Resurrectionist

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.