Resurrectionist

5

Ignoring the startled expressions on the faces of both attendants and patients, Hawkwood ran for the stairs, thinking that it didn’t make any bloody sense.

What on earth had possessed the colonel to take shelter in the house of his victim? Stealing the priest’s face had been an essential part of the colonel’s plan to trick the authorities into thinking the parson was the murderer. If he’d truly believed that his subterfuge was going to work, even for a brief period, he must have known that the priest’s house would be the first place the police would visit.

The only explanation that Hawkwood could come up with was that Hyde would have had need of food, probably clothing and money as well. Armed with the parson’s address – presumably obtained during their many dialogues – there would be no need to prowl the streets or break into someone’s house. He had a ready-made bolthole just waiting for him, courtesy of his victim. It wasn’t as if the parson was going to return home unexpectedly and disturb him.

But the colonel must have known he’d be racing against the clock. So why had he not simply taken the provisions he required and made his getaway?

The simplest explanation, of course, was that Colonel Hyde was as mad as a March hare and there didn’t have to be a logical reason for any of his actions.

And Rafferty! Bloody Rafferty of all people.

Conductor Edmund Rafferty, an overweight Irishman of bovine disposition and larcenous tendencies, was, in Hawkwood’s opinion, about as much use as a two-legged stool. Their last encounter had not ended on the best of terms. The light-fingered Rafferty had attempted to pilfer a gold watch, part of a hoard rescued from a gang of pickpockets. Hawkwood had spotted the wily rogue making the snatch and had threatened to cut the Irishman’s hands off if he saw him doing it again. Rafferty had lost that round and the watch had been restored to its rightful owner. Since then, Rafferty had kept his head down. It probably explained why he’d sent the constable instead of coming himself, although it had to be said that Conductor of the Watch Rafferty was in no shape to engage in any form of strenuous physical activity, like running to deliver a message, for example. So it was probably just as well he’d remained behind.

And this was the officer Magistrate Read had sent to apprehend a murderer? Hawkwood thought bitterly. If he’d known it at the time, he’d have remonstrated with James Read, demanding that he send someone else. Though, to be fair, when the constables had received their orders, it had been thought that the killer was a lowly vicar who, with any luck, would surrender the moment the law landed on his doorstep. They certainly wouldn’t have been expecting to be confronted by an insane army surgeon who had removed said vicar’s face with a razor-sharp surgical blade.

By the time Hawkwood reached the stairs, the constable had caught up and was alongside, his cap in his hand. His face was still red.

“You said Rafferty went to the back of the house?” Hawkwood realized his low opinion of the Irishman was probably audible in his tone.

The constable nodded. “That’s when the parson made a run for it. We ’eard Conductor Rafferty yell and ran to see what was happening. The parson was attackin’ him with a knife. Tried to slice his neck, he did. He had the woman with him.”

“Woman?” Hawkwood stopped dead. “What bloody woman?” They were at the foot of the stairs.

Taken by surprise, the constable had to sidestep smartly to avoid a collision. “Dunno, sir. He was dragging her towards the church. By the time we got there, the vicar had locked the door behind ’im. He warned us not to try and get in, else he’d knife her. That’s when Conductor Rafferty told me to come and get you, while he and Constable Dawes stood watch.”

“Was Rafferty hurt?”

“No, but he was fair shook up,” panted Hopkins. “’E was pretty quick for a big ’un!”

Pity, Hawkwood thought, turning back towards the entrance. The porter was hovering.

“Open the bloody door!”

Hearing the cry and seeing the two men bearing down upon him like charging bulls, the porter fumbled for the bolts. The door was barely ajar before Hawkwood and the constable were pushing past him. Leaving the porter and assorted residents and staff gaping after them, Hawkwood and Hopkins dashed from the hospital entrance and sprinted towards the main gates.

St Mary’s lay to the south, close to the river, and was probably less than half a mile as the crow flew. On foot it was closer to a mile, if they stuck to the main streets, but they could shave a quarter off that distance by using the back alleyways. With the constable in step behind him, Hawkwood ran to catch a killer.

In the shadow of St Mary’s, Conductor of the Watch Edmund Rafferty was reflecting on life, chiefly his own, and how close he had come to losing it.

It had been a close shave, literally. Just thinking about it brought the Irishman out in a cold sweat. In his mind’s eye he saw again the knife blade scything towards his throat. He had surprised himself at his own agility. He was a stout man and ungainly, but the desire for self-preservation had lent power to muscles he hadn’t known he possessed, enabling him to jerk his head aside at what had seemed the last second. He could have sworn he had heard the whisper of the blade as it flashed past his neck. It was only later, as he struggled to get his breath back, that he lifted a tentative hand to his throat and saw the thin smear of bright red blood on his fingertips. Curiously, he hadn’t felt a thing when the blade made contact. He tried to recall the weapon. It had been a very slender blade, he remembered that much; as thin as a razor. And the skill with which the dark-robed priest had handled the knife had been completely unexpected.

But what had chilled Rafferty’s blood even more than the attack itself was the look on his assailant’s face. The parson’s expression had not been one of panic, as might have been expected from someone who was cornered and fearful of imminent arrest. During the brief moment their eyes met, Rafferty had seen a vision of Hell, a malevolence that went beyond anything he had seen before. Had the devil or any of his acolytes been able to take on human form, there was no doubt in Conductor Rafferty’s mind that he had been face to face, if not with Beelzebub, then certainly one of his minions.

The look on the woman’s face had been just as memorable. There had been no colour in her complexion, only the sickly pallor of abject terror. Rafferty had seen her eyes widen momentarily as she had been pulled through the door, probably in recognition of his police uniform and the hope, swiftly suppressed, that rescue was at hand. Rafferty barely had time to register her predicament before being forced to defend himself from attack. He had heard her scream as he had thrust himself aside, the high-pitched shriek dying in her throat as the priest’s hand clamped itself around her neck, dragging her ungainly, protesting body towards the church. Rafferty, lumbering to his knees, heart thumping, had watched helplessly as the heavy wooden door slammed behind them.

Which was when Hopkins and Dawes had arrived on the scene.

The three police officers had approached the church door apprehensively, Rafferty slightly behind his colleagues, and limping. Having just survived one nerve-shredding encounter, the Irishman was, understandably, proceeding with no small degree of caution.

To Rafferty’s relief, the church door was locked. It was Hopkins who hammered on the door, repeating the announcement that had been made earlier at the front door of the house; namely that they were there on orders from Bow Street, to initiate enquiries pertaining to a murder at Bethlem Hospital.

The response had been a scream that rooted the three men to the spot. It was a sound Edmund Rafferty had no wish to hear repeated. It had raised goose pimples along his arms and sent a cold tingle rippling down his spine. Beside him, the two constables were staring at the door like mesmerized rabbits.

The woman’s screams had continued for what seemed like minutes, though in truth it had probably been only a few seconds, before fading into an uneasy silence. Then had come the warning; an excited male voice calling out to them not to force an entry or the woman would die.

Rafferty had waited for the short hairs on his forearms to lie back down before pressing his ear to the door. The door was old and the wood was thick and he hadn’t been able to hear much. Mostly it had sounded like a woman sobbing. But there had been another sound too, a low murmuring noise, as if someone was praying. There had been an eeriness about the barely audible words and phrasing. It had sounded more like an incantation than a prayer.

“What do we do now?” Dawes asked nervously. Older than Hopkins, he was a lanky, unambitious man and had no intention of attempting anything remotely valiant.

“You go round the back. See if there’s another door. If there is, you stand guard. I don’t want no heroics.”

Rafferty turned to Hopkins.

Earlier that morning, when he’d been told the name of the Runner assigned to the case, Rafferty had known his day was unlikely to be a happy one. Hawkwood. The name alone had been enough to cause palpitations. In Rafferty’s opinion, a harder bastard never drew breath. Just the thought of being confronted by those blue-grey eyes and having to admit that he’d been threatened and outwitted by a bloody vicar was enough to shrivel Rafferty’s balls to the size of redcurrants.

However, if there was one maxim Rafferty lived by, it was that even middling rank had its privileges. Rafferty knew that, in sending Hopkins to track down Hawkwood at Bethlem rather than going himself, he was merely delaying the inevitable, but at least it gave him a little more breathing space. There was always the possibility that in between Hopkins’ departure and Hawkwood’s arrival, the vicar might see the error of his ways and surrender. Well, it was a church. Miracles could happen.

No sooner had the two constables departed on their respective missions than another uncomfortable realization wormed its way into Rafferty’s sub-conscious: he needed to take a piss.

Rafferty knew if he left his post and the vicar made a run for it, and got away, Hawkwood would have his guts – literally, if their previous run-in had been anything to go by.

Rafferty eyed the church door. No voices could be heard, though he thought he detected scraping sounds, as if someone was dragging furniture across a stone floor. Rafferty tried peering in through one of the windows, but the lower sills were too high, even standing on tiptoe. In any case, the windows were composed of stained glass so viewing anything through them was impossible.

The need to empty his bladder had suddenly become all-consuming. The Irishman eyed the nearest grave marker, a tall, moss-encrusted stone cross. Nothing else for it. He’d have to piss and keep an eye on the church at the same time.

It was only as he was performing the act that he realized it wasn’t as easy to do both as he had first supposed. There was the danger that if he concentrated only on the door, he’d very likely end up watering his breeches. The irony of the situation was not lost on Rafferty. The thought occurred to him, as he let go over the base of the cross, that Hawkwood hadn’t yet arrived on the scene and here he was, already in danger of wetting himself.

His bladder emptied, Rafferty, relieved in more ways than one that the tricky moment had passed without incident, prepared to do up his breeches.

“Oi!”

Caught, if not with his breeches down then certainly unbuttoned, Rafferty swung round, cock half in hand, heart fully in mouth. Stumping towards him was a small, round-shouldered, sour-faced man of about sixty, brandishing a long- handled hoe.

“What’s your bleedin’ game?”

Hastily, Rafferty shoved himself back in his breeches.

“I asked what your game was,” the man snarled again. He lifted the hoe, holding it across his body like a quarter-staff.

Modesty restored, Rafferty was wise enough to follow the old adage that attack was the best form of defence. “Police business. And who might you be?”

“Quintus Pegg, and I’m the bleedin’ sexton, that’s who. An’ since when did police business give you the right to piss all over the bloody gravestones?” The hoe carrier nodded towards the dark tell-tale stains on the stonework at the foot of the cross and the thin wisps of steam rising up from the grass.

Rafferty frowned at the unexpected and ferocious response. Avoiding the natural inclination to follow the sexton’s irate gaze, he drew himself up. “Sexton, is it? Well, cully, when I’m on police business, I’m thinking that I can piss just about anywhere I damned well choose and that includes down your neck, if I’ve a mind to. Now, is there a back door?”

The sexton blinked at the change of subject. “What?”

“You heard. The church; is there another door round the back?”

The sexton looked confused. “Aye, course there is, but it’s locked an’ there ain’t no key. Why you askin’?”

It explained why Dawes hadn’t returned, Rafferty thought. Having found another door, the poor bugger was probably soiling himself at the thought that someone might actually come through it. But at least he was staying at his post.

“Sweet Mother –” Rafferty rolled his eyes at the sexton’s question. “Because the vicar’s locked himself inside, that’s why, and –”

“Stupid bugger!” the sexton snorted.

Cut off by the remark, Rafferty blinked. Then the thought struck him that Sexton Pegg, having no knowledge of that morning’s events, was assuming the vicar had locked himself in the church by accident.

He was about to set the record straight when the sexton raised an eyebrow. “Who was it raised the alarm? Was it the wife?”

“The wife?” Rafferty repeated. A dark thought beckoned.

Unconcerned by the Irishman’s delayed response, Sexton Pegg nodded towards the house behind them. “She’s ’is ’ousekeeper. That’s why I ’appened along. I was away gettin’ this sharpened.” The sexton indicated the hoe. “Thought I might be back in time for a bite o’ breakfast. Mind you, she weren’t around earlier; probably at ’er sister’s place. Thick as two fleas, those two are. Spends more time with ’er than she does with me, moody cow.”

Rafferty hesitated, though he knew the question had to be asked. “Your wife … what does the good lady look like?”

The sexton sniffed and held his left hand up, palm down. “’Bout this tall, face like a shrew, nose you could pick a lock with.”

Rafferty knew then, beyond any shadow of doubt, the identity of the woman in the church. He suspected that her current disposition was probably a long way from moody.

“Why do you want to know?” the sexton asked, suddenly wary.

Rafferty, irritated that the sexton seemed to be asking all the pertinent questions, told him.

The sexton stared aghast at the sturdy wooden door. The hoe slid through his fingers. “Bleedin’ ’ell. What are we going to do?”

We? Rafferty thought. Then he remembered that he was a police officer and therefore supposedly in charge of the situation.

“We wait.”

“Wait?” The sexton looked doubtful. “What for?”

“Reinforcements,” Rafferty said sagely. “They’ve already been sent for.”

Let Captain bloody Hawkwood sort this one out.

Sexton Pegg didn’t look too convinced by the Irishman’s reply.

“And ’ow long’s that goin’ to take?” The sexton nodded towards the church. “Can’t leave herself in there with ’im. You just told me ’e had a go at you, and you’re a bleeding police officer. There’s no knowin’ what he might do to ’er. What ’appens if ’e decides to ’ave ’is way with ’er?” The sexton, in contrast to his earlier uncharitable remarks, was now looking distinctly queasy at the prospect of his wife becoming the victim of a serious sexual assault by a vicar.

Hell would probably freeze over first, Rafferty thought. He turned, only to discover that the sexton was no longer at his side. His ears picked up a thin, intermittent, trickling sound. He followed the source and found that the sexton had discarded the hoe and was busy relieving himself against the same tomb marker.

Nerves, Rafferty supposed. He was about to pass a barbed comment, when the sexton lifted his nose and sniffed the air. “Can you smell that?”

Rafferty threw the sexton a look.

Sexton Pegg buttoned himself up and wiped his hands on his breeches. “No, not that. More like … something burning.”

Both men turned towards the church. They were just in time to see the first bright tongues of flame rise into view behind the stained-glass windows.

And the screaming began again.

They had left the hospital behind them and cut down along Little Bell Alley, which wasn’t so much an alley as a six-foot-wide, effluent-flooded, rat-infested passageway. They were attracting stares and catcalls as they ran, but Hopkins’ uniform was proving valuable in clearing a path, and the determined look on Hawkwood’s face as he pushed his way through made it clear to all that it would be unwise to try and impede their progress.

Hawkwood was breathing hard. He was also wishing he hadn’t worn his riding coat. It was flapping like a cape and seemed to gain weight with every stride he took. Tradition had it that Runners had gained their sobriquet because of their fleetness of foot. Another half mile of this, Hawkwood thought, and they’ll be calling us Bow Street Crawlers. He wondered how Hopkins was faring. He could hear the constable’s boots pounding along the street alongside him.

There was no immediate profit, Hawkwood knew, in telling Hopkins that the Reverend Tombs was dead and the man they were pursuing was in fact an inmate of the country’s most notorious lunatic asylum. The constable, Hawkwood recalled, was new to the job and looked excited enough as it was. There was such a thing as too much information. But the lad had stamina, that was for sure.

Hopkins was thinking the same thing about Hawkwood, as he hastened to keep up.

The constable had managed to avoid Hawkwood’s eye since leaving the hospital. He suspected that Hawkwood was aware of his nervousness and that only served to make him more jittery. He’d shot the Runner a few surreptitious glances along the way, taking in the severe features, the scar below the left eye and the ribbon-tied hair, and wondered how much of the captain’s fearsome reputation was fact and how much was hearsay.

He’d heard that Hawkwood was a man who did not suffer fools gladly, so the last thing Hopkins wanted was to appear foolish, especially this early in his career. He’d also heard it whispered that Hawkwood lived by his own rules, with unique contacts within the criminal underworld. Hopkins wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, and he wasn’t about to ask, but it certainly added to the air of menace that seemed to attach itself to Hawkwood’s shadow. The mere mention of his name had been sufficient to drain the blood from Conductor Rafferty’s face when he learned the identity of the officer in charge of their assignment.

In the short time he’d been attached to Bow Street, Hopkins had soon picked up on some of Conductor Rafferty’s less than enviable character traits, sloth and deviousness being the most prominent. Rafferty also liked to throw his weight around among the new recruits. Susceptibility to intimidation, therefore, was not one of his most obvious weaknesses. So Hopkins had been intrigued to discover what it was about Hawkwood that had Conductor Rafferty quaking in his pants.

Now he knew.

A thunderous rumble broke into the constable’s thoughts. He looked up, just in time to see the carriage bearing down on him. He leapt aside awkwardly, nearly losing his footing in the process. The horse’s heaving flank missed him by less than an inch as the carriage pummelled its way past, but he was too late to avoid the wave of water thrown up as the chaise’s wheels trundled heavily through one of the muddy puddles left by the night’s rain. The constable cursed as his breeches fell prey to the deluge. Recovering his balance and what remained of his dignity, the hapless and waterlogged constable hurried to make up ground.

They were nearly there. Hawkwood could smell the river; a pungent mix of cordage, tar, wet mud, rotting fish and shit from the night-soil barges heading downstream. Calvert’s Brewery was less than a mile away and the smell of fermenting hops also hung heavily in the air. The locals, Hawkwood thought, would have no need to visit a tavern for their pleasure. Simply opening their windows and inhaling would have them intoxicated in no time.

The streets were narrower here, and the buildings more decrepit. City commerce had given way to riverside industry, and instead of chaises and phaetons they found themselves dodging drays, barrows and handcarts as they raced towards the church.

When his ears picked up the ringing of the bell, Hawkwood’s first thought was that it was coming from one of the merchant ships off-loading at a nearby wharf. It was only when the clanging tones intensified that he knew they were signalling an event far more urgent than a change of watch.

And then he saw the smoke.

Struck by a quickening sense of dread, Hawkwood lengthened his stride. He sensed Hopkins coming up behind him. The two men emerged from the alley simultaneously, and stopped dead.

‘Bloody hell!” Constable Hopkins stared wide-eyed at the scene, his soggy breeches forgotten.

The church of St Mary’s was being consumed.

The church was smaller than Hawkwood had expected; plain and rectangular in shape, with the bell tower at the northern end. He’d seen chapels that were more impressive. The outside walls looked relatively untouched, but the stained-glass windows, illuminated by a backcloth of dancing flames deep within the building, glowed like jewels. There was a series of splintering cracks like distant musket fire. Gathering onlookers cried out as rainbow-tinted shards of glass, forced from their frames by the heat, showered the ground like hailstones. Plumes of black smoke billowed from the newly ruptured panes, spiralling skywards as if seeking refuge in the grey clouds above. Small fiery eruptions, hesitant at first but quickly growing in confidence, leapt from the body of the church. Hawkwood watched as lizard tongues of flame began to lick the edges of the roof.

At first glance the tower appeared as though it might be immune to the devastation being wrought below. Gradually, however, drifts of smoke could be seen issuing from the louvred window shutters at the tower’s summit. The building, its lead spire outlined against the sky, began to take on the appearance of a brightly lit altar candle. The bell continued to toll loudly, drowning the cries of alarm from the watching crowd.

There was a sudden commotion at the entrance to a nearby alleyway. Half a dozen men jogged into view hauling a wooden cart. The fire brigade had arrived. Dutifully, the crowd parted to let them through. Bringing their contraption to a halt, the men stared balefully at the burning building. At first Hawkwood thought they were looking for the fire mark indicating the building was covered by the insurance company that employed them. If no plaque were visible, in all likelihood the brigade would return from whence they came. But the mark was displayed on the wall to the right of the door where the firemen could not help but see it. Hawkwood realized they had stopped because they were completely overawed. It wasn’t hard to see why. Their crude equipment was spectacularly inadequate for a blaze of this scale.

Hawkwood spotted Rafferty hovering uneasily at the edge of the throng.

Sensing someone observing him, the Irishman turned. Panic flared momentarily in his eyes as he watched Hawkwood’s approach.

“What the devil happened here?” Hawkwood demanded.

It was almost comical the way the Irishman shook his head, immediately defensive. “It weren’t me, Captain. Honest, I had nothing to do with it, swear to God. The parson locked himself inside the bloody place before we had a chance to stop him.”

“He’s still in there?” Hawkwood stared aghast at the flames. Drifts of steam were now rising from the shallow guttering along the edges of the roof as rainwater, trapped in the aftermath of the night’s storm, was brought to boiling point by the fire below.

Rafferty nodded uneasily.

“Hopkins said there was a woman.”

Rafferty raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

“Has anyone tried to force an entry?”

Rafferty certainly hadn’t but he wasn’t about to admit that to Hawkwood. Instead he nodded towards the tower. “He’s blocked the door, barricaded himself in. Mad bastard,” he added.

If you only knew, Hawkwood thought.

Hawkwood caught sight of a small, thin, poorly dressed man squatting on a nearby gravestone, holding his head in his hands.

“The sexton,” Rafferty murmured, following the direction of his gaze. “It’s his wife what’s inside.”

There was a shout. Grit and determination having triumphed over doubt, the fire fighters were attempting to unravel their hose. Hawkwood wondered why they were bothering. Even a blind man could see there was little hope. But the fire crew seemed intent on going through the ritual anyway.

“Haven’t got a prayer,” Rafferty muttered. “Poor beggars.”

For once Hawkwood was inclined to agree with him.

Having unloaded their leather buckets from the wagon, the firemen ran to a horse trough by the alley entrance and began filling them at the pump. Two of the men armed themselves with axes. As if reading Hawkwood’s thoughts, one pulled a handkerchief from his shirt, soaked it in the water trough and tied it round the lower part of his face. Gripping his axe tightly, he headed for the church door. He was halfway there when he paused, frozen in mid stride, and looked up.

It was then Hawkwood realized he could no longer hear the bell.

The crowd had also fallen silent. All that could be heard was the crackle of the flames, followed by several sharper reports as more windowpanes cascaded on to the ground. The firemen were looking around them anxiously. Hawkwood knew they were worried in case the fire spread; if it did, they had no hope of controlling it. Fortunately, the church was isolated from its immediate neighbours by the graveyard. And in the event that a stray spark should be carried on the breeze, it would struggle to ignite timber still sodden from last night’s downpour.

A high-pitched scream caught everyone by surprise. The crowd looked up, following the woman’s pointing finger. There was a collective gasp of horror.

The louvred shutters at the top of the bell tower had been flung wide open. The figure of a man, dressed in the black robe of a priest, stood framed in the opening.

“Sweet Jesus!” Conductor Rafferty crossed himself hurriedly.

The fireman, en route to the church door, was transfixed by the sight. The axe slid through his fingers. As one, the crowd took an involuntary step backwards.

Wreathed in smoke, the black-clad apparition turned its face to the sky. A tortured cry rose high above the crackle of the flames.

“O Lord, let my cry come unto thee!”

There was a moment of stunned silence, suddenly broken by a lone male voice, slurred with drink. “It ain’t Sunday, Vicar! Bit early for the sermon, ain’t it?”

“Shut it, Marley, you ignorant sod!” The sharp warning was accompanied by a muffled grunt of pain and the sound of a bottle shattering on the cobbles.

Ignoring the altercation below, the figure at the window, face still raised, opened his arms in supplication.

“I stand before you, Lord, a miserable sinner!”

As the words rang out, a stick-thin figure, seated at the foot of a nearby gravestone, slowly raised its head.

Hawkwood was suddenly conscious of movement to his right as a small body thrust itself to the front of the onlookers.

“You murdering bastard!”

Heads swivelled to stare at the accuser.

“You killed my Annie!” The sexton, his face contorted with rage, jabbed an accusing finger towards the smoke-framed silhouette.

Hearing the outburst, a murmur began to spread through the crowd. All eyes turned heavenwards once more.

“Mother of God,” Rafferty said hoarsely.

The onlookers, Hawkwood realized, were not close enough to see that the robed man was not the person they took him to be. All the crowd could make out with any certainty was the black attire. They saw only what they were meant to see. Colonel Hyde was continuing with his deception and distance was lending credibility to his ruse. His appearance had even fooled the sexton.

The black-clad figure called out once more. It was the anguished, beseeching wail of a soul in torment.

“I heard Satan call my name! In my foolishness I answered! And by the Devil’s tongue I was corrupted into darkness!”

“That’s the spirit, Vicar!” The drunken heckler was back and in fuller voice. “You bloody tell ’em!”

“Chris’sakes, Marley, will you bleedin’ shut your mouth, or so help me –”

The strident voice rose once more to the heavens. “I beheld that pale horse, Lord, and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell did follow with him!”

“Horse?” Rafferty said, brow puckering. “What bleedin’ horse? What in the name of all that’s holy is the beggar on about?”

There was a nervous cough from behind. “Er … I know,” Hopkins said. A blush had formed across the young constable’s earnest face. Whether it was from the heat coming off the burning building, or from embarrassment at suddenly being the focus of attention, it was difficult to tell. “It’s from the scriptures.”

Hawkwood turned and stared at him.

“Book of Revelation; chapter six, verse eight …” Hopkins hesitated, and then added, somewhat sheepishly, “My pa’s a vicar.”

The young constable’s gaze suddenly shifted and his eyes widened. Hawkwood turned. Above him, the figure in the tower, hands clasped together in prayer, was sinking to his knees, head bowed. The voice boomed out once more.

“But in the guiding light of thy glory, o Lord, I have seen the error of my ways and I do earnestly repent my sins!”

“Uh, oh,” Rafferty murmured. “He’s off again.”

Hawkwood stared up at the tower. Smoke was continuing to vent from the opening. It was as if the priestly figure was kneeling at the entrance to the pit of Hell. Bathed now in the glow of the flames, the black robe shimmered like velvet.

Abruptly the figure lifted its head.

“I hear you, Lord! Blessed are they who have seen the way of righteousness! I deliver my soul to your bosom in the knowledge that I may be cleansed of all my transgressions!”

Above them, the dark silhouette rose unsteadily to its feet, bowed its head and slowly lowered its arms, palms outwards. Then, as if reciting a benediction, it spoke. The words rang out loud and clear.

“All that are with me, salute thee! Greet them that love us in the faith! Grace be with you all …”

Raising his right hand to shoulder height, the figure made the sign of the cross.

“Amen.”

Then, in a move that was as swift as it was shocking, the robed figure turned, spread its arms wide and pitched forward into the rising flames.

Shrieks of horror erupted from the women in the crowd. There were loud gasps and exclamations of astonishment from the men.

As the body disappeared from view, a single mournful clang echoed around the churchyard. Several people jumped. The body must have hit or become entangled with the bell rope on the way down, Hawkwood guessed. Either that or some unearthly force had used the bell as a means to summon the dead man’s soul into the afterlife.

Beside him, Hawkwood heard a groan of dismay. He turned. The constable’s face was ashen. “Why?” Hopkins whispered, staring at the church tower, now wreathed in smoke. “Why did he do it?”

“He was mad,” Hawkwood said bluntly.

The constable removed his hat. His lips began to move in silent prayer. Hawkwood could see that others in the crowd were similarly engaged. A number of the more devout had fallen to their knees. Hawkwood didn’t think it was the time or place to tell them that their prayers for Reverend Tombs were both misplaced and many hours too late.

Hawkwood’s eyes were locked on the tower and the empty window. The frames and shutters had caught alight and were burning fiercely. At the foot of the building, the fire fighters had been forced to admit defeat. Along with everyone else, they were standing in a state of disbelief, watching the church’s disintegration. Bathed in the glare, their faces glowed bright crimson. The heat was intense.

“What?” Hawkwood said absently, vaguely aware that the constable had spoken.

Hopkins blinked. “The Reverend’s last words. They were what my pa used to say.”

“Is that so?” Hawkwood said, not particularly interested.

Hopkins nodded, mistaking Hawkwood’s response for polite enquiry.

“Know them off by heart. Drummed into me, they were. It was the blessing my dad used to give at the end of every Sunday service. St Paul’s Epist—”

A crash from inside the burning tower drowned out the rest of the constable’s words, all except one. Upon hearing it, Hawkwood felt as if the rest of the world had suddenly stopped moving. He turned slowly. “What did you say?”

Hopkins looked embarrassed, intimidated by Hawkwood’s tone. “I was saying that I knew the reverend’s last words too.”

“I heard that part,” Hawkwood snapped. “What did you say after that?”

The constable hesitated, awed by the look on Hawkwood’s face.

“Um … that it was the last verse?”

“No,” Hawkwood said softly. “You said a name.”

The constable swallowed nervously. He realized his mouth had gone completely dry, as if his tongue had been dipped in ash.

As a child, Constable George Hopkins, like many young boys of an enquiring mind, had been an avid collector of butterflies and beetles, impaling their tiny thoraxes with pins and preserving them for posterity in small glass cases for the amusement of family and friends. When he felt those blue-grey eyes upon him, the constable had the distinct impression that this was how the beetles must have felt. He took a deep breath, found his voice.

“It’s from St Paul’s Epistle, the Book of …”

The constable paused, intimidated by the look on Hawkwood’s face.

“… Titus.”

Over the constable’s shoulder the church of St Mary continued to burn as brightly as a wrecker’s torch.

Apothecary Robert Locke stood at his window and stared out across the city’s rooftops. The clouds were the colour of gunmetal and it was difficult to see where the slates ended and the sky began.

Locke’s mind took him back to the horror that had been the colonel’s cell. He closed his eyes. A vision of the Reverend Tombs’s corpse swam into view. He saw again the shabby undergarments, the pale limbs protruding from them, and the bloody atrocity that had once been the parson’s face. He shuddered. It was a vision, he suspected, that would haunt his dreams for some time to come.

His thoughts turned to his recent visitor. Not your usual law officer. Well dressed – Locke knew good tailoring when he saw it – though the long dark hair tied at the back with a ribbon had been an interesting affectation, and there had been an arrogance and perceptiveness that Locke had found vaguely unsettling. Indeed, there had been times when Locke had found it hard to meet the man’s penetrating gaze. Brains as well as brawn. But then he had been a fighting man, an officer in the Rifle Brigade, no less; one of the most respected regiments in the British Army. Locke congratulated himself on his intuition at picking up on that aspect of Hawkwood’s background and wondered what had turned such a man from soldier to police officer.

Soldier. His thoughts drifted again.

From the violence of the American, Norris, to James Tilly Matthews’s bizarre conspiracy theories, Locke had seen many forms of madness. Now he was witness to another.

Colonel Titus Hyde: soldier, surgeon, priest killer.

His eyes dropped to his desk and Matthews’s representation of his Air Loom. Gazing at the illustration, Locke’s thoughts returned to the anatomical drawings in the colonel’s quarters. That the colonel should have such items on display was not unusual, given his medical background. Similar charts and diagrams could be found in any physician’s consulting room or any one of the city’s dozen or so anatomy schools. For centuries drawings of this nature had been the standard reference for physicians and surgeons. What Locke had found unusual – although it wasn’t an observation that he had thought to share with Hawkwood – was the one salient feature all Hyde’s selection of illustrations had in common. It had both intrigued and disturbed the apothecary, though he didn’t quite know why.

All the figures gracing the cell’s walls had been female.