Resurrectionist

2

Hawkwood stared stonily through the railings at the state of the building he was about to enter. Despite having dominated the area for centuries and become ingrained in the public consciousness, the place still held a morbid fascination, even if it was collapsing into ruin.

The original façade had been some five hundred feet in length, modelled, so it was said, on the Tuileries Palace in Paris. In its prime, the building must have been a magnificent sight.

Not any longer. The place had been falling apart for years, subsidence and rot having taken its toll. The east wing had already been demolished, following a damning surveyor’s report. Only half of the original building remained and that was little more than a shell. It was no longer a palace but a slum, as shoddy and as run down as the houses and second-hand furniture shops that occupied the narrow streets around it.

Hawkwood had never visited the hospital, though he’d lost count of the times he’d walked past the place, and he couldn’t recall a single occasion when he hadn’t experienced a dark sense of foreboding. Bethlem had that effect.

He glanced up. Above him, surmounting the posts either side of the entrance gates, were two reclining stone statues. Both were male, naked and badly eroded, victims of more than a century’s exposure to wind and rain and the capital’s filthy air. The wrists of the right-hand figure were linked by a thick chain and heavy manacles. The statue’s head was tilted, the carved mouth was open in a silent scream of despair, as if warning passers-by of the cruel reality concealed behind the gates.

He heard laughter, the happy sound at once at odds with the cheerless surroundings. He looked over his right shoulder. There’d been a time when Moor Fields had been counted among the capital’s greatest visitor attractions, its landscaped lawns and wide walkways framed by neat railings and tall, elegant elm trees inspiring tributes from artists and poets.

Most of that had long since disappeared. What had once been a smooth, green, manicured meadow was now a meagre desert of bare earth and weeds. What remained of the railings were bent and broken. The trees that lined the pathways looked listless and unkempt in the dull morning light. Parts of the encompassing lawn had suffered from chronic subsidence, creating, after stormy nights, rainwater-filled depressions. It was from the edge of one of these shallow ponds that the laughter had originated. Two small boys were playing with a toy galleon, re-enacting some naval engagement, totally immersed in their imaginary battle, oblivious to the incongruity of the moment.

Hawkwood turned away. Climbing the steps, he entered the courtyard and made his way across to the hospital’s main entrance. There were niches either side of the door. In each one there stood a painted wooden alms box. One was in the shape of a male youth. The other was a bare-breasted female figure. Above them was an inscription encouraging the visitor to make a contribution to the hospital funds. Ignoring the carved inducement, Hawkwood pulled on the bell, and waited.

A small hatchway was set in the door. The hatch cover slid back and a pair of hooded eyes appeared in the opening.

“Officer Hawkwood. Bow Street. Here to see Apothecary Locke.”

The face disappeared from view and the hatch slammed shut. There was the sound of a bolt being released and the door swung open.

Inside, the building was pungent with the smell of piss and shit and damp straw. Hawkwood had skirted Smithfield on his way to the hospital and the reek from the piles of horse, cattle and sheep dung left behind from the previous day’s market hung in the air, strong enough to make the eyes water. For a moment he thought he might have tracked something in on the sole of his boot and he lifted his foot to check. Nothing; the fetid odour must be part of the building’s fabric.

The door closed heavily behind him.

A cleaning operation was in full spate. Mops and pails were in liberal use in a bid to restore some semblance of order after the night’s storm. Judging by the amount of dark seepage still trickling down the walls and across the uneven floor, it looked like a losing battle. Despite the activity, the atmosphere appeared subdued. Most of the workers were toiling in silence. Present among the cleaning gang were several unsmiling men in blue coats. Hospital staff, Hawkwood supposed.

The porter who had let him in, a thin man with a long nose and lugubrious expression, stepped away from the door. “Apothecary’s in ’is office. I’ll have someone take you up.” The porter caught the eye of one of the blue-coated men and beckoned. “Mr Leech? Officer Hawkwood. He’s from Bow Street.”

The blue-coated attendant nodded. “Been expectin’ you. Follow me.”

Hawkwood fell in behind his guide as he climbed the stairway to the first-floor landing. Conditions here didn’t look to be any better than those at ground level.

The upstairs gallery ran the full length of the building, divided at intervals by floor-to-ceiling openwork grilles. The left-hand side of the gallery was occupied by cells, so the grey morning light could only enter by the windows along the opposite north wall. It barely supplemented the inadequate candle glow.

The smell was worse than down below and when he passed one of the open cell doors and saw what lay in the cramped room beyond, Hawkwood understood why.

There was a low wooden cot with a straw-filled mattress. Seated upon the mattress was a man, or at least what appeared to be a man. He was desperately thin. His face was as pale and as pointed as a shrew’s. A soiled woollen blanket covered the lower half of his body except for his feet, which protruded from beneath the filthy material like two pale white slugs. It was clear that beneath the covering the patient was naked from the waist down. He was wearing a grey shirt and yellow handkerchief around his neck but it was his headwear that caught Hawkwood’s attention: a red skullcap, beneath which was wrapped a loose, once-white bandage. Hawkwood found himself transfixed, not just by the man’s expression, which was one of abject misery, but by the iron harness fastened around his chest and upper arms and the iron ring around his throat. The ring was attached by a chain to a wooden pole that ran vertically from the corner of the cot to a bracket in the ceiling. As the blanket slipped off one scabby leg Hawkwood saw that there was another strap around the man’s ankle, attached by a second chain secured to the edge of the cot. It was clear from the state of him that the man was sitting in his own waste.

The attendant spotted the revulsion on Hawkwood’s face and followed the Runner’s gaze. A sneer creased his lip. “What you lookin’ at, Norris?”

Hawkwood watched as a single tear trickled slowly down the shackled man’s emaciated cheek.

The attendant seemed not to notice but turned abruptly and continued along the gallery. Hawkwood tore his eyes away from the open door and followed his guide.

Most of the cells they passed were occupied, with the majority housing more than one patient. It was clear that Norris wasn’t the only one who was chained up. Even in the darkened interiors Hawkwood could see that a number of patients, both male and female, were similarly restrained. Several more blue-coated keepers were in attendance, some supervising patients or else engaged in cleaning duties.

The attendant led Hawkwood along the wing, finally stopping outside a door with a brass plate upon which was etched Apothecary. Leech knocked on the door and awaited the summons from within. When it came, he opened the door, spoke briefly to the occupant then indicated for Hawkwood to enter.

It was an austere room, darkly furnished and, like the rest of the building, it carried an overwhelming air of dampness and decay. There were a great number of books. On the wall immediately behind the desk were tier upon tier of shelves, filled with rolled documents. Patients’ records, Hawkwood assumed.

Apothecary Robert Locke was not the authoritative figure Hawkwood had been expecting. He had envisioned someone middle-aged, with an academic air. Locke, on the other hand, looked to be in his mid thirties, stocky, with a studious countenance and a slight paunch. His youthful face, framed by a pair of small, round spectacles, looked pale and drawn. He turned from the window where he had been standing in thoughtful pose and greeted Hawkwood with a formal, yet hesitant nod.

“Your servant, Officer Hawkwood. Thank you for coming. I’ve asked Mr Leech to remain, by the way, as it was he who admitted the Reverend Tombs into the hospital last night.”

Hawkwood said nothing. He looked from the keeper to the apothecary. Both eyed him expectantly.

“Forgive me,” Hawkwood said. “I was wondering why I was instructed to ask for the apothecary. Why am I not seeing the physician in charge, Dr Monro?”

A look passed between the two men. Apothecary Locke pursed his lips. “I’m afraid Dr Monro is unavailable. His responsibilities cover a rather broad – how shall I put it? – canvas. He has other duties that also demand his attention.”

What might have been a smirk flickered across Attendant Leech’s face.

“And yet he’s in charge of the hospital, and therefore of the patients’ welfare, is he not?”

Locke nodded. “That is so. However, he is by title only the visiting physician and thus is not required to attend the premises on a daily basis. He oversees prescriptions to patients two days a week and attends the governors’ sub-committee meeting on Saturday mornings.”

“And the rest of the time?”

There was just the slightest hesitation, barely noticeable, but it was there nevertheless.

“I understand the majority of his time is spent at his academy, commissioning and, er … setting up his exhibits.”

“His what?” Hawkwood wondered if he’d heard correctly.

“His paintings, Officer Hawkwood. Dr Monro is a respected patron of the arts. I understand Mr Turner used to be one of his many protégés.”

“Turner?”

“The artist. He has received many plaudits for his works. His forte is landscapes, I believe.”

“I know who Turner is,” Hawkwood snapped.

The apothecary stiffened and blinked. The look that flickered across the bespectacled face suggested that Locke’s expectation of a Bow Street emissary had probably run to a ponderous, black-capped, blue-waistcoated conductor of the watch with an ingratiating manner and a pot-belly. Patently what the apothecary had not made provision for was an arrogant, long-haired, scar-faced, well-dressed ruffian with a passing knowledge of the arts.

For his part, Hawkwood recalled Locke’s initial response to his question. The apothecary’s turn of phrase had seemed a little odd at the time, as had the emphasis on the word “canvas”. All was now becoming clear. He hadn’t imagined Attendant Leech’s smirk. The unmistakable whiff of resentment hung in the air. There might be more to this timid-faced apothecary than he had first thought. And that was certainly an avenue worth exploring.

“Forgive me, Doctor, it just seemed curious to me that the hospital’s chief physician would appear to spend rather more time with his paintings than his patients. However, there’s another doctor on the staff, I believe: Surgeon Crowther? Or have his duties taken him elsewhere, too?”

Hawkwood allowed just the right amount of sarcasm to creep into his voice. His tactic was rewarded. This time, the apothecary’s reaction was less restrained. He flushed and coughed nervously.

Over his shoulder, Hawkwood heard Attendant Leech shift his feet.

Locke’s eyes flickered towards the sound. “I’d be obliged, Mr Leech, if you would be so good as to wait outside.”

The attendant hesitated then nodded. Locke waited until the door had closed. He turned back to Hawkwood. Removing his spectacles, he extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish each lens. “I regret that Surgeon Crowther is …” the apothecary pursed his lips “… indisposed.”

“Really? How so?”

Locke placed his spectacles back on his nose and tucked away his handkerchief.

“The man’s a drunkard. I haven’t seen him for three days. I suspect he’s either at home soaking up the grape or lying in a stupor in some Gin Lane grog shop.”

This time there was no mistaking the edge in the apothecary’s voice. It was sharp enough to cut glass. “Which is why you are talking to the apothecary, Officer Hawkwood. Does that answer your question? Now, perhaps you would care to see the body?”

Attendant Leech led the way.

As they were going down the stairs, the apothecary paused as if to collect his thoughts. Allowing Leech to get a few steps ahead of them, he took a deep breath. “My apologies, Officer Hawkwood. You must think me indiscreet. I fear I rather let my tongue run away with me, but it has been somewhat difficult of late, what with the surveyors’ final report and the notice and so forth.”

“Notice?” Hawkwood said.

“The building’s been condemned. Hadn’t you heard?” The apothecary made a face. “Some would say not before time. You saw that the east wing’s already gone? That used to house the male patients. Since its destruction we’ve had to move the men into the same gallery as the women; not the most suitable arrangement, as you may imagine. It’s fortunate we’re not operating at full capacity. When I started there were double the number of patients there are now. Hopefully we’ll have more room when we move to our new quarters, though goodness knows when that will be.”

They descended a few more steps, then Locke said, “A site has been procured, at St George’s Field. Plans have been agreed, though there’s been some doubt about the funding. You may have seen the subscription campaign for donations in The Times? Ah, well, no matter. Unfortunately, attention has been diverted to the New Bethlem very much at the expense of the old one. We have been abandoned, Officer Hawkwood. Some might even say betrayed. Which accounts for the deplorable state of repairs you see before you.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs. A few of the keepers nodded as the apothecary passed. Most of them ignored him and continued to swab the floor.

“I’ve a hundred and twenty patients in my care, male and female, and less than thirty unskilled staff to tend them. That includes attendants, maidservants, cooks, washerwomen and gardeners – though God knows there’s scant need for their services. I’m required to sleep on the premises and to make rounds every morning, dispense advice and medicines and direct the keepers in the management of the patients. Note that I said ‘direct’, Officer Hawkwood. I have no authority over them, save in the supervision of their daily schedule. I’m not permitted to dismiss or even discipline the keepers, despite the fact that many of them are frequently the worse for drink. My complaints continue to fall on deaf ears. Wait, did I say ‘deaf’? Absent would be a better word.”

They had left the rattle of mops and pails behind them. The damp smell, however, seemed to follow them along the corridor.

The apothecary’s nose twitched. “Is this your first visit, Officer Hawkwood?”

Admitting that it was, Hawkwood wondered where the question was leading.

“And what was the first thing that struck you when you walked through the door? I beg you to be truthful.” As he spoke, the apothecary sidestepped nimbly around a puddle.

“The smell,” Hawkwood said, without hesitation.

The apothecary stopped and turned to face him. “Indeed, Officer Hawkwood, the smell. The place reeks. It reeks of four centuries of human excreta. Bethlem is a midden; it’s where London discharges its waste matter. This is the city’s dung heap and it has become my onerous duty to ensure that the reek is contained.”

Hawkwood knew it was going to be bad. He’d seen it in the pallor on Locke’s face, in the expression of dread in the young apothecary’s eyes, in the quickening of his breath and the faint yet distinct tremor in Leech’s hand as the keeper had unlocked the door.

The window shutters were open but, as the morning sky was overcast, the room was suffused in a spectral half-light. When he entered, Hawkwood felt as if all the warmth had been sucked from his body. He wondered whether that was due to the temperature or his growing feeling of unease. He’d seen death many times. He’d witnessed it taking place and had visited it upon his enemies, both on the battlefield and elsewhere, and yet, as soon as his eyes took in his surroundings, he knew this was going to be different to anything he had experienced.

He heard the apothecary murmur instructions to Attendant Leech, who began to move around the room lighting candle stubs. Gradually, the shadows started to retreat and the cell’s layout began to take form, as did its contents.

It was not one room, Hawkwood saw, but two, separated by a low archway, as if two adjoining cells had been turned into one by removing a section of the intervening wall. Even so, with its cold stone floor and dark, dripping walls, the cell resembled a castle dungeon more than a hospital room. Hawkwood recalled a recent investigation into a forgery case which had taken him to Newgate to interview an inmate. The gaol was a black-hearted, festering sore. The cells there had been dank hellholes. The design of this place, he realized, looked very similar, even down to the bars on the windows.

In the immediate area, there were a few sticks of rudimentary furniture: a table, two chairs, a stool, a slop pail in the corner, close to what looked to be the end of a sluice pipe, and a narrow wooden cot pushed against the wall. On top of the cot could be seen the vague shape of a human form covered by a threadbare woollen blanket.

The apothecary approached the cot. He straightened, as if to gather himself. “Bring the candle closer, Mr Leech, if you please.” He turned to Hawkwood. “I must warn you to prepare yourself.”

Hawkwood had already done so. The pervasive scent of death had transmitted its own warning. At the same time he wondered if the dampness in the cell was a permanent phenomenon or solely a consequence of the previous night’s deluge. He could hear a faint tapping sound coming from somewhere close by and concluded it was probably rainwater dripping through a hole in the ceiling.

Locke lifted the corner of the blanket and pulled it away. Even with Leech holding the candle above the cot, in the dim light it took a second or two for the ghastly vision to sink in.

Hawkwood had seen the injuries suffered by soldiers. He’d seen arms and legs slashed and sliced by sword and bayonet. He’d seen limbs shattered by musket balls and he’d seen men turned to gruel by canister. But nothing he had seen could be compared to this.

The corpse, dressed only in undergarments, lay on its back. The body appeared to be unmarked, except for one incontrovertible fact.

It had no face.

Hawkwood held out his hand. “Give me the light.”

Leech passed over the candle. Hawkwood crouched down. From what he could see, every square inch of the corpse’s facial skin from brow to chin had been removed. All that remained was an uneven oval of raw, suppurating flesh. The eyelids were still in place, as were the lips, though they were thin and bloodless and reminded Hawkwood of the body he’d examined first thing that morning. Unlike that corpse, however, this body still possessed its tongue and teeth.

Beside him, the apothecary was staring at the corpse as though mesmerized by the epic brutality of the scene. Reaching for his handkerchief, Locke polished his spectacles vigorously and perched them back on his nose. “From what I can tell, the first incision was probably made close to the ear. The blade was then drawn around the circumference of the face, with just sufficient pressure to break through the layers of the epidermis. The blade was then inserted under the skin to pare it away, separating it from the underlying muscle in stages.” The apothecary grimaced. “It would be rather similar to filleting a fish. Eventually, this would enable him to peel and lift the entire facial features off the skull, probably in one piece, like a mask …” Locke paused. “It was skilfully done, as you can see.”

“Where the devil would a parson pick up that sort of knowledge?” Hawkwood said.

The apothecary looked puzzled. “Parson?”

“Priest, then. Reverend Tombs – isn’t that his name?”

The apothecary stiffened. He turned and threw a glance at the keeper, his eyebrows raised in enquiry. The keeper reddened and shook his head. The apothecary’s jaw tightened. He turned back. “I fear there has been a misunderstanding.”

Hawkwood looked at him.

Locke hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.

“Doctor?” Hawkwood said.

The apothecary took a deep breath, then said, “It wasn’t the priest who perpetrated this barbaric act.”

Hawkwood looked back at him.

“Reverend Tombs was not the murderer, Officer Hawkwood. He was not the one who wielded the knife. He couldn’t have done.” Locke nodded towards the body on the cot. “Reverend Tombs was the victim.”