Resurrectionist

15

Apothecary Locke turned away from his window. “You know, I’ve never considered myself a foolish man.”

Hawkwood looked at him. “I don’t recall saying you were, Doctor.”

The apothecary dipped his head and peered at Hawkwood over the rim of his spectacles. “Then perhaps you should confide in me. I may be able to help you.”

“I’m not sure I understand you, Doctor.”

“Tell me what you’re doing here,” Locke said.

“You sent for me,” Hawkwood said. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions?”

Locke raised his head. The youthfulness that Hawkwood had seen at the time of their first encounter had disappeared. There was weariness there now. The apothecary ran a hand along the edge of his desk.

“Forgive me, but on your previous visit I asked why you’d come. After all, with Colonel Hyde dead, surely the investigation was closed. You replied – somewhat curtly, as I recall – that it was for your report.” Locke smiled, almost shyly. “A logical reason, given that our first meeting was interrupted by the arrival of the constable summoning you away. You requested access to Colonel Hyde’s admission documents, and I was able to grant that. And yet, evidently, that was still not the end of it, for here we are again. I send you a message, a vague offer of information, and you arrive at my door within the hour.”

The apothecary lifted his hand and stared at the dust on the ends of his fingers, as if seeing it for the first time. Then he looked up. “I find that most curious. It leads me to believe that your investigation continues, despite Colonel Hyde’s demise. I’m wondering why that should be. I can think of only one explanation.” Leaning back against his desk, the apothecary took off his spectacles and misted the lenses with his breath. “You think Colonel Hyde is still alive, don’t you?”

The room was still. Locke reached into his sleeve and took out his handkerchief. He began to polish his spectacles vigorously.

“I don’t think Hyde’s still alive,” Hawkwood said. “I bloody know he is!” The words were out before he could stop them.

He’d expected an immediate gasp of astonishment from Locke, some show of surprise, but the apothecary’s expression remained curiously impassive. “How do you know?”

“The body in the church wasn’t Hyde’s. He made another substitution – dug up the body of a recently deceased man of similar age and build, and left it to burn in his place.”

“So the colonel must have known about the burial before he made his escape.” Locke spoke matter-of-factly.

Hawkwood nodded. “Reverend Tombs would have told him. Reverend Tombs would have told the colonel a lot of things, especially if the colonel asked the right questions.”

Which is what I should have been doing, Hawkwood thought.

Locke returned the handkerchief to his sleeve, placed his hands behind his back and began to pace the room. “So your subsequent visits here have been part of your effort to track him down?”

“Yes.”

“And what have you discovered?”

“I know he’s obtaining and dissecting dead bodies.”

Locke stopped pacing.

“Two cadavers were left outside Bart’s Hospital. Some of their insides had been removed. Parts of their skins had also been taken, including their faces.”

A nerve quivered in the apothecary’s cheek. He put his hands together as if about to pray and rested the tips of his fingers against his chin. Then he started pacing again. “Go on.”

“I know that all Colonel Hyde’s actions have had a purpose. His cultivation of the priest, the theft of the scalpel and the laudanum” – at this, Locke coloured – “the murder of Reverend Tombs, the escape, the digging up of the substitute corpse, the burning of the church to divert us from his scent, and now the mutilation of the women … I know it’s all part of some grand scheme. I just don’t know what that is.”

Locke said nothing. The silence stretched for several long seconds. Finally the apothecary moved to his desk. “Let me explain why I summoned you. I was in the colonel’s quarters and I discovered these –”

They were papers, Hawkwood saw, folded in two.

“I was gathering up the colonel’s effects,” Locke said, lifting one of the sheets and opening it out.

At first glance, it looked similar to the etchings Hawkwood had seen on the walls of the colonel’s room; a series of anatomical studies of the lower half of the torso and limbs, displayed in lifelike detail. And yet they were not the same. Hawkwood stared at the sketches. He knew his brain was telling him there was a difference but for the life of him, he couldn’t see what it was.

And then it came to him.

It was the legs. They were completely out of proportion. The thigh and calf muscles and the bones beneath the skin were clearly defined, but the limbs were too slender and elongated and it was the way they were displayed, with the thighs spread wide and the knees bent. It didn’t look natural. It looked bizarrely like the sort of pose a fencer would assume before executing a riposte, or a tumbler about to attempt a somersault. And then there was the torso, or at least what Hawkwood assumed was the torso, for it didn’t resemble anything that he’d ever seen before. In fact, it looked more like a sac of eggs. His eyes moved down. The anklebones looked too fragile to be able to bear even a modest weight and as for the feet, well, they were the oddest feature of all, each one impossibly long with the toes limp and obscenely splayed. In fact, if he didn’t know any better, they looked more like –

“Frogs,” Locke said.

“Frogs?” Hawkwood echoed, feeling immediately stupid. Of course, they were bloody frogs. What else could they have been? “Why frogs?”

“Many surgeons practise their early anatomy on the corpses of animals. Even schoolboys dissect frogs in school. Galen used to cut open apes. Eden Carslow once dissected an elephant.”

Why has he got me looking at bloody frogs? Hawkwood wondered. He stared again at the illustration. “What are these?”

The apothecary followed his finger.

Running from the muscles at the ends of the severed limbs were a series of wavy lines. The end of one of the lines was attached to whatever it was that looked like an egg sac. The other end was connected to some kind of wheel, complete with a winding handle.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The apothecary’s voice was a whisper.

“It might be if I knew what the devil it was,” Hawkwood said, though he had to admit the drawing was intriguing.

“I believe it to be an illustration of one of Galvani’s experiments. He was an Italian physician who believed that all animals possess a special electrical fluid that is generated in the brain and which passes through the nerves into the muscles. In order to prove his theory, he conducted a number of experiments with amphibians.” Locke tapped the etching with the end of his finger. “I believe that is what’s represented here.”

The apothecary indicated the lines. “I suspect these are the wires through which his fluid passes.” Locke shook his head in wonder before sliding the illustration to one side. “And then there are these.”

The second sheet contained a drawing of what looked like twelve sealed, jar-shaped containers, arranged in three rows of four. A thin tube protruded from the lid of each jar. The top of each tube was linked to the next one in line in each direction so that the jars appeared to be covered by a squared grille. The top half of each jar was transparent. The bottom half was either opaque or else the containers held some kind of liquid.

Hawkwood didn’t know why, but the illustration rang a faint bell.

“What’s this?”

“An electrical machine. Look, see, there’s more.” With excitement in his voice, Locke reached over and unfolded the third sheet. Smoothing it out, he laid it across the desk.

As soon as Locke mentioned the word “electrical”, Hawkwood knew why the drawing of the jars looked familiar. Electrical demonstrations had been a popular form of entertainment in some of the London theatres. Hawkwood had been in the audience at Astley’s when a black-cloaked master of ceremonies had exhorted several dozen giggling volunteers to form a circle and hold hands; he had then proceeded to send them into convulsions by the touch of a wire and several glass bottles. Hawkwood recalled that the women had been more susceptible to electrification than the men. He had no idea why. It hadn’t seemed to matter very much at the time. It had been an amusement, nothing more.

The third sheet made no sense at all. It showed what appeared to be a column of discs stacked one on top of the other, enclosed within four vertical retaining rods. At the base of the column was a basin-shaped container. The bottom disc was attached to the basin by what looked like a thin flow of liquid. The discs were arranged in pairs, each pair separated from the pair below by a smaller, darker-coloured disc. There were sixteen of the larger discs, making eight pairs in all. Each disc was marked by a letter; the upper disc in each pair carried the identification letter Z, the bottom disc the letter A.

“And this?” Hawkwood asked.

“The same, though I believe it represents a more advanced device.”

Hawkwood pointed to the column of discs. “All right, so what are these?”

Locke adjusted his glasses. Behind the lenses his face was quite animated. “See, there’s a key at the bottom of the page. The A represents silver; the Z is zinc. I believe it’s also possible to use copper discs instead of silver.”

“All right, Doctor, I’ll admit this is all very fascinating, but what would Colonel Hyde want with electrical machines?”

“Perhaps we should ask the man who drew them.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look at them closely. Regard the style of the illustrations and the attendant lettering. Would you say they look familiar?”

Hawkwood looked. He shook his head. “You’ve lost me, Doctor.”

Locke lifted the papers and placed them to one side. “Perhaps I can refresh your memory.”

Locke moved around the desk, opened a drawer, and took out another sheet of paper. He opened it out. “Do you remember this?”

Hawkwood recognized it. It was the drawing that Locke had shown him on his first visit: the Air Loom.

“Compare the style of the illustrations and the lettering,” Locke said. He moved aside.

Hawkwood stared at the drawings, his gaze moving from one to another, and back again. The similarity between the two was striking.

“Note the lettering in particular,” Locke said. “The bottom curlicue in the letter A, for example.”

Hawkwood followed the apothecary’s fingertip. It was undeniably the same small, neat hand.

“Matthews?” Hawkwood said. “They knew each other? But they had their own rooms. I thought you kept patients like them separated?”

Locke shrugged. “By their nature, hospitals are enclosed communities. Bethlem’s no different. Despite the popular assertion that we are England’s Bastille, we are not a prison. We do allow some patients a certain amount of fraternization. Indeed, where we feel the experience will be of benefit to the patients, we actively encourage it. We have common rooms where they can meet – under supervision, of course. James Tilly Matthews is one of our best-known residents. I remember the colonel expressing great interest in Matthews’ designs for the new hospital, and I recall seeing them in conversation on a number of occasions.”

Hawkwood looked down at the papers. He’d assumed that Hyde had spent all his time in isolation in his rooms, his only contact being the keepers and the medical staff and, latterly, the late Reverend Tombs. He hadn’t expected this.

“I want to see Matthews. Now.”

Locke nodded and picked up the drawings. “Come with me.”

The apothecary led the way along the first-floor corridor. Most of the cell doors were open. Patients were mingling freely with the blue-coated attendants.

They stopped outside a closed door and Locke murmured softly, “He does not have a very high opinion of the judiciary. It would be best, there-fore, if you do not tell him you are a police officer.”

Before Hawkwood could respond, Locke knocked twice on the door and pushed it open. “James, my dear fellow,” he announced amiably. “How are we today? May we come in?”

The room was considerably smaller than the colonel’s quarters; probably no more than twelve feet by nine. There were the same basic items of furniture, however: bed, chair, small table, and a chest. There was a sluice pipe in the corner for waste. To add to the claustrophobia, there were several shelves full of books and the walls were covered in drawings. They were all architectural plans. Hawkwood recognized a copy of the design for the new hospital. It was less detailed than the one Locke had shown him and he assumed it was an early draft. Nevertheless, the attention to detail was exceptional.

A short, compact, dark-haired man was leaning over the table. He had a pencil in one hand and a rule in the other. He did not look up, but continued to fuss over the drawing laid out before him. His pale face was fused in rapt concentration as he tapped the pencil against his right leg.

“James?” Locke said again.

The man started and turned around. “Dr Locke! Come in! Come in!”

“James, allow me to present a colleague of mine, Mr Hawkwood.”

Hawkwood found himself perused from head to toe by a pair of eyes that were as bright as buttons. “A pleasure, Mr Hawkwood!”

Locke approached the table. “James has taken up engraving. He’s working on some new architectural illustrations. Come and see.”

Hawkwood walked forward.

The drawing was of a town house; a rather grand one, with steps and a portico and an honour guard of tall trees. A ground-floor plan of the house was laid alongside. As with the sketches on the wall, the quality was exceptional.

Locke patted the patient on the shoulder. “James has plans for a magazine of architectural illustrations. What’s it to be called again? I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind. Do tell Mr Hawkwood.”

Matthews’ face lit up. “I will indeed! It’s to be called Useful Architecture. It will explain the basics of architecture for the common man. It is also my intention to provide designs, so that each reader can make use of them for his own purpose,” he added grandly.

“Doesn’t that sound like a splendid idea?” Locke said, blinking behind his spectacles.

“Splendid,” Hawkwood agreed warily.

“There’ll be hothouses for cabbages,” Matthews said suddenly. He took Hawkwood’s arm. “You do know the efficacious benefit of a good hothouse, don’t you, Mr Hawkwood? I explained it to the French but the damned fools took not a jot of notice. And look what’s happened to them,” he added darkly.

Hawkwood looked blankly at Locke, who shook his head imperceptibly, but Matthews hadn’t finished. Hanging on to Hawkwood’s arm, he drew himself up. “Each home will have its own hothouse. I shall then petition the government to commandeer the great army of the unemployed to gather up all the filth in the city. This will be transported by cart and barrow and barge to every hothouse, where it will be used as fertilizer upon the cabbages, which will grow in abundance, thus providing a nourishing supply of vegetables for the nation. Now,” he concluded triumphantly, hand on hip, “what do you think of that, sir?”

Hawkwood wondered whether the patient was waiting for applause. He rescued his sleeve. He could see that Locke was sending him warning signs across the table. Behind his spectacles, the apothecary’s eyebrows were going up and down like signal flags.

Hawkwood nodded. “That’s the thing about the French. They wouldn’t recognize a good idea if it bit them on the arse.”

There was a pause. He saw Locke’s eyebrows lift almost to his hairline. Then, beside him, James Matthews jabbed the air with his pencil. “Ha! Exactly, sir! Exactly! I couldn’t have put it better myself!” He looked down at his drawing and began to take measurements with the rule. His movements were brisk and precise.

Locke stepped forward quickly. “Well, James, we mustn’t keep you from your work. We’ll leave you to get on.”

Matthews nodded distractedly. “So much to prepare, and so little time.” He glanced up, a determined expression on his face. “One must stay busy, what?”

“Oh, absolutely, James! Indeed one must.” Locke nodded enthusiastically and then paused. “Though, before we go, I wonder if we might ask your advice. Mr Hawkwood and I are not, alas, of a technical persuasion and we were hoping you could assist us with an explanation of these –” Locke held up the papers he’d taken from the colonel’s cell. “They are quite beyond our comprehension, I’m afraid. I thought a draughtsman with your expertise could shed some light … What say you?”

Hawkwood was wondering if Locke wasn’t laying it on a bit thick, but then he saw the patient’s eyes flicker towards the papers and he remembered Locke saying that some patients thrived on companionship. On flattery and curiosity, too, it seemed. Locke was playing his patient well, like a fish on a line.

“But of course, Doctor. It would be my pleasure. What do you have there?”

Locke spread the drawings across the table.

Matthews smiled broadly when he saw the top sheet. He reached for it. “Ah, yes! Galvani!”

“Is that so?” Locke said, without a hint of guile.

“It’s his frog experiment. He dissected a frog and placed one of its legs on an iron plate. When he touched the nerve with a metal scalpel, the leg twitched violently. He reasoned, therefore, that there must be electricity in the frog. Fascinating conclusion. He was quite wrong, of course. Volta proved that.”

Another bloody name I don’t know, Hawkwood thought.

Locke lifted the paper to reveal the second drawing.

Matthews gave an exclamation of amusement. “Why, it’s one of mine!”

“We thought it might be,” Locke said, with a sideways glance towards Hawkwood. “We were wondering what it was.”

Matthews smiled indulgently. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize them, Doctor. It’s a battery of Leyden jars. They’re for storing an electrical charge. One can either fill them with water or line them with metal foil. The rods you see are made of brass. The more jars there are in the battery, the greater the charge. An electrical discharge can only be performed once, however, after which the storage process must begin again and a new charge built up. Crude, but remarkably effective,” he added breathlessly.

“How is the charge created in the first place?” Hawkwood asked, remembering the theatre audience tumbling like ninepins.

“Friction machines. The charge is collected by rubbing together different materials, such as glass globes and leather.” Matthews held up a finger. “Wait, I do believe I have an illustration.” He left the table and looked along his bookshelves. “Now then,” he muttered to himself. “Adams, Adams, Ad— ah, yes.” He took a book down, opened the cover, wet his finger and began to flick through the pages. His finger stopped moving. “Yes, here we are.” He held the page open for them to see.

“There, a child is being attended by a doctor, possibly for pain or paralysis of the forearm. The friction machine is on the table next to them.”

It was a peculiar-looking contraption, composed of a winding handle, a pulley, and several cylindrical objects with curious, curved attachments.

“You see, the cylinder generator is to the right. That would be made of glass. The main receptor, or terminal as it is sometimes called, is that object in the centre. You see the Leyden jar hanging from the rod at the end of the metal globe? A metal loop goes from the jar to a treatment fork – which, as you see, is touching the child’s forearm. When the handle is turned, the glass generator revolves, building up the charge, which is transferred to the receptor where it is stored. When a sufficient amount of charge is accumulated, the doctor discharges the electricity down the wire to the treatment fork. The result would be a sudden jolt, a stimulation of the senses, activating the nerves and muscles in the child’s arm. It can be most beneficial, I’m told. You know, Cavendish used a battery of Leyden jars to replicate the properties of the torpedo fish.”

Hawkwood realized the shock must have shown on his face, because both Matthews and Locke were throwing him odd looks.

“You’ve heard of the torpedo fish, Mr Hawkwood?” Matthews asked hesitantly.

Hawkwood found he was massaging his left shoulder. Self-consciously, he lowered his hand. “Oh, yes, I know all about bloody torpedoes.”

Matthews’ eyebrows lifted. “Do you now? How interesting. Most people don’t, you know. Poor Cavendish. They accused him of sacrilege for suggesting that a man-made machine could perform in the same way as a creature created by God. The fellow was right about the principle, though.”

Despite the illustration in the book and Matthews’ enthusiastic commentary, Hawkwood wasn’t sure he understood the principle any more than he had before. He wondered if Matthews’ explanation of the last drawing would be any easier to keep up with.

“Another of your illustrations, I believe, James,” Locke said affably, revealing the last sheet.

“So it is!” Matthews exclaimed excitedly. “Ah, now, this is the most sophisticated device of them all. You recall I mentioned Volta when we were looking at the first illustration of Galvani’s frog experiments? It was Volta who concluded there was no such thing as animal electricity, that it was, in fact, the interaction between the two dissimilar metals of the scalpel and tabletop and the salt water in the frog that created the electrical charge. He proved it by constructing what he called his pile. We call it a battery now, as it performs the same function as the friction machines and the jars. The difference with this, however, is that one does not have to store up the electricity in order to discharge it. With this, the electricity remains constant, like the current flowing in a river. There’s no need for winding handles or glass cylinders or jars. It’s all down to a chemical reaction.”

The apothecary tapped the paper. “Using zinc and silver?”

“Yes, well done! Though zinc and copper work equally well. The smaller discs separating the pairs are the equivalent of the frog. Card paper dipped in brine. If you then run one wire from the top disc and one from the bottom disc and close the circuit, the electrical current begins to flow. It’s so simple!”

“And the more discs there are, the greater the charge?” Hawkwood said.

“That’s it!” Matthews frowned and indicated the illustrations. “But how did you come by these?”

“They were left by Colonel Hyde.” Locke dropped his voice. “You know Colonel Hyde is no longer with us, James? Well, Mr Hawkwood and I were putting his things in order and we came across these among his belongings and thought you might like to have them back.”

“Why, Doctor, that’s most thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

“So, did you know Colonel Hyde well, Mr Matthews?” Hawkwood asked.

“Oh, yes. We became good friends. He promised that in exchange for my drawings he would do all he could to pursue my case with the Home Secretary. I expect to hear from him any day now.”

“I’m sure you will,” Hawkwood said. He saw Locke was looking at him. “So the colonel asked you to draw these for him, did he? And did he say why he was interested in the machines?”

“Colonel Hyde believed electricity had the power to change the world. He said one day it would be able to move mountains.”

“Did he now? And how did he think it was going to do that?”

Matthews screwed up his face and had a think, but then shook his head. “He didn’t say.”

Hawkwood stared down at the drawings. So far, everything Hyde had done, he’d done for a reason. So why had he asked Matthews to draw him these? And then Matthews said, “Do you have the other one?”

“Other one?” Locke asked blankly.

“There were three.”

“You gave the colonel three drawings?”

“Yes. Where’s the last one I did for him? He said it was the most important one of all.”

“What was it?”

“He wanted me to design a larger battery.”

“More jars?” Hawkwood said.

“Oh, no, it was the Volta battery he was referring to. He asked me if it was possible to design a more powerful device, using the same principles. I told him it was and showed him how it was done.”

“Did he say why he wanted it?”

“Yes, though I did not understand his meaning.”

Hawkwood waited.

Matthews glanced over to Locke, as if seeking permission for what he was about to say.

“What did he tell you, James?” the apothecary asked.

“He said it would bring him closer to God.”

“All right, Doctor. Suppose you tell me what’s going on here. What do you know that I don’t?”

They were back in Locke’s office. The apothecary was looking pensive.

“How much do you know about the colonel’s background, his education, his medical studies, for example?”

“I spoke with Eden Carslow. They were students together, went to the same lectures. They’d remained friends. That’s why he signed the bond. When he left London, Hyde went to study anatomy in Italy. His studies complete, he joined the army, working in field hospitals in the West Indies, South America, Ireland and Spain. That’s where it started.”

“It?” Locke frowned. “You mean his melancholy?”

“He might have been melancholic by the time he got here, but that wasn’t why they shipped him home, whatever it may say on your admission sheet.”

The apothecary paused in mid stride. “I don’t follow.”

“Colonel Hyde wasn’t returned to England because he was melancholic. It was because he was murdering French prisoners of war and using them for butchery practice. He was placed here because he was a friend of Carslow’s, and Carslow has influence with the governors.”

“What do you mean by ‘butchery practice’?”

“He was trying to rebuild them.”

“Rebuild?”

“Mend them. Or at least that’s what McGrigor, the Surgeon-General, thinks. His is the second signature on the bond. The one we couldn’t read. He said Hyde had grand ideas about the future of surgery and how one day it would be possible to mend the wounded by taking working parts from dead men’s bodies.”

Locke closed his eyes. “He got that from John Hunter.”

“He was Hyde’s anatomy teacher, his mentor. Wait – you knew of the connection?”

“I knew a little of his medical studies. He would talk about them sometimes. He was one of the few students who were fortunate to have lived under Hunter’s roof at his school in Castle Street.”

“It was Hunter who helped get Hyde his commission. Twenty years ago, it was Hunter who was Surgeon-General.”

Locke said nothing.

“That’s it, Doctor. You now know as much as I do.” Hawkwood walked to the window and looked out over Moor Fields. “Somewhere out there is a lunatic who thinks he’s God and who’s taken to cutting up the bodies of dead women, and who’s persuaded another lunatic to draw him pictures of electrical machines. I tell you now, Apothecary, I need all the help I can get, and I’m open to suggestions.”

Hawkwood turned round, and found that Locke was staring at him.

“What?”

“Hunter …”

“What about him?”

“How much do you know about John Hunter, Officer Hawkwood?”

“Other than his connection with Hyde and the fact that he’s held in high regard, not a damned thing. Why?”

The apothecary hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to continue. Then he said, “There was a story, many years ago. It appeared in the Gentleman’s Magazine. It concerned a forger who was imprisoned in Newgate and sentenced to the noose. Despite a petition to the King requesting a pardon, he was taken to Tyburn and hanged. It was said that, following the hanging, the forger’s body was carried by hearse to an undertaker’s parlour in Goodge Street. There, it was delivered into the hands of several members of the Royal Society, Hunter among them. The story goes that, under Hunter’s guidance, they rubbed the flesh and placed the body close to the fire to warm it, and used bellows to try and inflate his lungs. When that didn’t work, they employed electric shocks from Leyden jars to activate the heart muscle and restore the forger to life.”

Locke fell silent.

Hawkwood said nothing. In a moment of dark recall, he felt the familiar tightening round his own throat, heard again the scrabbling of heels on planking, and the echo of coarse laughter.

“Officer Hawkwood?”

Hawkwood looked up. The memories retreated back into their lair.

The apothecary pushed himself away from his desk. “I know what you’re thinking, Officer Hawkwood. I told you a short time ago that I was not a foolish man and yet, here I am, telling you what sounds like a fairy story. Well, I have another tale for you. Eight years ago, a convicted murderer was hanged at Newgate. His name was George Forster. After one hour, his corpse was taken down and delivered to a professor of physics. The professor then performed a demonstration. He connected the corpse to a battery. When he activated the battery – or, as James Matthews would put it, he closed the circuit – Forster’s eye opened. As the electrical current continued to flow, Forster raised a fist into the air. His back arched and his legs began to kick. The witnesses to the demonstration were convinced that, for a brief period, George Forster was brought back to life. The professor’s name was Giovanni Aldini. He was visiting this country from Italy. He was Luigi Galvani’s nephew.”

It’s me who’s going mad, Hawkwood thought.

But Locke hadn’t finished. “Have you heard of the Humane Society? It was founded by an apothecary, William Hawes, and a physician, Thomas Cogan; for the sole purpose of rescuing victims of drowning. The Society offered rewards of up to four guineas to anyone who succeeded in restoring life to any person taken out of the water for dead, within thirty miles of London. As you can imagine, quack medics for miles around came up with suggestions for how resuscitation could be achieved. Everything from bloodletting and purging to enemas and the ingesting of tobacco vapours. Eventually Hawes approached Hunter for advice. Hunter suggested using electricity. He said it was probably the only method there was for stimulating the heart.”

“Are you telling me it has actually worked?” Hawkwood couldn’t believe he was even asking the question.

“I’ve not seen it done, but there have been reports of successful recoveries, yes.”

“The criminal, Forster?”

“No, Forster was not resuscitated. Aldini’s demonstration proved to be an interesting experiment, no more than that.”

“What about the other one? The forger?”

“There were differing stories. Some say that Hunter failed and the forger was buried. Others say that he survived. One newspaper claimed that he was living in Glasgow, while another reported that he had dined with an Irishman in Dunkirk. I was trying to recall the fellow’s name. It has just come to me. It was Dodd – Reverend William Dodd.”

Jesus, Hawkwood thought. Not another bloody parson.

He turned and looked out of the window. Most of the snow had melted away, though across Moor Fields a few small patches of slush were clinging doggedly to the edges of the ponds and between the exposed roots around the bases of the trees. From a distance they looked like smears of grey marzipan.

“It was seeing the drawings and remembering my conversations with the colonel that reminded me of Hunter’s experiments,” Locke said behind him. “You remember when I told you that I found some of Colonel Hyde’s ideas innovative? It sounded fantastical, but now, hearing the true reason for the colonel’s admittance to the hospital and your belief that he’s responsible for the mutilation of the two corpses found at St Bart’s makes me fearful of the colonel’s intentions. Even thinking about it, I cannot bring myself to believe that anyone would contemplate such a thing.”

Hawkwood turned back.

“I know how this must sound, but you said it yourself: everything Colonel Hyde has done, he’s done for a reason. You remember I likened a distracted patient’s mind to a maelstrom, and that sometimes out of that swirling mass a single thought can arise, a moment of epiphany, which sets events in motion and influences every subsequent decision the patient makes? Those decisions form the framework for the patient’s existence, his reason for being. Perhaps it was seeing the Galvani drawing that planted the first seed. Colonel Hyde was a student of John Hunter. It’s likely that Hunter would have talked about his experiments on electrical resuscitation with his students, certainly the more able ones. Hyde’s conversations with James Matthews – who, despite his obsessions is possessed of genuine technical knowledge – could have acted as a catalyst, perhaps the final trigger that launched him on his grand design.”

“Grand design?”

The two men looked at each other. Hawkwood’s brain was spinning. It couldn’t be true. The idea was absurd, preposterous, the stuff of nightmares. He closed his eyes. “It’s madness!”

“Yes.” Locke nodded. “I agree. That’s precisely what it is. Tell me, Officer Hawkwood, do you know your Shakespeare?”

“It’s been a while since I attended the theatre, Doctor.”

“There’s a quotation, from Hamlet: ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your Philosophy.’”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, anything is possible.”

Both men fell silent. Neither wanted to be the one to voice what both of them were thinking.

Hawkwood broke first. “McGrigor thought the colonel might be taking the body parts in order to carry out some kind of surgical procedure. You think he’s going to try and raise the dead. I think you’re both right. That’s his grand design. That’s why he’s been obtaining corpses and removing internal organs. That’s why he got Matthews to design his electrical machine. He’s going to use the spare parts to repair a dead body, then he’s going to try and bring it back to life.”

“That’s not possible,” Locke whispered.

Hawkwood looked at him. “A moment ago, you told me anything is possible.”

“Not that,” Locke said.

“The colonel seems to think it is. My question is, who’s he planning to resurrect?”

He saw that the apothecary was staring at him, a stricken look on his face.

“Doctor?”

“I think I know,” Locke said softly.

“Who is it?”

“His daughter.”