by James McGee
Hawkwood shook his head. He knew the Chief Magistrate was right, of course. The idea was as insane as any of Bedlam’s patients. And yet …
He felt a stirring at the back of his mind; a memory of his meeting with Apothecary Locke. He tried to recall the conversation; it had involved the Reverend Tombs. What was it? And then, suddenly, it came to him. It was the reason for the parson’s visit being later than usual. The apothecary’s words came back to him: … attending to parish matters. A burial, I believe it was.
And a tiny thought began to grow.
The Chief Magistrate returned to his desk.
“I need you to arrange something for me,” Hawkwood said.
Read looked up. “What is it?”
Hawkwood told him.
The Chief Magistrate looked sceptical. “What you’re asking is highly irregular. It might even be considered unethical. And what would be the purpose? I’m not certain it will prove anything.”
“It’ll ease my mind,” Hawkwood said.
The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips. “Your peace of mind is hardly sufficient grounds for carrying out such a serious procedure.” Read sighed. “However, I can see by your face that you have the bit between your teeth. You are not going to let the matter rest, are you?” Read favoured Hawkwood with a shrewd look. “No, somehow I didn’t think so. Very well, I will make the necessary arrangements. Though I fail to see what good it will serve, other than to raise more questions. Was there anything else?”
“I might need a little help.”
“I was afraid of that, too.” There was a weary acceptance in the Chief Magistrate’s tone. “And did you have anyone particular in mind?”
“Hopkins. He struck me as a capable lad. And he’s young and healthy.”
James Read raised an eyebrow. “Is that relevant?” Hawkwood grinned. “Someone has to do the digging.”
The fire had done its work.
The tower was still standing, as was the body of the church, but they had been gutted by the flames. The bruised and blackened stonework told the story. Glass splinters from the broken windows lay strewn over the ground like shattered eggshells. Inside the nave, two charred roof beams rested in disarray across the remnants of the altar and half a dozen scorched pews. All the decorative material items – tapestries, altar cloths, drapes and the like – had been reduced to strips of tattered rag. The snow that had fallen during the night, and which had helped dampen the fire, had melted away, leaving glistening streaks of moisture in its wake. The smell of burnt wood hung uneasily in the damp air.
Sexton Pegg stared at the ruins. His face was haggard. Judging from the devastation, Hawkwood doubted there was much left worth saving but he was reminded that the sexton had lost not only his livelihood but his wife as well.
He had assigned Hopkins to find the sexton and bring him to the church. The old man’s first words on seeing Hawkwood had been, “When am I going to get ’er back?”
It had taken a second for Hawkwood to realize that the sexton was referring to his late wife. He sensed Constable Hopkins throwing him a despairing look behind the old man’s back.
“We’re still making enquiries,” Hawkwood said tactfully. “It might be some time.” And you wouldn’t want to see her anyway, he thought. Not the way she looks now.
The old man accepted the news with a philosophical shrug. “She could be a right cow, but she’ll need buryin’ all the same.”
There was an awkward pause.
“There was a burial …” Hawkwood said into the silence. “A man, maybe middle-aged. Buried a few days ago; probably late afternoon or evening. It would have been Reverend Tombs’ last funeral.”
The sexton looked up. His forehead creased at the change of subject. “That’s right. Name of Foley.” Then he frowned. “Why you askin’?”
Hawkwood jerked a thumb towards Hopkins. “Because he’s going to dig him up.”
The sexton’s jaw dropped. Even Hopkins looked taken aback, and he’d known what to expect. “You ain’t serious? I can’t let you do that. It ain’t …” the sexton searched for the right word “… legal. Is it?”
“I’ve a paper says it is,” Hawkwood said. “Signed by a Bow Street magistrate.” Hawkwood wondered why Hopkins had not warned the old man beforehand, and then it occurred to him that the constable had opted to play it safe, absolving himself of the responsibility by leaving it to Hawkwood to break the news. At least it proved that Constable Hopkins had a mind of his own.
The sexton peered around him vaguely, at what had once been his place of employment. He looked like a man wading slowly out of his depth and knowing he was powerless to prevent it. When he spoke, his voice was a subdued murmur. “Still don’t seem right.” His narrow shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Why don’t you show us the grave,” Hawkwood prompted. “We’ll need a shovel and a couple of lanterns.”
“Lanterns?” The sexton looked doubtful. “It’s broad daylight.”
“Just get them,” Hawkwood said.
The burial ground lay adjacent to the church. The grave was sited off to one side, close to a small hummock and the stump of what might have been a long-dead oak tree. There was no headstone, only a small wooden cross on which had been carved, in none too neat lettering, the name of the deceased.
“Cross was temporary,” Pegg explained. “Mason’s still workin’ on the inscription for the stone.”
The young constable looked first at the shovel, then at Hawkwood, and then at the task in hand. When Hawkwood had told him what his assignment was, Constable Hopkins had been curious, then strangely excited by the prospect. Now, faced with the imminent unearthing of a dead body, enthusiasm had rapidly given way to a growing feeling of unease.
“Look on the bright side, Constable,” Hawkwood said. “It could be worse. It could be raining.”
Hopkins looked neither happy nor convinced.
“You do know what a shovel’s for, Constable? You use the big end to shift the dirt from one place to another. It’s easy, once you get the hang of it.”
The constable blushed.
“He’ll ’ave ’is bleedin’ work cut out,” Sexton Pegg said morosely. As if to emphasize the validity of his observation, the sexton followed his remark by clearing his throat and expectorating the resulting sac of mucus against the side of a nearby tomb marker. “We buried this one deep.”
Hearing the sexton’s words, the constable’s heart sank further. But then he remembered that Hawkwood had asked for him by name, which at the very least meant that the stern-faced Runner did not consider him to be a total numbskull; unless, of course, no one else had been available. This could be the chance he’d been waiting for, the opportunity to show he was ready for advancement. What was it they said about mouths and gift horses?
Bolstered by a fresh surge of self-confidence, Constable Hopkins squared his shoulders and began to dig.
Fifteen minutes later, the constable paused in his digging. Despite the cold, it was proving warm work. The soil was hard on top while underneath it was damp and heavy and clung to the blade of the shovel like fresh dog turds. Rain might have been a blessing. At least it would have cooled him down. He removed his cap and jacket and hung them over the grave marker. Taking a gulp of air, he pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his brow. The old man had been right, it was taking longer than he had expected. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, half expecting to be met with a cold glare, but Hawkwood had his back to him. Wrapped in his riding coat, the Runner looked to be deep in thought, gazing out across the burial ground like a lookout atop a masthead. Hopkins wondered what was going through his mind.
“Not far to go now,” Sexton Pegg said, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re almost there.”
It took another ten minutes. By the time he had dug down to the coffin lid, Hopkins was already counting the blisters on his hands and the number of aching muscles in the small of his back. His russet hair was plastered to his scalp.
Under the sexton’s gaze, the constable scraped away the last of the soil and waited for orders.
Hawkwood stared into the hole, at the all too familiar jagged crack that ran across the top end of the coffin lid.
“Open it up.”
Hopkins swallowed nervously.
“Don’t worry,” Hawkwood said. “It’s empty.”
The sexton and the constable both turned and stared at him.
Hopkins jammed the blade of the shovel under the lid and bore down on the handle. Then, with a creeping sense of dread, he levered off the broken section of lid and propped it against the side of the grave.
“Well?” Hawkwood said.
Hopkins knelt down and peered into the open coffin, wrinkling his nostrils at the loamy smell that rose to meet him. He looked up. “You were right. There’s nothing there. How did you know?”
Hawkwood ignored the question. “What was he wearing when they buried him, Mr Pegg?”
“’Is Sunday best.”
“You said there’s no body, Constable. Is there anything else? Clothing, maybe? Get down. Have a good look. Feel around.”
The constable did as he was instructed. Feel around? He was going to need a new uniform after this, he thought gloomily. He looked up and shook his head. “There’s nothing.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, sir.” Why was Hawkwood so insistent? he wondered.
“All right, you can come up.” Hawkwood held out a hand. Hopkins grabbed it and hauled himself over the lip. “And I’ve told you before; don’t call me sir.”
The constable reddened.
“The bastards took him.” Pegg spat another mouthful of green phlegm into the earth.
“No,” Hawkwood said. “They didn’t.”
The sexton nodded down at the half-open coffin. “Pissing thing’s empty, ain’t it? Course they got him!”
Hopkins ignored the outburst. “How did you know it would be empty?” he asked again. The armpits of his shirt were stained dark with sweat from the digging. He rubbed his breeches to remove the worst of the mud and reached for his cap and jacket.
“I didn’t; not for certain. It was a guess. I wanted confirmation.”
“It wasn’t the Borough Boys?”
“Evil buggers!” the sexton hissed, to no one in particular.
Hawkwood shook his head. “It wasn’t the resurrection men.”
The sexton’s head swivelled.
“Why do you say that?” Hopkins asked.
“Because whoever dug him up took the whole damned lot,” Hawkwood said.
Hopkins looked back down at the hole. “I don’t understand.”
“A corpse is fair game. Take a body, the law can’t touch you. Steal the clothes, it’s theft. You can be taken down for that. Whether he’d been dressed in a smock or a winding sheet, it’d make no difference. Two weeks in the hulks and a voyage to Botany Bay. But there’s nothing down there except the coffin. Whoever did it took everything. If it had been the sack-’em-up men, they’d have thrown the clothes back.”
“If it wasn’t them, who was it?” Hopkins asked, nonplussed.
Hawkwood did not reply. At the outset he’d outlined what they were going to do, but he had not told Hopkins the reason behind the exhumation; for the moment he was content that the latter should remain ignorant. In any case, Hawkwood had concluded, it was probably best if only he and the Chief Magistrate knew the full extent of his failure and embarrassment if his theory was proved wrong.
He stared at the church, at the tower and the walls that were left standing, and turned to the sexton. “The man who was buried here. How did he die?”
“Crossin’ the street. Got knocked down by a carriage. Driver lost control. The poor bugger was caught underneath the wheels an’ dragged ’alfway down the road before they were able to stop it. Broke ’im up some. It weren’t a pretty sight.”
The male corpse examined by Surgeon Quill had suffered, among other things, a broken leg, a broken arm and a fractured skull. Both the surgeon and Hawkwood had accepted the evidence at face value, consistent with injuries sustained by falling from a great height. They could equally have been caused by a collision with a carriage travelling at speed.
But if Hyde had dug up the body and substituted it for his own, there was still the matter of his escape from the fire. Hawkwood and scores of witnesses had seen him cast his body into the flames. And by that time the place had been engulfed. Hawkwood continued to gaze towards the tower, stark against the cold winter sky.
“Bring the lanterns,” Hawkwood said.
The constable and the sexton looked at each other. Neither said anything, but the unspoken question was there. Then, taking up a lantern each, they followed Hawkwood towards the church.
When they got there, Hawkwood looked up. It was a long way from the tower window to the ground. There had been no hesitation when Hyde had jumped into the flames. One second he was there, the next he was gone, his leap accompanied by the tolling of the bell. No one could have survived the drop, or the fire. There was a bird, Hawkwood knew, the Phoenix, which burned itself every five hundred years, only to rise rejuvenated from its own ashes. But that was a myth and this hadn’t been a bird; it had been a man. Nothing arose from a pile of ashes, except perhaps the smell of them.
Hawkwood turned. The sexton was leaning against a section of wall, breathing hard.
“The church,” Hawkwood said, “when was it built?”
The sexton blinked at this new enquiry.
“This isn’t the original building,” Hawkwood said.
“Course it bloody ain’t.”
“That’s because the one before burnt down as well,” Hawkwood said. “Didn’t it?”
“Everyone knows that. They all went up in smoke, the whole bleedin’ lot, and ’alf the city with ’em.”
One hundred and fifty years ago, it had been, or as near as made no difference, and there were parts of the capital that still hadn’t recovered. It had started, so it was said, in a baker’s, and the close-packed wooden houses had stood no chance against it. The Great Fire had raged across the city destroying all in its path, including all but a handful of parish churches, and the King had commissioned Wren to rebuild them. Over fifty had been completed. St Mary’s had been one of them, built, like so many others, on the foundations of the old; a Phoenix made of brick, glass and stone.
Hawkwood grasped the sexton’s arm. “Is there a crypt?”
The sexton winced. “Course there’s a bloody crypt. It’s a church, ain’t it?”
“Where is it?”
The sexton tugged his arm free and pointed to the tumble of burnt and broken debris that looked as though it was the result of a bombardment from a battery of howitzers. “Where do you think? It’s under that lot.”
“Show me,” Hawkwood said.
The sexton muttered something unintelligible under his breath, as if fed up to the back teeth of being told what to do, but he crooked a finger and stomped off with Hawkwood and the constable following him into the ruined building.
Picking his way through the wreckage, the sexton led them towards what had been the head of the nave. The smell of charcoal hung in the air. The rain had turned the ash into a black sludge. Hawkwood could feel it sticking to the soles of his boots. Looking around, he was struck by the amount of damage the church had suffered. Rafferty had said the fire started suddenly and intensified at a surprisingly quick rate. It was clear the colonel hadn’t just lit a match and hoped for the best.
“The bugger used the lamp oil,” Pegg said. “We’d just ’ad a fresh supply delivered to see us through winter. The barrels were stored in the vestry.”
That’s how it had been done. Hyde had distributed the oil around the inside of the building, emptied it over the pews and the altar and up the stairs in the tower. And the wall hangings and the tapestries and the linen altar cloth, soaked in the oil, would have acted like wicks. It explained how the flames had been able to take
such a strong hold.
The old man stopped suddenly and pointed through the two splintered and blackened beams to the crushed remains of the altar. “Down there.”
Hawkwood assessed the extent of the damage. Beside him, the constable’s face fell. Hawkwood straightened and took off his coat. He found a length of beam that was relatively dry and draped the coat across it. Then he turned to the constable. “Jacket off, lad. There’s more work to be done.”
The sexton joined them, though Hawkwood could see the multitude of questions in the old man’s eyes. At first sight, the task seemed overwhelming, but Hawkwood had seen that much of the immediate wreckage, although considerable, was not immovable. With the three of them doing the work, it did not, in the end, take long. Mostly, it consisted of careful lifting and leverage, but by the time they had cleared the worst away their clothes and faces were caked in ash and grime.
Before them, at the base of the flame-blackened altar, lay what had once been some sort of floor covering. The flames and the melted snow had rendered it down to a misshapen strip of water-sodden, ash-singed matting. To one side, cut into the stone floor and clearly visible, was the outline of a trapdoor. Inset into a recess in the door was a large iron ring.
Hawkwood felt a quickening inside his chest. Lifting the ring, he bent his knees, braced himself, and pulled. The stone lifted with remarkably little resistance, almost taking him by surprise. Hawkwood slid the stone to one side. A waft of cold, moist air rose to meet him.
“Ain’t much down there,” Pegg said, sniffing. “’Cepting a few bones.”
The constable paled. Hawkwood reached for his coat and held out his hand. Wordlessly, the sexton passed over one of the lanterns, then reached into his pocket and passed Hawkwood a small tinderbox.
Hopkins put on his jacket and picked up the second lantern. He had no idea why Hawkwood wanted to enter the crypt, any more than he’d understood why the Runner had wanted to examine the grave, but as he’d come this far, it didn’t seem right to hang back now. Besides, he was becoming more and more intrigued by Hawkwood’s bizarre behaviour. Something strange was going on. He didn’t know what, but if he remained in Hawkwood’s shadow there was a possibility he would find out.
