Resurrectionist

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.