Resurrectionist

Hawkwood approached the tree. His first thought was that it would have taken a degree of effort to haul the dead man into place, which indicated there had been more than one person involved in the killing. Either that, or an individual possessed of considerable strength. Hawkwood stepped closer and studied the ground around the base of the trunk, careful where he placed his own feet. The previous night’s rain had turned the ground to mud. But earth was not made paste solely by the passage of rainwater. Other factors, Hawkwood knew, should be taken into consideration.

There were faint marks; indentations too uniform to have been caused by nature. He looked closer. The depression took shape: the outline of a heel. He circled the base of the oak, eyes probing. There were more signs: leaves and twigs, broken and pressed into the soil by a weight from above. They told him there had definitely been more than one man. He paused suddenly and squatted down, mindful to avoid treading on the hem of his riding coat.

It was a complete impression, toe and heel, another indication that at least one of Hawkwood’s suspicions had been proved correct. Hawkwood was an inch under six feet in height. He placed the base of his own boot next to the spoor and saw with some satisfaction that his own foot was smaller. The depth of the indentation was also impressive.

Hawkwood glanced up. He found that he was standing on the opposite side of the tree to the body. The first thing that caught his attention was the rope. It was dangling from the fork in the trunk, its end grazing the fallen leaves below. The noose was still secured around the neck of the deceased.

In his mind’s eye, Hawkwood re-enacted the scene and looked at the ground again, casting his eyes back and to the side. There was another footprint, he saw, slightly off-centre from the first. It had been made by someone planting his feet firmly, digging in his heel, taking the strain and pulling on the rope. The indication was that he was a big man, a strong man. There were no other prints in the immediate vicinity. The hangman’s companions would have been on the other side of the tree, hammering in the nails.

Hawkwood stood and retraced his steps.

He looked up at the victim then turned to the gravediggers.

“All right, get him down.”

They looked at him, then at the verger, who, following a quick glance in Hawkwood’s direction, gave a brief nod.

“Do it,” Hawkwood snapped. “Now.”

It took a while and it was not pleasant to watch. The gravediggers had not come prepared and thus had to improvise with the tools they had to hand. This involved hammering the nails from side to side with the edge of their shovels in order to loosen them enough so that they could be pulled out of the oak’s trunk. The victim’s wrists did not emerge entirely unscathed from the ordeal. Not that the poor bastard was in any condition to protest, Hawkwood reflected grimly, as the body was lowered to the ground.

Hawkwood stole a look at Lucius Symes. The verger’s face was pale and the gravediggers didn’t look any better. More than likely, their first destination upon leaving the graveyard would be the nearest gin shop.

Hawkwood examined the corpse. The clothes were still damp, presumably from last night’s rain, so it had been up there a while. It was male, although that had been obvious from the outset. Not an old man but not a boy either; probably in his early twenties, a working man. Hawkwood could tell that by the hands, despite the recent mauling they had received from the shovels. He could tell from the calluses around the tips of the fingers and from the scar tissue across the knuckles; someone who’d been in the fight game, perhaps. It was a thought.

“Anyone recognize him?” Hawkwood asked.

No answer. Hawkwood looked up, saw their expressions. There were no nods, no shakes of the head either. He looked from one to the other. No reaction from the verger, just a numbness in his gaze, but he saw what might have been a shadow move in gravedigger Hicks’ eye. A flicker, barely perceptible; a trick of the light, perhaps?

Hawkwood considered the significance of that, placed it in a corner of his mind, and resumed his study.

At least the manner of death was beyond doubt: a broken neck.

Hawkwood loosened the noose and removed the rope from around the dead man’s throat. He stared at the necklace of bruises that mottled the cold flesh of the victim’s neck before turning his attention to the rope knot. Very neat, a professional job. Whoever had strung the poor bastard up had shown a working knowledge of the hangman’s tool. In a movement unseen by the verger and the gravediggers, Hawkwood lifted a hand to his own throat. The dark ring of bruising below his jawline lay concealed beneath his collar. He felt the familiar, momentary flash of dark memory, swiftly subdued. Odd, he thought, how things come to pass.

Placing the rope to one side and knowing it was a futile gesture, Hawkwood searched the cadaver’s pockets. As he had expected, they were empty. He took a closer look at the stains on the dead man’s jacket. The corpse’s clothing bore the evidence of both the previous night’s storm as well as the brutal manner of death. The back of the jacket and breeches had borne the brunt of the damage, caused, Hawkwood surmised, by contact with the tree trunk as the victim was hoisted aloft. He had already seen the slice marks in the bark made by the dead man’s boot heels as he had kicked and fought for air.

There were other stains, too, he noticed, on the front of the jacket and the shirt beneath. He traced the marks with his fingertip and rubbed the residue across the ball of his thumb.

Hawkwood examined the face. There was congealed blood around the lips. Had the rooks feasted there, too?

Hawkwood reached a hand into the top of his right boot and took out his knife. Behind him, the verger drew breath. One of the gravediggers swore as Hawkwood inserted the blade of the knife between the corpse’s lips. Gripping the dead man’s chin with his left hand, Hawkwood used the knife to prise open the jaws. He knelt close and peered into the victim’s mouth.

The teeth and tongue had been removed.

The extraction had been performed with a great deal of force. The ravaged, blood-encrusted gums told their own story. Hawkwood could see that a section of the lower jawbone, long enough to contain perhaps half a dozen teeth, was also missing. A bradawl had been used for the single teeth, Hawkwood suspected, and probably a hammer and small chisel for the rest. Hard to tell what might have been used to sever the tongue; a razor, perhaps.

The verger’s hand flew to his lips, as if seeking reassurance that his own tongue was still in situ. He stared at Hawkwood aghast. “What does it mean? Why would they do such a thing?”

Hawkwood wiped the blade on his sleeve and returned it to his boot. He looked down at the corpse. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

The three men stared back at him.

Hawkwood stood up and addressed the verger. “Your most recent burial – where was it?”

Verger Symes looked momentarily confused at the sudden change of tack. His face lost even more colour. “Burial? Why, that would be … Mary Walker. Died of consumption. We buried her yesterday.” The verger glanced at the two gravediggers, as if seeking confirmation.

It was the older man, Hicks, who nodded. “Four o’clock, it were, just afore the rain came.”

“Where?” Hawkwood demanded.

Hicks jerked a thumb. “Over yonder. Top o’ the pile, she was.”

A sinking feeling began to stir in Hawkwood’s belly.

“Show me.”

The gravedigger led the way across the burial ground towards a large patch of shadow close to the boundary of the churchyard, and pointed to a dark rectangle of freshly turned soil.

“How deep was she?” Hawkwood asked.

The two gravediggers exchanged meaningful glances.

Not deep enough, Hawkwood thought.

“All right, let’s take a look.”

The verger stared at Hawkwood in disbelief and horror.

“I’d step away, if I were you, Verger Symes,” Hawkwood said. “You wouldn’t want to get your shoes dirty.”

Blood drained from the verger’s face. “You cannot do this! I forbid it!”

“Protest duly noted, Verger.” Hawkwood nodded at Hicks. “Start digging.”

Hicks looked at his partner, who looked back at him and shrugged.

The shovels bit into the soil in unison.

At that moment Hawkwood knew what they would find. He could tell from the expressions on the faces of the gravediggers that they knew too. He had the feeling even Verger Symes, despite his protestation, wasn’t going to be surprised either.

In the event it took less than six inches of topsoil and a dozen shovel loads to confirm it.

There was a dull thud as a shovel struck wood. They used the edges of the shovels to scrape the soil away from the top of the coffin. What was immediately apparent was the jagged split in the wood halfway down the thin coffin lid.

“Good God, have you no pity?” The verger made as if to place himself between Hawkwood and the open grave.

“If I’m wrong, Verger Symes,” Hawkwood said, “I’ll buy your church a new roof. Now, stand aside.” He nodded to Hicks. “Open it up.”

Hicks glanced at his partner, who looked equally uncomfortable.

“Give me the bloody shovel,” Hawkwood held out his hand.

Hicks hesitated, then passed it over.

The three men watched as Hawkwood inserted the blade of the shovel under the widest end of the lid and pressed down hard. His effort met with little resistance. Other hands had already rendered the damage. The cheap lid splintered along the existing split with a drawn-out creak. Hawkwood handed the shovel back to its owner, gripped the edges of the shattered lid and lifted.

The verger swallowed nervously.

Hawkwood knelt, reached inside the coffin and lifted out the crumpled fold of cloth.

The burial shroud.

Burial plots were at a premium in London and mass graves were common in many parishes. It was often impossible to dig a fresh grave without disturbing previously buried corpses. The pit at St Giles in the Fields was a prime example where, for years, rows of cheap coffins had been piled one upon the other, all exposed to sight and smell, awaiting more coffins which would then be stacked on top of them. The depths of the pits could vary and coffins weren’t always used. A year or two back, in St Botolph’s, two gravediggers had died as a result of noxious gases emanating from decomposing corpses. Graves were often kept open for weeks until charged almost to the surface with dead bodies. In many instances the top layer of earth was only a few inches deep so that body extremities could sometimes poke through the soil.

Which made it easy for the body stealers.

Hawkwood left the gravediggers to fill in the hole and retraced his steps back to the murder scene. He looked down at the corpse and then at the grubby shroud in his hand.

Strictly speaking, bodies were not considered property. Burial clothing, however, was a different matter. Steal a corpse and you couldn’t be done. Steal clothing or a shroud or a wedding ring and that was a different matter. That carried the punishment of transportation. Whoever had ransacked this grave had been careful.

Which begged the obvious question.

Why leave the dead man’s corpse behind? Why wasn’t this one bound for the anatomist’s table as well? The dead man was relatively young and, other than the obvious fact that he was lifeless, he appeared to be in good physical shape. He should have been a prime candidate for any surgeon’s anatomy class. The corpses of well-built men were always in demand, for, with the skin stripped away, they could be used to display muscles to their best advantage. To any self-respecting body stealer, this wasn’t just a cadaver, this was serious cash-in-hand.

There was the soft pad of footsteps from behind. It was the verger.

“How many?” Hawkwood asked.

The verger bit his lip. “Four in the last two weeks, including the Walker woman. The other three were all male.”

Hawkwood said nothing and reflected on the speed of the corpse’s transformation from Mary Walker to the Walker woman. “What about a night watchman?”

Verger Symes shrugged. “It’s true we have employed them in the past, and it makes a difference for a time. The snatchers go elsewhere: St Luke’s or St Helen’s. But then the watchman becomes complacent and relaxes his vigilance, usually with the aid of a bottle, and the stealings begin again. We are not a wealthy parish, Officer Hawkwood.”

It was not an uncommon story.

The number of graveyards in the capital that had escaped the attention of the sack-’em-up men could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Deterrents had been tried – night watchmen, lamps, dogs, even concealed spring guns – but to little avail.

The wealthy could inter their dead in deeper graves, in family mausoleums and private chapels or beneath heavy, immovable headstones, encasing the remains in substantial coffins, either lead-lined or made entirely of metal. The poor could not afford such luxuries. They did their best, mixing sticks and straw with the grave soil for example, in the vain hope that the resulting fibres would choke the stealers’ wooden shovels. Paupers’ graves were easy targets.

“Can I ask you a question, Officer Hawkwood?” The verger looked pensive. “When I enquired earlier why anyone would do such a terrible thing – murder a man, then cut out his tongue – you said it was obvious. I don’t understand.”

Hawkwood nodded. “Same reason they didn’t take this body away with the other one. It was left here for a purpose.”

“Purpose?”

Hawkwood returned the verger’s gaze.

“It’s meant as a warning.”

“You think that’s why they left the body? As a warning?”

James Read asked the question with his back to the room. He was gazing out of the window, looking down into Bow Street. It was early. The Public Office on the ground floor was not due to open for over an hour. Outside, however, the roads were already busy with morning traffic. The click-clack of hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels could be heard, along with the cries of street vendors as they made their way to and from Covent Garden, barely a stone’s throw away round the corner at the end of Russell Street.

The fire, still crackling in the grate, had raised the room’s temperature considerably since Hawkwood’s last visit. James Read did not like the cold so he was studying the oppressive late November sky with no small degree of despair. He suspected that the weather was about to take a turn for the worse. There was a sullen quality in the air that hinted of yet more precipitation, possibly sleet, and that probably meant the early arrival of winter snow. He sighed, shivered in resigned acceptance, and turned towards the fire’s warming embrace.

“That was my first thought,” Hawkwood said.

Knowing James Read’s propensity for an open fire, Hawkwood had wisely left his coat in the ante-room under the eye of Ezra Twigg. He was glad he had done so. He would be roasting otherwise.

“You base that on the manner of death and the removal of the dead man’s tongue, I presume?”

Hawkwood nodded. “The gravediggers and the verger got a good look. It’ll be all round the parish by midday. If it isn’t already.”

“I would have thought the crucifixion would have sufficed,” James Read said. “The tongue seems rather excessive. Not to mention the teeth. You have thoughts on the teeth?”

“Waste not, want not,” Hawkwood said dispassionately. “The body and the tongue were left as a warning. The teeth were taken for profit.”

A fine profit, too, if one had the stomach for it. Most body stealers had. It was a lucrative sideline. Many resurrection men removed the teeth from corpses before delivering their merchandise to the anatomists. A good set could fetch five guineas if you knew your market.

“As I said: excessive.”

“Not if you really want to put the fear of God into your rivals,” Hawkwood said.

The Chief Magistrate frowned. “Which would indicate a serious escalation in violence.”

“They’re making their mark,” Hawkwood said. “Staking their territory. The Borough Boys will be looking to their laurels.”

The Borough Boys had long been the capital’s most notorious team of resurrectionists. They plied their trade mostly around Bermondsey but supplemented their incomes by regular forays north of the river. Up until now they had ruled the roost, but a rivalry had begun to develop. There were rumours of a new gang based along the Ratcliffe Highway, whose members had a mind to deter all the other body stealers from entering their domain by whatever means necessary. Fear and intimidation were their watchwords. Unbeknownst to the majority of respectable citizens, deep in the city’s shadows and the gutters a vicious war was being waged.

“What about the deceased?” Read asked. “Do we know his identity?”

“There’s a possibility his name is Edward Doyle.”

The Chief Magistrate raised an eyebrow.

“Hicks, one of the gravediggers told me. He denied knowledge at first, but then had a change of heart after he’d taken a closer look at the face second time around, so he said.”

James Read kept his eyebrow raised.

“I wasn’t satisfied with his first answer. I pressed him on it.”

“I’ve always admired your powers of persuasion, Hawkwood,” Read said drily. “So, you think he was involved?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “In the murder? No, his shock was genuine. In planning the removal of the woman’s body? Maybe. Proving it might be difficult.”

“So your thought is that he tipped off Doyle there was a newly buried body. Doyle turned up to collect it and ran into a rival gang who stole the body, killed Doyle and left his body on display?”

“I’d say so,” Hawkwood agreed.

That James Read expressed no concern at the gravedigger’s alleged involvement came as no surprise to Hawkwood. It was common knowledge that most resurrection men plied their business with the connivance of those connected to the burial trade, be they undertakers or gravediggers. It wasn’t unheard of for those who dug the graves to be personally involved in exhumations. After all, they knew where the bodies were buried, literally. A common ruse was for gravediggers to let slip to interested parties that certain cadavers, by prior arrangement, were not in the coffins that had been recently buried but left instead on top of the casket, hidden under a thin layer of loose earth just below the surface, ready for retrieval.

“What else do we know about Doyle?” Read asked.

“Hicks thinks he may have been a porter, one of the Smithfield lot.”

“And?”

“And nothing. That was all he knew.”

Read sucked in his cheeks. “What does that leave us?”

“Not much,” Hawkwood admitted. “But it’s all I’ve got. If he does work out of Smithfield, the odds are he’ll have had a regular watering hole close by, maybe one of those drinking dens up on Cow Street. And if he was a resurrectionist on the side, it’s even more likely. From what I’ve heard, most of the bastards spend their takings on rotgut.”

The Chief Magistrate bit his lip. “I take it you intend paying the area a visit?”

“I thought I might,” Hawkwood said. “Ask around. See what I can dig up.” Hawkwood kept his face straight.

“Thank you, Hawkwood. Most amusing.” The Chief Magistrate returned to his desk and took his seat. “But, before you do, I’ve another pressing matter that requires immediate attention. I’m afraid to say this is turning out to be a most memorable morning. While you were investigating the incident in Cripplegate, I received word of another murder, a most curious occurrence, not to mention a most intriguing coincidence, given your recent encounter with death and divinity.”

Hawkwood wasn’t sure if this was another example of the Chief Magistrate’s mordant wit, or how he was expected to respond, if at all. He decided to wait and see.

“The conveyor of the information was in a severe state of agitation, understandably. As a result the details are somewhat incomplete. We do know the victim is a Colonel Titus Hyde.”

“Army?” Hawkwood frowned.

The Chief Magistrate nodded. “Indeed, which is why I felt it appropriate that an officer with your background should initiate the investigation. Bizarrely, we were also provided with the murderer’s identity, and his address. The perpetrator would appear to be a man of the cloth; a Reverend Tombs.”

“A parson?” Hawkwood couldn’t mask his surprise.

“I’ve dispatched constables to the parson’s house. It’s doubtful he’ll be there, of course. Most likely he’s gone to ground somewhere, but it’s the logical place to start looking for him. I’d like you to visit the scene of the crime.”

The expression on the Chief Magistrate’s face told Hawkwood there was more to come. “Which was where?”

The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips. “Ah, again, that is another perplexing factor. The killing took place last night, or rather in the early hours of this morning, in Moor Fields. The exact location …” the Chief Magistrate paused “… was Bethlem Hospital.”

And there it was. Hawkwood stared at the Chief Magistrate. Save for the ticking of the clock in the corner and the crackle of burning wood in the grate, the room had gone uncannily silent.

Because not many people called it that.

In the same way the Public Office was known, at least to the personnel who worked there, by a nickname, the Shop, so too was Bethlem Hospital; and not just by its staff, but by the entire city, if not the entire nation. Bethlem had been its founding name, but it had another: a single word synonymous with incarceration, misery and madness.

Bedlam.

2

Hawkwood stared stonily through the railings at the state of the building he was about to enter. Despite having dominated the area for centuries and become ingrained in the public consciousness, the place still held a morbid fascination, even if it was collapsing into ruin.

The original façade had been some five hundred feet in length, modelled, so it was said, on the Tuileries Palace in Paris. In its prime, the building must have been a magnificent sight.

Not any longer. The place had been falling apart for years, subsidence and rot having taken its toll. The east wing had already been demolished, following a damning surveyor’s report. Only half of the original building remained and that was little more than a shell. It was no longer a palace but a slum, as shoddy and as run down as the houses and second-hand furniture shops that occupied the narrow streets around it.

Hawkwood had never visited the hospital, though he’d lost count of the times he’d walked past the place, and he couldn’t recall a single occasion when he hadn’t experienced a dark sense of foreboding. Bethlem had that effect.

He glanced up. Above him, surmounting the posts either side of the entrance gates, were two reclining stone statues. Both were male, naked and badly eroded, victims of more than a century’s exposure to wind and rain and the capital’s filthy air. The wrists of the right-hand figure were linked by a thick chain and heavy manacles. The statue’s head was tilted, the carved mouth was open in a silent scream of despair, as if warning passers-by of the cruel reality concealed behind the gates.

He heard laughter, the happy sound at once at odds with the cheerless surroundings. He looked over his right shoulder. There’d been a time when Moor Fields had been counted among the capital’s greatest visitor attractions, its landscaped lawns and wide walkways framed by neat railings and tall, elegant elm trees inspiring tributes from artists and poets.

Most of that had long since disappeared. What had once been a smooth, green, manicured meadow was now a meagre desert of bare earth and weeds. What remained of the railings were bent and broken. The trees that lined the pathways looked listless and unkempt in the dull morning light. Parts of the encompassing lawn had suffered from chronic subsidence, creating, after stormy nights, rainwater-filled depressions. It was from the edge of one of these shallow ponds that the laughter had originated. Two small boys were playing with a toy galleon, re-enacting some naval engagement, totally immersed in their imaginary battle, oblivious to the incongruity of the moment.