Resurrectionist

Locke coloured.

“Anything else we should know?”

Before the apothecary could reply there was a sharp rap on the door. Locke started in his seat. He turned, a look of mild annoyance on his face. “Come!”

The door opened. Mordecai Leech stood on the threshold.

The apothecary’s eyebrows rose. “Mr Leech?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Doctor, there’s a Constable Hopkins from the Foot Patrol down below. Wants to see Officer Hawkwood. Says it’s urgent.”

But the constable wasn’t down below. He was behind Leech’s shoulder, presumably having shadowed the lumbering attendant up the stairs without the latter’s knowledge. Young, and dressed in an ill-fitting blue jacket and scarlet waistcoat, he looked dishevelled and was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. He elbowed the startled Leech aside and thrust his way into the room. His gaze settled on Hawkwood and his eyes widened in recognition. “We have him, Captain! We have the parson!”

It was on the tip of Hawkwood’s tongue to ask what bloody parson, when it struck him that Hopkins had been one of the constables dispatched to St Mary’s earlier that morning by James Read and that, as far as they and the Chief Magistrate were concerned, Reverend Tombs was still the man they were looking for.

As though suddenly mindful of his surroundings, the constable removed his black felt hat and held it behind his back. The removal of the headgear revealed a mop of unruly red hair and prominent ears that would have made a fine pair of jug handles.

“Where?” Hawkwood was already heading towards the door, aware that both Locke and Leech were staring at the constable as though the latter had sprouted a second head.

“The church. We tried the vicarage first. Knocked on the door.” The words came out in a rush. “But there weren’t no answer. Then we heard someone movin’ around inside, so we called out that we were from Bow Street, under orders from the Chief Magistrate, and that he was to let us in on account of questions we wanted to ask him about a murder.” The constable fought for breath. “We couldn’t see anything, so Conductor Rafferty left Constable Dawes and me at the front and went round the back to see if he could look through the window and find out what was going on. That was wh—” The constable paused, transfixed by the look on Hawkwood’s face.

“Rafferty?” A nerve flickered along Hawkwood’s cheek. “Edmund Rafferty?”

The constable blinked at the growl in Hawkwood’s voice and nodded again, nervously this time.

“God’s teeth!” Hawkwood rasped. He swung back to Locke. “Don’t stray too far, Doctor. It’s likely I’ll need to talk with you again. You, too, Mr Leech.”

Locke nodded dully.

But it was a wasted gesture. Hawkwood, with Constable Hopkins at his heels, had already left the room.

5 (#ulink_261a704d-fdc4-5ee8-97fd-fdb784440f3b)

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.