by James McGee
Locke nodded. “That is so. However, he is by title only the visiting physician and thus is not required to attend the premises on a daily basis. He oversees prescriptions to patients two days a week and attends the governors’ sub-committee meeting on Saturday mornings.”
“And the rest of the time?”
There was just the slightest hesitation, barely noticeable, but it was there nevertheless.
“I understand the majority of his time is spent at his academy, commissioning and, er … setting up his exhibits.”
“His what?” Hawkwood wondered if he’d heard correctly.
“His paintings, Officer Hawkwood. Dr Monro is a respected patron of the arts. I understand Mr Turner used to be one of his many protégés.”
“Turner?”
“The artist. He has received many plaudits for his works. His forte is landscapes, I believe.”
“I know who Turner is,” Hawkwood snapped.
The apothecary stiffened and blinked. The look that flickered across the bespectacled face suggested that Locke’s expectation of a Bow Street emissary had probably run to a ponderous, black-capped, blue-waistcoated conductor of the watch with an ingratiating manner and a pot-belly. Patently what the apothecary had not made provision for was an arrogant, long-haired, scar-faced, well-dressed ruffian with a passing knowledge of the arts.
For his part, Hawkwood recalled Locke’s initial response to his question. The apothecary’s turn of phrase had seemed a little odd at the time, as had the emphasis on the word “canvas”. All was now becoming clear. He hadn’t imagined Attendant Leech’s smirk. The unmistakable whiff of resentment hung in the air. There might be more to this timid-faced apothecary than he had first thought. And that was certainly an avenue worth exploring.
“Forgive me, Doctor, it just seemed curious to me that the hospital’s chief physician would appear to spend rather more time with his paintings than his patients. However, there’s another doctor on the staff, I believe: Surgeon Crowther? Or have his duties taken him elsewhere, too?”
Hawkwood allowed just the right amount of sarcasm to creep into his voice. His tactic was rewarded. This time, the apothecary’s reaction was less restrained. He flushed and coughed nervously.
Over his shoulder, Hawkwood heard Attendant Leech shift his feet.
Locke’s eyes flickered towards the sound. “I’d be obliged, Mr Leech, if you would be so good as to wait outside.”
The attendant hesitated then nodded. Locke waited until the door had closed. He turned back to Hawkwood. Removing his spectacles, he extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish each lens. “I regret that Surgeon Crowther is …” the apothecary pursed his lips “… indisposed.”
“Really? How so?”
Locke placed his spectacles back on his nose and tucked away his handkerchief.
“The man’s a drunkard. I haven’t seen him for three days. I suspect he’s either at home soaking up the grape or lying in a stupor in some Gin Lane grog shop.”
This time there was no mistaking the edge in the apothecary’s voice. It was sharp enough to cut glass. “Which is why you are talking to the apothecary, Officer Hawkwood. Does that answer your question? Now, perhaps you would care to see the body?”
Attendant Leech led the way.
As they were going down the stairs, the apothecary paused as if to collect his thoughts. Allowing Leech to get a few steps ahead of them, he took a deep breath. “My apologies, Officer Hawkwood. You must think me indiscreet. I fear I rather let my tongue run away with me, but it has been somewhat difficult of late, what with the surveyors’ final report and the notice and so forth.”
“Notice?” Hawkwood said.
“The building’s been condemned. Hadn’t you heard?” The apothecary made a face. “Some would say not before time. You saw that the east wing’s already gone? That used to house the male patients. Since its destruction we’ve had to move the men into the same gallery as the women; not the most suitable arrangement, as you may imagine. It’s fortunate we’re not operating at full capacity. When I started there were double the number of patients there are now. Hopefully we’ll have more room when we move to our new quarters, though goodness knows when that will be.”
They descended a few more steps, then Locke said, “A site has been procured, at St George’s Field. Plans have been agreed, though there’s been some doubt about the funding. You may have seen the subscription campaign for donations in The Times? Ah, well, no matter. Unfortunately, attention has been diverted to the New Bethlem very much at the expense of the old one. We have been abandoned, Officer Hawkwood. Some might even say betrayed. Which accounts for the deplorable state of repairs you see before you.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs. A few of the keepers nodded as the apothecary passed. Most of them ignored him and continued to swab the floor.
“I’ve a hundred and twenty patients in my care, male and female, and less than thirty unskilled staff to tend them. That includes attendants, maidservants, cooks, washerwomen and gardeners – though God knows there’s scant need for their services. I’m required to sleep on the premises and to make rounds every morning, dispense advice and medicines and direct the keepers in the management of the patients. Note that I said ‘direct’, Officer Hawkwood. I have no authority over them, save in the supervision of their daily schedule. I’m not permitted to dismiss or even discipline the keepers, despite the fact that many of them are frequently the worse for drink. My complaints continue to fall on deaf ears. Wait, did I say ‘deaf’? Absent would be a better word.”
They had left the rattle of mops and pails behind them. The damp smell, however, seemed to follow them along the corridor.
The apothecary’s nose twitched. “Is this your first visit, Officer Hawkwood?”
Admitting that it was, Hawkwood wondered where the question was leading.
“And what was the first thing that struck you when you walked through the door? I beg you to be truthful.” As he spoke, the apothecary sidestepped nimbly around a puddle.
“The smell,” Hawkwood said, without hesitation.
The apothecary stopped and turned to face him. “Indeed, Officer Hawkwood, the smell. The place reeks. It reeks of four centuries of human excreta. Bethlem is a midden; it’s where London discharges its waste matter. This is the city’s dung heap and it has become my onerous duty to ensure that the reek is contained.”
* * *
Hawkwood knew it was going to be bad. He’d seen it in the pallor on Locke’s face, in the expression of dread in the young apothecary’s eyes, in the quickening of his breath and the faint yet distinct tremor in Leech’s hand as the keeper had unlocked the door.
The window shutters were open but, as the morning sky was overcast, the room was suffused in a spectral half-light. When he entered, Hawkwood felt as if all the warmth had been sucked from his body. He wondered whether that was due to the temperature or his growing feeling of unease. He’d seen death many times. He’d witnessed it taking place and had visited it upon his enemies, both on the battlefield and elsewhere, and yet, as soon as his eyes took in his surroundings, he knew this was going to be different to anything he had experienced.
He heard the apothecary murmur instructions to Attendant Leech, who began to move around the room lighting candle stubs. Gradually, the shadows started to retreat and the cell’s layout began to take form, as did its contents.
It was not one room, Hawkwood saw, but two, separated by a low archway, as if two adjoining cells had been turned into one by removing a section of the intervening wall. Even so, with its cold stone floor and dark, dripping walls, the cell resembled a castle dungeon more than a hospital room. Hawkwood recalled a recent investigation into a forgery case which had taken him to Newgate to interview an inmate. The gaol was a black-hearted, festering sore. The cells there had been dank hellholes. The design of this place, he realized, looked very similar, even down to the bars on the windows.
In the im
mediate area, there were a few sticks of rudimentary furniture: a table, two chairs, a stool, a slop pail in the corner, close to what looked to be the end of a sluice pipe, and a narrow wooden cot pushed against the wall. On top of the cot could be seen the vague shape of a human form covered by a threadbare woollen blanket.
The apothecary approached the cot. He straightened, as if to gather himself. “Bring the candle closer, Mr Leech, if you please.” He turned to Hawkwood. “I must warn you to prepare yourself.”
Hawkwood had already done so. The pervasive scent of death had transmitted its own warning. At the same time he wondered if the dampness in the cell was a permanent phenomenon or solely a consequence of the previous night’s deluge. He could hear a faint tapping sound coming from somewhere close by and concluded it was probably rainwater dripping through a hole in the ceiling.
Locke lifted the corner of the blanket and pulled it away. Even with Leech holding the candle above the cot, in the dim light it took a second or two for the ghastly vision to sink in.
Hawkwood had seen the injuries suffered by soldiers. He’d seen arms and legs slashed and sliced by sword and bayonet. He’d seen limbs shattered by musket balls and he’d seen men turned to gruel by canister. But nothing he had seen could be compared to this.
The corpse, dressed only in undergarments, lay on its back. The body appeared to be unmarked, except for one incontrovertible fact.
It had no face.
Hawkwood held out his hand. “Give me the light.”
Leech passed over the candle. Hawkwood crouched down. From what he could see, every square inch of the corpse’s facial skin from brow to chin had been removed. All that remained was an uneven oval of raw, suppurating flesh. The eyelids were still in place, as were the lips, though they were thin and bloodless and reminded Hawkwood of the body he’d examined first thing that morning. Unlike that corpse, however, this body still possessed its tongue and teeth.
Beside him, the apothecary was staring at the corpse as though mesmerized by the epic brutality of the scene. Reaching for his handkerchief, Locke polished his spectacles vigorously and perched them back on his nose. “From what I can tell, the first incision was probably made close to the ear. The blade was then drawn around the circumference of the face, with just sufficient pressure to break through the layers of the epidermis. The blade was then inserted under the skin to pare it away, separating it from the underlying muscle in stages.” The apothecary grimaced. “It would be rather similar to filleting a fish. Eventually, this would enable him to peel and lift the entire facial features off the skull, probably in one piece, like a mask …” Locke paused. “It was skilfully done, as you can see.”
“Where the devil would a parson pick up that sort of knowledge?” Hawkwood said.
The apothecary looked puzzled. “Parson?”
“Priest, then. Reverend Tombs – isn’t that his name?”
The apothecary stiffened. He turned and threw a glance at the keeper, his eyebrows raised in enquiry. The keeper reddened and shook his head. The apothecary’s jaw tightened. He turned back. “I fear there has been a misunderstanding.”
Hawkwood looked at him.
Locke hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.
“Doctor?” Hawkwood said.
The apothecary took a deep breath, then said, “It wasn’t the priest who perpetrated this barbaric act.”
Hawkwood looked back at him.
“Reverend Tombs was not the murderer, Officer Hawkwood. He was not the one who wielded the knife. He couldn’t have done.” Locke nodded towards the body on the cot. “Reverend Tombs was the victim.”
3
The apothecary looked down at the corpse and gave a brief shake of his head, as if to deny the bloody reality that lay before him.
“I confess, we took it to be the colonel’s body at first. It seemed the obvious conclusion in the light of Mr Grubb’s assurance that he’d escorted Reverend Tombs out of the building, or at least the person he assumed to be the reverend. It was only when I made a closer examination that I became aware of the deception. Unfortunately, we’d already sent word to Bow Street by then. I had thought, wrongly, that Mr Leech had informed you of the error upon your arrival.”
Locke lifted the corpse’s arm by the wrist and traced a path across the unmarked knuckles. “The colonel had a scar across the back of his right hand, just here. He told me it was the result of an accident during his army service. It was quite distinct and yet, as you can see, there is no scar.” The apothecary let the arm drop back on to the cot. “This is not Colonel Hyde.”
“But it is the Reverend Tombs? You’re sure of that?”
Locke nodded solemnly. “Quite sure.”
“Did he have scars too?”
Hawkwood couldn’t help injecting a note of sarcasm into his enquiry. To his surprise, Locke showed no adverse reaction to the retort but stated simply, “As a matter of fact, he did.” The apothecary met Hawkwood’s unspoken question by pointing to his own cheeks and jaw, the areas of the corpse’s face that had been excised. “The worst of them were on his face. Here and here. The minor ones are still visible there behind his left ear, if you look closely.”
Hawkwood turned to Leech. “You escorted Reverend Tombs to the room? What time was this?”
“It’d be about ten o’clock,” Leech said. “It were still rainin’ cats and dogs.”
“After you left him, what did you do?”
Leech shrugged. “Finished me rounds, went back upstairs.”
“And the key?”
“Left it on the ’ook in the keepers’ room with the rest of ’em.”
“And this … Grubb, he’d have taken the key to let the priest out?”
Leech nodded. “That’s right.” The attendant pointed to a bell cord hanging in the corner of the room. “Soon as he ’eard the bell ring, he’d have been on ’is way.”
“And Grubb noticed nothing untoward?”
Leech shook his head. “’E never said. I saw ’im when I came on again this morning, before Adkins told ’im about the colonel’s tray not bein’ touched. Asked him how things had gone and ’e said there’d been no problems. The parson rang the bell. Grubb collected him and escorted him out.”
“I’ll need to speak with Attendant Grubb,” Hawkwood said.
Locke nodded. “Of course, though he is still convalescing.”
“Convalescing?”
“He suffered a seizure when he discovered the body. Fortunately it was not as serious as we first feared. He is feeling rather frail, however, and has not yet returned to his duties. I can take you to him.”
Hawkwood nodded and looked around the room. “Has anything been moved, Doctor?”
“Moved?” Locke frowned.
“Put back in its place. Is this how it was when Grubb found the body?”
“I believe so, yes.”
Hawkwood stared at the iron rings set into the wall above the bed. He had a sudden vision of Norris, the patient chained to the wall by his neck and ankles. He walked towards the table. In the centre of it lay a chessboard. From the position of the pieces, the game was unfinished. Hawkwood picked up one of the figures – a white knight. It was made of bone. Hawkwood had seen similar sets before, carved by French prisoners of war imprisoned on the hulks. It wasn’t uncommon for such items to appear in private homes. There were agents, philanthropists who acted on behalf of some of the more skilful artists, offering to sell their carvings on the open market for a modest, or in some cases not so modest, commission. He wondered about the provenance of this particular set as he took in the rest of the items on the table: two mugs and an empty cordial bottle. He picked up the bottle. “Curious there’s no sign of a struggle.”
Locke blinked.
“Look around, Doctor. Not a chair overturned, not so much as a bishop upended or a pawn knocked out of its square. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? You think the man just stretched out and allowed himself to be butchered? He was already dead before that was
done to him. He had to be.”
Locke looked pensive. “I found no obvious signs of injury to the body – other than the trauma … damage … to the face, of course – which suggests the cause of death could have been suffocation. A sharp, swift blow to the stomach, perhaps, to incapacitate, followed by a pillow over the face. Death would occur in a matter of minutes; less, probably, if the victim was already gasping for air.”
“So he smothered him, then mutilated him? Well, that’s certainly a possibility, Doctor. So tell me: where did he get the blade?”
The question seemed to hang in the air. Locke went pale.
“I’m assuming there are rules about patients owning sharp objects, knives and such?” Hawkwood said.
Locke shifted uncomfortably. “That is correct.”
“Not even for cutting up food?”
“That is done by the keepers.”
“And razors? What about shaving?”
“The difficult patients are secured. Those of a more … placid … disposition are looked after, again by the keepers, usually with a pot-boy in attendance.”
Hawkwood saw that the apothecary was clenching and unclenching his hands.
“What is it, Doctor?”
Locke, clearly agitated, swallowed nervously. “It’s possible that I may have … ah, inadvertently, provided Colonel Hyde with the opportunity to procure the … ah, murder weapon.”
“Oh, and how is that?”
Cowed by the look in Hawkwood’s eyes, the apothecary started to knead the palm of his left hand with his right thumb. It looked as if he was trying to rub a bloodstain out of his skin. “There were occasions when I was called upon to attend the colonel in my … ah, medical capacity.”
“Really?”
“Nothing too serious, you understand: a purgative now and again, and there was the lancing of an abscess a month or so ago.” The apothecary’s voice faltered as he realized the significance of the confession.
“So you’d have had your bag with you?”
“Yes.”
“Which would have contained what, exactly?”
