array of ceiling hooks, like withered bats in a dark cave. Femurs, fibulas, ribs, pelvic bones, bones from the feet and bones from the forearm, many with hand, toe and finger bones still connected, all blackened with age and candle soot, hung alongside clavicles and spinal columns; many of them with remnants of muscle and what might have been ragged strips of long-dead flesh still attached.

Hawkwood dragged his gaze away. The second, closer collection of jars also looked to be free of dust. The liquid inside them was a lot cleaner than in the containers on the opposite side of the room. He remembered what McGrigor had told him, that the favoured preservative was spirit of wine. Hawkwood wasn’t about to take a sip to test it. The transparency of the liquid gave him a clear view of the contents. He tried to recall which items had been removed from the Bart’s cadavers and the corpse found suspended over the Fleet. From their colouring and the consistency of the solution, there was little doubt the organs contained within these jars were much more recent additions to the collection.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Jago said, his face ghostly pale. “And we ain’t any nearer finding Molly Finn, or your damned sawbones.”

“No, but the bastard’s been here.” Hawkwood turned, and found he was talking to himself. He left the room and its grisly contents and discovered Jago standing in one of the two doorways on the other side of the cramped landing.

At first glance the room was no different to the others they had looked in: peeling plaster, bare floorboards, boarded-up windows. There was, however, a mattress. On top of the mattress was a heap of soiled bed linen. Next to the mattress was a small table, on which sat a candle-holder and some sulphur sticks. A larger table was set against the wall. On top of it was a chipped basin and jug. Caught by the lantern light, several small beads of moisture glistened at the bottom of the basin. He glanced towards the fireplace. There was grey ash in the hearth.

Hawkwood reached down towards the pile of linen. He straightened. In his hand was a petticoat. A woman’s scream pierced the night.

“Sweet Mary!” Jago spun round.

The scream sounded as if it had come from below them. It was followed by a second of equal intensity and another after that, both in quick succession. By which time, Hawkwood had thrown the petticoat down and was running for the stairs with Jago in close pursuit.

They were halfway down the stairwell when the screams ended abruptly. Hawkwood wasn’t sure what was the more disturbing, the screams or the uncanny silence that followed.

Jago stared about him wildly. “Where the hell did that come from? We looked, damn it! There’s no one here!”

Jago was right. They had looked.

And then, the moment they hit the ground floor, Hawkwood saw it. “There!”

Jago swore. There was another doorway, tucked deep in the shadows beneath the stairs, almost hidden from view. They’d both missed it the first time around.

Another room, small and airless, but with signs of recent occupation: on the table stood an empty Madeira bottle and some mugs. Several news-sheets lay scattered across the tabletop. Beyond the table was an opening that led off towards the rear of the property. The house, Hawkwood was starting to realize, was like a rabbit warren. They ducked through the aperture and found themselves in yet another cramped room. A row of coat hooks ran along one wall. The only notable item of furniture was an old wooden desk.

They both saw it at the same time: a pale ribbon of light at the base of the far wall.

With a nod of agreement from Jago, Hawkwood stepped forward and hauled the door open.

It was smaller in scale than the operating room at Guy’s, but the design was almost identical: a series of wooden benches rising in semi-circular tiers towards the ceiling. In the well of the amphitheatre, framed within the light of a hundred candles, two men dressed in shirtsleeves and bloodstained aprons were bent over an oval table. Between them lay the naked body of a young woman.

At the sound of footsteps, the two men turned, faces frozen in shock.

“It’s over, Colonel,” Hawkwood said. “Put the knife down. Move away.”

Titus Hyde stood perfectly still.

Hawkwood looked at Hyde’s companion. “That goes for you, too, Surgeon Carslow.” Hawkwood raised the pistol. “And that’s an order, not a request.”

Slowly the two men stepped away. Jago gave a sharp intake of breath as the body on the table came into view.

A sheet covered the lower half of the woman’s torso. If it had been placed there to preserve the victim’s modesty, it had been a gesture too late. In a scene almost indistinguishable from the autopsy in Surgeon Quill’s dead house, Hawkwood saw that the woman’s chest had been cut open. The flesh on either side of the incision was on the point of being peeled back. Had her screams not told him already, Hawkwood did not need to be informed that Molly Finn was beyond help. In death, her young face, framed by her mane of blonde hair, looked remarkably serene; an expression undoubtedly in sharp contrast to the fear and terror she must have felt in the moments before Hyde cut into her with his scalpel. Wordlessly, Hawkwood pulled the sheet over the rest of her.

His eyes moved to the second table and the object that rested upon it. There was a covering sheet here, too. Cautiously, Hawkwood lifted it away and found himself looking down into a shallow metal trough. The trough was filled with a honey-coloured liquid. Immersed in the liquid was another body.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Hyde said. There was a note of pride in his voice.

The corpse might have been beautiful once, Hawkwood supposed; perhaps in the full bloom of life. It had arms and legs and breasts and was undoubtedly female, but beautiful wasn’t a word he would have used to describe what he was looking at now. The flesh had the appearance of melted wax. A patchwork of stitching, clearly visible along the arms, thighs, hips and hairline, indicated where the sections of skin excised from the Bart’s cadavers had been transplanted. An incision had been made in the chest wall and the skin had been folded away, following the same procedure Hyde had been in the midst of performing on Molly Finn. But whereas Molly Finn’s face still retained its colour and the freshness of youth, the face on this body looked about a thousand years old. It reminded Hawkwood of the monkey head he’d seen in one of the jars upstairs.

On the floor of the operating room, adjacent to the second table, was a cluster of cylindrical objects, about a dozen in all, each approximately half the height of a man. They were columns of metal discs. The top of each stack was connected to its immediate neighbour by a strand of copper wire. Hawkwood did not need to be told what he was looking at. It was an electrical battery.

Hawkwood swallowed bile. He turned. “You really believe you can perform miracles, Colonel?”

Hyde held up his blood-stained hands. “With these, yes.”

“You’re not God, Colonel.”

“No, I’m a surgeon.”

“And that gives you the right to commit murder? I thought physicians took some kind of oath.”

“She’s my daughter. She was taken from me. I have the power to restore her. I can make her whole again. I can turn back time.”

“Daughter? She’s not your daughter, Colonel. She never will be. I’m not even sure you could even call that thing a she. That’s what the sack-’em-up men call them, by the way: things. All that thing is now is skin and bone and whatever fluid she’s embalmed in. You think she’s beautiful? God help you. Molly Finn was beautiful, before you butchered her. What in God’s name were you after, Hyde? What had this poor girl ever done to you? Good Christ, you’ve killed three people – and for what? A bag of bones in a bathtub? You really are insane.”

Hawkwood turned his gaze on Hyde’s companion. “I wonder what that makes you, Surgeon Carslow?”

“You don’t understand,” Carslow said.

“Don’t I? Well, maybe you could enlighten me. I knew someone had to be helping him. It had to be someone with the money; and you, Carslow, you’ve got more money than God. And this is how you choose to spend it?”

Hawkwood turned back to Hyde. “Your friend here told me he never visited Bethlem, but that didn’t stop the two of you corresponding, did it? What did you do, Colonel? Write out a shopping list? What did you send him first, I wonder? The drawing you got from James Matthews? All this equipment doesn’t come cheap. You’d need to have had it specially made. And he’d have told you about this place being empty, of course: your old school. You must have jumped at the chance. It’s even got its own operating room. How’s that for convenience? I did wonder how you knew who I was, too, but then I realized it had to have been Carslow here who gave you my name and description. It must have been damned cold, hanging around Bow Street, waiting for me to turn up. Oh, and it was Sawney who gave you up, Colonel, in case you were wondering how we got here. He’s dead, by the way. They all are. It’s been a busy night.”

Hawkwood smiled. “Still, look on the bright side: we saved Jack Ketch a job. That way, he can concentrate on the two of you.” Hawkwood turned to Eden Carslow. “What? You think keeping silent won’t incriminate you? It’s too bloody late for that.”

Carslow blanched, recovered quickly, and drew himself up. “You know nothing. You think science stands still? Tell that to Leonardo and Galileo, and John Hunter. It’s surgeons like John Hunter and Titus Hyde, men who are prepared to take that first step beyond the frontiers of knowledge, who light the way for others. You’ve been in the wars, Hawkwood, you’ve seen men like Colonel Hyde work, you’ve seen the miracles they can perform. I suspect you’ve even had occasion to thank men like Titus Hyde for sewing you back together after some bloody encounter. How do you think he acquired that sort of skill? It was because the men before him dared to explore beyond their boundaries.”

“You can save the lecture, Carslow. I’m not one of your damned students. I’m not impressed. You’ll go down as his accomplice. Hell of an end to an illustrious career, don’t you think? Swinging from a gibbet. I wonder what your students will think of that? You never know, you being a condemned murderer, they could end up with your body to dissect. Now that would impress me.”

Carslow went pale.

You don’t look so hale and hearty now, Hawkwood thought. Do you?

Hyde’s thin lips split for the first time. “My dear Captain, you don’t seriously think that’s what’s going to happen? You can’t be that naïve. They don’t hang surgeons, Hawkwood. We’re at war. Who do you think is going to put all those wounded warriors back together again?”

Hawkwood said nothing. He could see that the look on Jago’s face was murderous.

Hyde gave a contemptuous snort. “Who was it you spoke with? McGrigor? That sanctimonious Scot! Calls himself the Surgeon-General? He might have succeeded him, but he’s not fit to clean John Hunter’s shoes. The man’s more concerned about offending God than serving the cause of science. What did he tell you? That they refused to hand me over because we don’t take orders from the French? You think that was the sole reason? You’ve been a soldier, Captain. You’ve seen inside the tents. You know what it’s like: the hopelessness, the futility. Think of the potential, if we can learn to harvest the dead to heal the living. If we can accomplish that, the possibilities are endless. Good God, man, you think I’d have been removed from duty if the Frogs hadn’t found that damned cellar? The reason they didn’t hand me over was because they need surgeons like me to heal British soldiers.

“You said it yourself: the worst they’ll do is put me back in Bedlam. The war won’t last for ever. When it’s over and the Frogs are back in their pond, I’ll be supping brandy in the officers’ mess. In the meantime, I’ll be able to renew my acquaintance with Dr Locke. As I said, not the brightest of fellows, but in a place like Bethlem one has to be grateful for what one can get. I’ll be needing a new chess opponent, though. Still, mustn’t grumble. The parson served his purpose. Interesting, the two of us meeting again. Strange coincidence, him visiting the hospital, don’t you think?

“You did know Tombs was an army chaplain? That we were colleagues back in Spain? Ah, perhaps not, from the look on your face. Why, he was a regular visitor to the hospital tents. The scars on his face – he got those courtesy of a French mortar round. I was the one who stitched him back together afterwards. Ironic, don’t you think? He was most grateful, mind you. Even offered to deliver letters for me when I was in hospital. You were right when you accused Eden of corresponding with me. The Reverend Tombs was our winged messenger, our Hermes.”

Hyde feigned forgetfulness. “But I digress. Where was I …? Ah, yes, I remember. No, they won’t hang us, Captain Hawkwood. We’re too damned valuable.”

“Not to me,” Hawkwood said.

Hyde’s eyes widened as, in a move almost too fast to follow, Hawkwood raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger.

He heard Carslow gasp. There was a flash, but that was all. In that instant Hawkwood knew the pistol had misfired. Although the flint had struck the frizzen and ignited the powder in the pan, the flash had failed to penetrate the hole in the side of the barrel. The only thing the pistol had discharged was smoke.

And Hyde was gone.

The man was fast. Hawkwood had forgotten how fast. One minute Hyde was there, the next he wasn’t.

“Door!” Jago threw his pistol up, brought it to bear. Hawkwood had a glimpse of a darting figure entering a patch of shadow beyond the arc of the candle glow and then it vanished.

“No!” Hawkwood pointed back at Carslow, who was standing open-mouthed, struck dumb by the escalation of events. “Mind him! Hyde’s mine!”

Hawkwood ran.

It was immediately apparent as he plunged through the doorway, that he’d entered a different world. There were no dingy passages here, no dark stairways, no bare boards. What he found instead was a long, portrait-lined corridor, with an open door at the far end. Not stopping to wonder at the contrast, he raced down the darkened corridor. Passing through the door, he found himself in what looked to be a large reception room, devoid of furniture. Neither was there artificial illumination, but the shutters on the tall windows were open, allowing the cold moonlight to pour in. He pulled up. Where was Hyde?

“Sawney said you were a bastard. He was right,” a voice said behind him.

Hawkwood spun. Hyde was standing perfectly still. A sword was in his hand, the point resting on the floor by his foot. He had divested himself of the blood-splattered apron. He looked perfectly at ease. His face was grey in the moonlight. His eyes were black and as hard as stone.

Hawkwood assumed Hyde had taken the sword from one of the racks on the wall. The room was lined with them. It was clear now why there was no furniture. This must have been where Hyde had obtained the sword-stick he’d been carrying the other evening. The selection of weapons displayed around the room’s perimeter was hugely impressive and would have done justice to a regimental armoury. There weren’t just swords, Hawkwood saw, there were pole-arms, too. Stilettos, sabres and foils vied for space with halberds, glaives, guisarmes and pikes.

“I can see you’re wondering where you are,” Hyde said. “This was Hunter’s house, too. He owned both properties. Go through those rooms and out of the front door and you’ll find yourself in Leicester Square. He had all this part built on afterwards – the operating room, everything. There was even a museum for his specimens. He welcomed his patrons and his patients through the door in Leicester Square and he took delivery of his bodies in Castle Street. Fascinating, isn’t it?

“They used to call this the conversazione room,” Hyde continued blithely. “It was his reception room. Curious that its purpose is now to do with the teaching of combat rather than the art of conversation. From soirées to swordplay, eh? Who’d have thought? They’ve preserved it rather well, though, don’t you think? The paintings aren’t the originals, of course. They were sold off with the rest of the contents when Hunter died. That’s when the main house was rented out. I’m not sure who was here before, but it’s a fencing academy now; a place for the sons of the nobility to learn the noble science. That’s what they call it, you know. Hunter would probably find that ironic, too.” Hyde gave a little laugh.

“Fortunately for me, the maître d’armes is indisposed. He’s recovering from a rather severe wound inflicted by an over-enthusiastic pupil. By a happy coincidence he is also one of Eden Carslow’s patients. We had the place to ourselves until you blundered in.”

Hawkwood watched the blade. He wondered what his chances were of getting to a weapon. He wondered why Hyde hadn’t attacked him as soon as he’d entered the room. It occurred to him that it had probably been Hyde’s intention to lead him here in the first place.

Hawkwood gauged the distance to the wall. It would be close. The colonel was quick on his feet. He, on the other hand, was still wearing his bloody coat. That was bound to slow him down. There was no button on the point of Hyde’s weapon, Hawkwood saw.

“How’s the arm?” Hyde said. “I almost forgot to ask. If it’s giving you pain, you should let me take a look at it. The cut on your cheek looks as if it’s healing nicely, though.”

Hyde smiled suddenly. “By the way, did you know – and this really is a most extraordinary coincidence – that I attended the Delancey boy after you’d shot him? Couldn’t do anything for him, of course. He was stone dead. A pistol ball to the heart will do that.”

Hawkwood stared at him. Delancey had been the Guards’ officer he’d killed in a duel following the battle at Talavera. Delancey had called him out after Hawkwood accused him of recklessly endangering his men. But for Wellington’s intervention, Hawkwood would have been cashiered and shipped home. Instead, he’d joined Colquhoun Grant’s intelligence unit as liaison with the guerrilleros.

“Made me wonder how you might be with a sword instead of a pistol. Ever used a blade, Hawkwood?”

“Occasionally,” Hawkwood said.

“Really? Ah, yes, but you were an officer, weren’t you? Eden told me. Well, how about it?”

“How about what?”

“Why, man to man, what else? At least I’m giving you more of a fighting chance than you were willing to give me back there. Tell you what; I’ll make it easier for you. Here, catch –”

Hyde tossed the rapier high towards him. Had it not been for the moonlight catching on the turning blade, Hawkwood would have lost sight of it in the air. But the high parabola had been a deliberate ploy, providing Hyde with the opportunity to re-arm himself. By the time the weapon was in Hawkwood’s hand, Hyde had turned and retrieved a second sword from the rack behind him. “You might find it easier if you removed your coat.”

Hawkwood hesitated. This is madness, he thought.

“Well?” Hyde said. The challenge in the soft voice was unmistakable.

Hawkwood took off his coat, dropped it to the floor. He heard Hyde chuckle.

There was, Hawkwood discovered, a distinct chill in the room. He looked towards the windows. There wasn’t a lot of light coming in. He wondered if the snow that Jago had predicted was finally on its way.

Hyde attacked. His sword arm was a blur as the rapier blade plunged towards Hawkwood’s throat.

Instinctively, Hawkwood parried, quarte to prime. The room rang as blade clashed on blade. Hawkwood riposted, drove the point of his sword down towards Hyde’s flank. Hyde parried easily, disengaged, and withdrew.

“I see you have some knowledge,” Hyde said dismissively.

Hawkwood knew then that Hyde’s opening gambit had been merely a reconnaissance to test his reflexes. A good swordsman’s strategy was dictated by his opponent’s defensive actions. Hyde would have seen how Hawkwood held his sword, how he moved, and the speed at which he had executed his response. The second attack was likely to be more aggressive, but probably still exploratory.

Hawkwood waited.

Hyde’s next foray was a strike towards Hawkwood’s sword arm. Hawkwood parried, using his forte and the curve of his sword guard to deflect the blade. He riposted towards Hyde’s flank. Hyde parried and moved in again, his sword blade flickering in the light from the windows. Hawkwood parried, riposted, and lunged towards his opponent’s right side. Hyde brought his sword up and Hawkwood withdrew his feint. As he did so, he turned his wrist palm down and slashed his sword back-handed towards Hyde’s belly. He felt the point rasp across Hyde’s chest, heard Hyde grunt as the blade raked the underside of his throat. As Hyde twisted, Hawkwood stepped back before Hyde could riposte. Hyde lifted his hand to his breast and chin and stared at the blood on his fingers. He looked up. There was a new understanding in his dark eyes.

Suddenly, he launched himself forward. Hawkwood barely had time to react as the edge of Hyde’s blade slashed towards his ribs. Hawkwood sucked in air, brought his sword around and felt the nerves in his wrist jar as his blade caught the full force of Hyde’s attack. He heard Hyde grunt. Hawkwood pushed Hyde’s blade away and adjusted his grip in preparation for the colonel’s next offensive.

Hyde came in again. Sword held high, Hawkwood moved to block the cut, realized, too late, that he’d misread the signal and felt a searing pain lance down his right arm as the point of Hyde’s blade sliced across his bicep. He heard Hyde’s hiss of pleasure at the contact.

It was time to end it.

Hawkwood snapped a strike towards Hyde’s sword arm. Hyde flicked the blade away with contemptuous ease and scythed his sword towards Hawkwood’s ribcage. Hawkwood smashed Hyde’s blade aside. Hyde counter-attacked. Hawkwood brought his sword across the front of his body and struck hard on the outside of Hyde’s blade, driving it down and away. As Hyde’s shoulders began to turn, Hawkwood made his move. Sidestepping left, he spun right, turning into his opponent and locking his left arm over Hyde’s sword arm. Hyde was a slender man with a long reach. By stepping forward into Hyde’s attack and thus shortening the distance between them, Hawkwood had reduced his opponent’s room to manoeuvre. Hyde’s cadence was disrupted.

Ignoring the shriek of agony from the wound in his arm, Hawkwood slammed his body against Hyde’s shoulder until they were almost back to back. As Hyde fought for balance, Hawkwood reversed direction, using the outside of his rigid left arm as a fulcrum to force Hyde’s sword arm away from his body. He felt the wound in his arm open and the warm flow of blood, but continued the turn, straightened, and brought himself back to the vertical. Completely wrong-footed by the speed of Hawkwood’s attack, Hyde found himself stranded, his sword arm held adrift, his guard destroyed, and the point of Hawkwood’s sword hovering a paper’s width from his left eye.

And yet, Hawkwood saw, there was no fear there, only a kind of awe, giving way to respect and then uncertainty.

“There was a fencing master called John Turner,” Hawkwood said. “His speciality was killing his opponent by putting the point of his sword through the eye. I killed someone through the eye once. Pierced his brain with an auger. But there’s another attack, supposed to have been perfected by a French master, name of Le Flamand. He called it the botte de Nouilles. The blade enters between the eyes …” Hawkwood shifted the point of the blade an inch and a half to the right. “There’s a weak spot, I’ve been told. Not sure if that’s true, though.”

Hyde frowned.

Hawkwood thrust the blade home.

The point went in with very little resistance. Hyde’s eyes widened with surprise. They were still open as Hawkwood withdrew the blade and stepped away. He watched as Hyde’s corpse pitched forward and hit the floor. He looked down on the still body for several seconds. Then, retrieving his coat, he threw the sword aside and strode out of the room.

Jago looked up with relief as Hawkwood emerged from the darkness.

Hawkwood sighed wearily. “Go home, Carslow.”

He heard Jago gasp. “You ain’t serious?”

The surgeon stared towards the door through which Hawkwood and Hyde had disappeared. “You heard, Carslow. Go home.” Hawkwood fixed the surgeon with a steel gaze. “But be sure to present yourself at Bow Street before midday. I don’t want to have to come looking for you. And if I were you, I wouldn’t plan on holding any lectures for a while either.”

His composure destroyed, the blood drained from Carslow’s face. Hawkwood turned on his heel. “Coming, Sergeant?”

James Read was standing in front of his fire, staring into the flames. He looked, Hawkwood thought, more than a little pensive.

“A terrible business, Hawkwood.”

Hawkwood assumed the remark was rhetorical. He kept quiet.

The Chief Magistrate turned. “How is your arm?”

“Mending.”

Read nodded slowly. “I spoke with Eden Carslow.”

Hawkwood waited.

“He has accepted that his involvement with Colonel Hyde was ill-judged.”

“Ill-judged?”

“Hindsight has made him realize that he allowed loyalty to his friend to rule his head. Once events had been set in motion, it was too late to retract.”

“Too late for him to step in and save Molly Finn?”

Read pursed his lips.

“Did Carslow say what they wanted with her?”

“Molly Finn was not …” Read paused “… a specific requirement. Any female of a similar age would have sufficed. It was her heart Hyde wanted.”

Hawkwood went cold. “They were going to transfer her heart to his daughter’s corpse? Hyde was going to start her heart with his electrical machine?”

“That was his intention, yes.”

“Like John Hunter did with the Reverend Dodd.”

“Dodd?” The Chief Magistrate frowned. “I’m not familiar with that name.”

Hawkwood explained.

“I see. Yes, Carslow said that was Hyde’s plan.”

“Is it possible? Could they really have done it?”

“Hyde was convinced it could be done. Carslow confessed he did not know.”

“Didn’t know? But he went along with it.”

“He was seduced by the possibility. Carslow had no interest in resurrecting Hyde’s daughter per se. His participation was purely, he says, to enhance his knowledge.”

“I doubt he’d have told Hyde that,” Hawkwood said.

“He admitted to sharing Hyde’s belief that it will be possible one day to take organs and blood from the dead or dying and use them to prolong the life of the living. He said that if one truly believes in the advancement of surgery, one must be prepared to take risks, to push back the boundaries of science and medicine in pursuit of the greater good, the benefit of mankind. He openly acknowledged that Hyde’s abilities and grasp of anatomy were far greater than his own. The skills the colonel had gained treating the wounded on the battlefield had given him a unique understanding of how the body functions.”

“What about the girl?”

“He was deeply contrite.”

“Contrite? That’s all? Contrite?”

“He told me he felt deep remorse, also shame for his actions, but he did not express guilt and I detected none in his manner.”

“In other words, as far as he’s concerned, his only crime was getting caught.”

“Crudely put, but I suspect that may be so.”

“He’ll get away with it, won’t he?” Hawkwood said heavily.

“Carslow will certainly not face trial. There will be no precedent set this day. You know as well as I do that no surgeon has ever appeared in the dock as a result of an association with the resurrection gangs. In any case, it would be most unlikely that a figure as eminent as Eden Carslow would be taken to task.”

“He was an accomplice to murder!”

Read sighed. “The authorities have already decreed that Colonel Hyde was killed by the Reverend Tombs in Bethlem Hospital. A dead man cannot rise up and commit murder.”

“But that’s exactly what he did do,” Hawkwood said.

“The girl’s death at the hands of Colonel Hyde will go unrecorded,” Read said.

“She had a name,” Hawkwood snapped. “It was Molly Finn.”

Read’s head came up. His jaw was set. Then his face softened. “You are right. Forgive me, Hawkwood. I cannot say I like this state of affairs any more than you do.”

“Can’t you do anything?”

“Some things are beyond the remit of this office.”

The Chief Magistrate steepled his hands. “As I believe I advised you before, Hawkwood, Eden Carslow moves in privileged circles. He has powerful, influential friends. He attends the Prime Minister and at least two members of the cabinet. Molly Finn was a working girl, of little consequence. His words, not mine, I hasten to say. I found his arrogance a shade irritating, as you may imagine.”

“You mean they’re closing ranks?”

“Indeed.”

“So what next – he resumes his rounds as if nothing happened?”

“Not entirely.”

“What does that mean?”

“I understand a knighthood has been mooted. I saw no harm in advising him that such an honour bestows certain responsibilities on the recipient. I told him there could well come a time when he would be reminded of his … aberration, and his obligations to this office.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he is beholden to us.”

“So he gets a knighthood while Molly Finn goes to an early grave. Where’s the justice?”

“Justice, Hawkwood?” James Read sighed. “It is the way of the world.”

“It’s wrong.”

“Perhaps. But the world turns, there is no stopping it. It is relentless. It is inevitable.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No,” Read conceded. A silence fell between them. The fire crackled in the grate. It was Read who finally broke the spell. “How is Major Lomax?”

“He’ll live. He has more lives than a cat.”

“I am pleased to hear it. And Constable Hopkins?”

“I’ll be having words with him about the maintenance of sidearms.”

“And Sergeant Jago?”

“He was his usual efficient self.”

Read’s mouth twitched. “By the way, I’m assuming Twigg told you that he discovered the location of Hyde’s daughter’s grave?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“A very curious state of affairs.”

“How so?”

“It appears that the body was still in situ.”

“What?”

“The grave had not been tampered with. The body Hyde was attempting to resuscitate was not that of his daughter.”

“Then whose was it?”

“I doubt we shall ever know the answer to that question. I suspect, if anyone could shed light on the mystery, it would be Eden Carslow. He told me that Hyde had asked him to obtain the corpse.”

“He told you that?”

“In one of his more unguarded moments.”

“He wouldn’t have dug it up himself though.”

“No. He did, however, admit to making regular use of one of the resurrection gangs. A porter at St Thomas’s by the name of Butler is his liaison. Butler, you will be interested to know, is also a former military man. He was an associate of Sawney’s during the war. It would be ironic if Sawney was hired to retrieve the daughter’s body. Twigg tells me the grave was constructed of stone and protected by a metal grille. I think it’s safe to assume that Sawney and his cohorts, if indeed it was them, would have considered that particular exhumation to be too exacting. They evidently obtained another body instead and kept quiet about it. I doubt Carslow knew. Colonel Hyde, of course, had never met his daughter. He placed his reliance on Carslow to retrieve the body and preserve it until his escape. Carslow stored the corpse at 13 Castle Street …” The Chief Magistrate’s brow creased. “It was fortunate you found that note.”

“What are they going to do with the place?”

“No decision has been made. The contents will most likely be moved to Lincoln’s Inn to join the rest of John Hunter’s collection. I’ve yet to receive an explanation as to why they were not removed earlier when the house was closed. It appears to have been an oversight.”

“God Almighty,” Hawkwood said.

“Indeed. The Lord does work in mysterious ways. Which, incidentally, brings me to another mystery. I’m intrigued and not a little concerned to learn of the fire which consumed the Black Dog public house. I understand the owner and his sons died in the blaze, along with Sawney and his associates.”

“So I heard,” Hawkwood said. “A terrible business.”

“Indeed. So you would have no knowledge of how the fire might have started? It was down to good fortune that it did not spread to the surrounding buildings, though I believe the neighbours were able to offer some assistance. This morning’s early snowfall would also have helped to dampen it down.” The Chief Magistrate looked towards the window.

“Probably a stray spark,” Hawkwood said, moving towards the door. “You know how easy things like that can happen.”

James Read turned and looked down the end of his long nose.

Hawkwood paused, hand on the door knob, and nodded past the Chief Magistrate towards the newly installed fireguard. “Could happen to anyone, sir …”

Read’s eyes narrowed.

Closing the door behind him, Hawkwood smiled grimly at Ezra Twigg, who was seated at his desk in the ante-room, and murmured softly under his breath, “… even surgeons.”