Resurrectionist

“You’re telling me there’s another way?”

“I believe so, yes. It involves a number of techniques, acquired after lengthy experience of dealing with such cases, but they all have one goal and that is for the doctor to gain ascendancy over the patient, similar to breaking in a horse or …” The apothecary paused expectantly.

“Training a dog,” Hawkwood said. He wondered if his moment of enlightenment would result in Locke rewarding him with a treat, a biscuit or a bone, perhaps? But it wasn’t to be. Locke continued, uninterrupted.

“Exactly. The patient must never think he or she is in control. It is not the patient who must set the agenda. It is the doctor. One must not confuse this with punishment, however. Corporal punishment, even severe chastisement, must always be considered a last resort. I do not believe it is possible to gain ascendancy over patients whose thoughts are constantly consumed by their plots to escape. I can safely say that by using understanding and kindness I’ve never yet failed to obtain the confidence and respect of insane persons.”

“Or their obedience?”

The apothecary inclined his head. If he resented the barb in Hawkwood’s question, he did not let it show. “Indeed. Honey, not vinegar, is the answer.”

“So that’s why he has his own room, his own belongings?”

“In part. And, as I mentioned, the colonel is not without benefactors. It is, however, more than anything, a matter of providing stimulation.”

“Stimulation?”

“You recall I mentioned the wound below your eye?” The apothecary pointed with his finger. “May I ask if you have suffered any other injuries; to a limb, an arm or a leg perhaps?”

Too many to remember, Hawkwood thought, though the most recent, the knife wound in his left shoulder, had been sustained not on the battlefield, but in the swirling darkness of the Thames riverbed. It wasn’t a memory he enjoyed revisiting.

He nodded warily and wondered where this was going. The apothecary was too damned perceptive, he thought.

“And during your recovery period, the more you used your arm, the quicker the wound healed; would I be right?”

Hawkwood nodded again. Though, if truth were told, the damned shoulder still ached with a vengeance if he slept awkwardly.

“And so it is with the brain. It is like a muscle. The greater the activity, the more exercise it receives, the healthier it is likely to remain. That is why the colonel was allowed his study area, his books and his drawings and his paper and pens. D’you see?”

Hawkwood nodded.

“They also proved most useful as a reward.”

“Reward?”

“For adhering to the hospital routine. It’s an established practice. We make the patient aware that if there are any infringements, privileges such as access to writing materials, personal possessions and so forth, may be withdrawn. For someone with the colonel’s intellect the removal of such privileges would be a very serious matter and, in the long term, likely to be detrimental to his health. A patient he may be, but with his military background he is a man who understands only too well the consequences of not observing protocol. It has proved a most effective system with a number of our patients.”

“Really?” Hawkwood said. “From where I’m standing I’d say the colonel didn’t give two figs for your so-called routine, or your damned protocol, and that makes me wonder just how well you knew him.”

“On an intellectual level, I would say I knew him tolerably well. I’ve spent a number of hours in his company. We would talk of all manner of things: literature, politics and science … medicine, of course. We are, after all, both doctors, though our backgrounds are somewhat different. My family comes from modest stock. The colonel’s family were land owners. We both studied abroad, however. I studied in Uppsala before going on to Cambridge. The colonel attended the university at Padua. He was – is – a learned man. You saw his library. I even consulted with him on several occasions, seeking his advice on the treatment of some of my patients. His understanding of anatomy far exceeds my own and his knowledge of medicine in general is far superior to that of Dr Monro and that drunken sot, Crowther. I found his assistance invaluable. Some of his opinions were rather … innovative. It made for interesting discussion.”

“You sound as if you liked him,” Hawkwood said.

Locke reached for his handkerchief and spectacles. It was a tactic Hawkwood had come to expect. It allowed the apothecary a few seconds to compose his reply.

“Perhaps I did. But then, you’ve seen the calibre of the staff. Is it any wonder I sought out his company?” The apothecary held up his spectacles and squinted through the lenses. Satisfied that he had removed every smear, he tucked the handkerchief into his waistcoat pocket and placed his spectacles back on to his nose. He looked, Hawkwood thought, not unlike a self-satisfied barn owl.

“When I asked you if you knew how the colonel’s delusions arose, you said you could only generalize,” Hawkwood prompted. “How?”

The apothecary placed his hands palm down on the desk, and nodded. “From my study of other patients in my immediate care, I believe it’s as if every event in their lives, even those that might appear trivial to someone else, carries a hidden significance. It is as though their brains are under attack from a never-ending whirligig of possibilities. Thoughts swirl through their heads in a maelstrom until one thought eventually forces its way to the surface and breaks free of the maelstrom’s pull. Suddenly everything becomes wondrously clear, as if the mind has been set free to soar above the clouds. From that point, every germ of thought becomes indelibly linked to that blinding moment of enlightenment.

“I believe that sense of awakening is so intense that the fabric of the delusion begins to expand backwards and forwards in time, forming a kind of framework, an explanation, if you will, for events that took place long before it existed, perhaps as far back as childhood. It’s the same going forward. Whenever a new experience is received, that too is perceived to be an intrinsic part of the framework.”

Hawkwood’s head was starting to ache. It occurred to him that the colonel wasn’t the only one whose brain was spinning. “So to the colonel this moment of enlightenment would have been like some kind of …” he searched for the word “… revelation?”

“That’s as good a definition as any.”

“And this revelation gave him the idea to escape?”

“I see that you have begun to follow my reasoning.”

“So to us, killing the parson was cold-blooded murder, but to the colonel it would have made perfect sense.”

“Yes.”

“Cutting the priest’s face off made sense?”

“To Colonel Hyde, yes.”

“So escaping may not have been his sole ambition. It was only the beginning. And unless we discover the nature of this … revelation, we won’t know the form of his delusion or what he might be planning to do next?”

“That is so, broadly speaking.” Locke leaned forward, his face earnest. If he was impressed with Hawkwood’s apparent grasp of the situation, he gave no indication. “And that, of course, is the problem, for the colonel’s delusion is his reality, no one else’s. Only he does not know that. You recall, I told you about Matthews and his Air Loom, the thing that he believes controls people’s minds?”

Hawkwood nodded.

“Let me show you.” Apothecary Locke opened a drawer in his desk and took out a sheaf of documents. He began to sift through them. Hawkwood moved to the desk to look over Locke’s shoulder.

“Here,” Locke said. Extracting four sheets from the bundle, he spread them out on the desk.

Three of them were clearly architectural drawings.

“These are Matthews’ plans for the new hospital. As you can see, they are of a very high standard. And this –” Locke said, passing over a fourth sheet “– is his Air Loom.”

Hawkwood stared down at the drawing in front of him.

It looked like a piece of furniture, a large box with a set of four large organ pipes protruding from the top. On the left-hand side stood three barrels which were connected to the box by flexible hoses resembling the tentacles of some strange sea monster. Seated in front of the mechanism was the figure of a man. His arms were manipulating two huge levers. Three other human figures were also shown, one standing, the other two lying down. Each one appeared to be transfixed by what looked to be a beam of light radiating from the device. The drawing, like the other two, had been very skilfully fashioned. Each component of the device had been designated a letter of the alphabet. The key to the letters was written in a neat copperplate.

“What are these?” Hawkwood pointed at the beams, which were tinted a pale yellowish-green.

“Magnetic rays. They are controlled by the man you see seated at those levers. He is using the beams to manipulate the thoughts of his victims.”

“And he really believes all this?” The whole thing was preposterous, Hawkwood thought.

“Most assuredly, and yet this is the same man who produced these splendid architectural drawings. If you knew nothing of Matthews’ circumstances, and someone else had shown you these plans, I’d wager that you’d never for one moment suspect the artist was of unsound mind. Am I right?”

Hawkwood stared down at the designs. There was little else he could do except agree.

“You understand what I am saying?” Locke said.

“I think you’re telling me,” Hawkwood said, “that, unless you happen to know the colonel’s history, to look at him there’s no way to tell that he’s mad.”

Locke nodded. “Essentially, yes. He can formulate ideas and arguments, but in his case it’s as though – how can I put it? – his thoughts and feelings, even his memories, have been taken over by an outside force. To the colonel, it would be as though messages are being forced into his brain.”

Hawkwood hesitated, trying to grasp the implications. “Messages? You mean he thinks people are talking to him, telling him to do things? Like … what? Voices in his head?” Even as he posed the question, he thought the idea sounded ludicrous, but to his surprise the apothecary nodded.

“And these … voices … told him to murder the priest?”

Locke made a face. “A simplification, but, yes, I do believe that might account for his actions. Not unlike Matthews and his revolutionaries.”

“Tell me about the priest,” Hawkwood said.

The apothecary’s face seemed to sag. He suddenly looked older than his years. “There you have me. The Reverend Tombs was here because I chose to disregard the hospital’s regulations.” He looked up. “Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

“What are you telling me, Doctor?”

Locke sighed. “A hundred years ago, the superintendent thought it would be a good idea if visiting days were introduced, allowing the public to interact with patients. The scheme proved very popular. The crowds flocked, the patients flourished. But then the gawkers began to arrive, and with the gawkers came the pedlars and the pickpockets and the pulpit bashers, not to mention the doxies. Come to Bedlam, pay tuppence and watch the lunatics perform. What fun! It wasn’t long before Bethlem became just another attraction, like the Tower and the Abbey. So, the visits were stopped. No more sightseers, no more pedlars, and no more preachers. It was the governors’ fear that their sermons were as likely to inflame the patients as pacify them.”

“But you didn’t agree?”

Locke steepled his fingers. “On the contrary. At the time, they were probably right. It’s hard enough trying to keep the poor devils quiet as it is, without having some irate Wesleyan ranting up and down the corridors. But there are preachers and there are preachers. I am not a particularly God-fearing man, Officer Hawkwood, but I’m quite prepared to believe in the efficacy of prayer and contemplation as a means of calming the fevered mind. Not that it works in every case, of course. But, in certain instances, I would consider the taking of counsel to be very therapeutic. And they do say, after all, that confession is good for the soul, do they not?”

“They might also say that ten o’clock at night was an odd time to be hearing someone’s confession.”

The apothecary flattened his palms on the desk. “The governors’ ruling still applies. Although I personally saw no harm in the Reverend Tombs’s visits, I felt that a certain amount of discretion was advisable. At that time of night there are fewer staff around, not so many eyes to see or mouths to spread idle tittle-tattle. Though I understand that on this occasion Reverend Tombs was a little later than he had intended. He told Attendant Leech he’d been attending to parish matters. A burial, I believe it was.”

“His parish is St Mary’s, correct?”

The apothecary nodded.

“We dispatched constables to his house,” Hawkwood said. “Not that it’s done any good, seeing as we sent them after the wrong bloody man.” Hawkwood paused to let the point sink in. “Which prompts me to ask you how the two of them came together in the first place. How did they meet?”

“It was purely by chance. We had an application, about a year and a half ago, to admit a patient who was suffering from the most distressing and quite violent fits. His family arranged his admittance, as they were no longer able to cope with his condition. They were fearful the poor devil would harm his children. The commissioners accepted the petition and we took him in. He was later transferred to our incurable department. Sadly, his condition continued to deteriorate. When it became clear there was no further hope, the family asked that he might receive visits from the Reverend Tombs. The patient had been one of his parishioners and it was hoped that, in his final days, he might derive some comfort from the reverend’s presence. I took it upon myself to arrange for the Reverend Tombs to visit him. I do believe it helped. Towards the end, there were moments when he was able to converse in quite lucid terms and bid his family goodbye. It was a very sad case for all concerned. The patient, incidentally, was a former soldier, an infantryman who’d fought in the Peninsula. It was my suspicion that his condition also harked back to his time on the battlefield. Not that it could be proved, of course, though Crowther’s examination of his brain did at least confirm it had suffered morbid damage.”

“You examined his brain?”

The apothecary blanched and said hurriedly, “Not I, Crowther. At least we can be thankful that the man was sober on that occasion. He –”

“I don’t care who wielded the damned knife, Doctor. You’re telling me the hospital cuts open its dead patients?”

“Not all of them.”

Not all of them. Good Christ, Hawkwood thought. What sort of place is this?

“You look shocked, Officer Hawkwood,” Locke said, his composure restored. “Dissections are a necessary procedure if we are to advance our knowledge. As I’ve told you, I believe there’s a direct correlation between diseases of the brain and madness. My own research has convinced me, for example, that the lateral ventricles in the brain are greater in maniacs than those who are sane. I –”

“I’m sure that comes as a comfort to the grieving widows,” Hawkwood growled, not having the slightest clue what the apothecary was talking about and unable to keep the bite from his voice. “You were telling me about the Reverend Tombs.”

For a moment it appeared the apothecary was about to attempt further justification for his argument, but Hawkwood’s demeanour obviously made him reconsider. Clearly the Runner was in no mood to engage in a bracing discussion about ethics.

“Indeed,” said Locke. “I understand the colonel heard of the Reverend Tombs’s visits from one of the keepers, a passing reference perhaps and mention made that the patient had been a military man like himself. Whatever the circumstances, I do recall that after some consideration I decided there’d be little harm if the Reverend Tombs were to accept Colonel Hyde’s request to call upon him. That would have been about six months ago. Since then the reverend has been a regular visitor to his room, usually once a week.”

“So the priest was here to hear the colonel’s confession?”

The apothecary shook his head. “You misinterpret the situation. Besides, Reverend Tombs was an Anglican. No, although on this latter occasion he was here to play chess, I’m sure their conversations touched upon a variety of topics: medicine, philosophy, history, the war …” The apothecary frowned and added pointedly, “I did not place my ear against the door.”

“Did they ever tell you what they talked about?”

The apothecary shrugged. “Only in the most general terms.”

“So you weren’t aware of any recent disagreement the two of them might have had?”

Locke pursed his lips. “No, not at all. As far as I was aware they always parted on the best of terms.”

There were plenty of men who’d come to blows over a game of hazard, Hawkwood mused. Why not chess? But even as the notion entered his mind, he dismissed it as so unlikely, it bordered on the ridiculous.

“What about the colonel’s mood? Did you notice any changes recently?” Even as he posed the question, he was reminded that the colonel had been diagnosed as incurably mad. The man had probably suffered more mood changes than there were fleas on a dog. How could anyone, even a mad-doctor, differentiate one from the other?

But Locke shook his head. “None. There was nothing in his manner to suggest his state of mind had been … transformed in any way. In any case, the colonel was never one to display emotion. Indeed, that was one of his characteristics. In many respects it made him an ideal patient. His demeanour was always calm, one might even say tranquil, accepting of his lot, if you will. You’ve seen his room. It was a place of order, of study and contemplation.”

Hawkwood considered the implications. If there had been no obvious disagreement or falling out between the two of them and the colonel had displayed no startling changes of personality, that left … what? He needed more information; a lot more.

“I want to see your admission documents on Colonel Hyde,” Hawkwood said. “And I need a description. We know what he was wearing when he left, but we need to know the rest – his height, hair colour and so forth – if we’re to hunt him down.”

“Very well.” The apothecary paused before continuing. “I can tell you that Colonel Hyde is forty-nine years of age. His hair is still dark, though it is receding and he has some grey around the temples. He is of slender but not slight build and he has a military bearing which can make him look taller. If truth were told, his physique is not dissimilar to that of the unfortunate Reverend Tombs.”

How convenient, Hawkwood thought. “Other than his madness, is he well … physically?”

Locke blinked, as if the question had been unexpected. “Indeed he is. The colonel enjoys excellent health. In fact, he made a point of maintaining his physical condition through a routine of daily exercises. I recall it was the cause of some amusement among the staff.”

Hawkwood frowned. “What sort of exercises?”

“He told me once that he learned them from his regimental fencing master. I believe that, during his military service, the colonel was considered an excellent swordsman.”

“Scalpels and sabres,” Hawkwood said. “My, my.”

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

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.