by James McGee
“And the sexton’s wife got in his way,” Read said heavily.
“She probably disturbed him at the house, or maybe she saw him moving the body. Either way, he had to kill her; she was a witness. By God, the man was thorough, I’ll grant him that; all that quoting from the scriptures and the Book of Titus. And he’s an arrogant bastard. He couldn’t resist that final joke, leaving the parson’s face in the woman’s coffin. But his arrogance made him careless. He didn’t close the bloody lid properly.”
Read looked thoughtful. “How is the constable, by the way?”
“He might be due for a few sleepless nights, but he’ll get over it. It’s worth a commendation, though. He did well.”
“I’ll see to it,” Read said. The Chief Magistrate moved to his desk. “You still think Hyde is responsible for the mutilations?”
Hawkwood nodded.
Read stared at him for what seemed like a long time. Finally the Chief Magistrate sighed. “What do you intend to do?”
“Catch the bastard. But to do that I’ll need to know more about his background.”
“You intend to revisit Bethlem?”
“It’s the logical place to start,” Hawkwood agreed.
Read looked pensive.
“What is it?”
“My sources tell me that the hospital governors are most anxious to avoid releasing information that might alarm the public.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“They feel it would be best for all concerned if the full details of the colonel’s escape were kept confidential.”
Hawkwood stiffened. “You mean they want to cover it up?”
“Admitting that murderers can wilfully abscond from the country’s foremost lunatic asylum in order to create mayhem is hardly conducive to the retention of public confidence. Bethlem is not a country estate; it lies within a city, surrounded by a million people going about their business, most of them lawfully. Far better if they are able to sleep easy in their beds than worry about escaped murderers on the loose.”
“The bloody place is crawling with murderers on the loose,” Hawkwood said, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “That’s why you employ people like me.”
Read sighed. “You know very well what I mean.”
“So, what are they going to do: swear everybody to silence? How are they going to explain the church going up in smoke? That’s already in the news-sheets.”
“A church burned down, a parson died. A tragedy occurred.”
Hawkwood stared at the Chief Magistrate. “The parson didn’t just die, he was murdered. So was the sexton’s wife. And the murderer’s still out there, loose on the bloody streets!”
“No, as far as the public is concerned, the murderer died in the fire,” Read said.
The significance of the magistrate’s words struck home. “So the poor bloody parson’s going to take the blame?”
“A hundred witnesses heard his confession and saw him commit suicide. It suits our purpose if they continue to believe that.”
“But too many people know what really happened.”
“Not that many. Only two members of the hospital staff know the truth: the apothecary and the keeper, Leech. They have been persuaded to amend their story, in the interests of the hospital. If anyone should make enquiries, it was the colonel who was killed, not his visitor; and if rumours of an alternative scenario should circulate, that’s all they’d be: rumours. The only other people who know the correct version of events are in this room.”
“There’s Hopkins.”
“Hopkins knows?”
“He does now. I thought it was only fair to tell him. Though I warned him, if he breathes a word, I’ll hang him by his ears from Blackfriars Bridge. And he does have very prominent ears.”
“Let us hope they were in full working order when you made your threat.”
“Keeping the knowledge that Hyde is alive between ourselves could play to our advantage,” Hawkwood conceded. “He probably thinks we’re a bunch of clodhoppers and that he’s outwitted us. And that may make him even more careless …” Hawkwood paused. “If I’m going to run him down, I may have to step on a few toes.”
The Chief Magistrate nodded. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’d be very surprised if you didn’t,” he said drily. “You’ll be discreet and keep me appraised, of course?”
“Don’t I always, sir?” Hawkwood said.
The stench was just as bad as it had been before, but at least the rainwater was no longer flowing down the walls, which was some sort of progress, Hawkwood supposed, as he followed Attendant Leech up the main stairs. After the frantic activity that had greeted his last visit, the atmosphere in the building seemed strangely subdued. But the lull was temporary. As they reached the landing, a long-drawn-out scream broke the spell. As if it had been a signal, it was answered by a dozen more. Hawkwood was reminded of the wolf packs that roamed the Spanish mountains. The first time he had heard their howling, the hairs had risen up on the back of his neck. He felt the familiar prickle beneath his hairline and the memory came flooding back. Leech saw his reaction and grimaced. “The Devil’s chorus, we call it. Pretty, ain’t it?”
The room was as he remembered it. The musty smell had not dissipated and there were still traces of moisture high along the covings and beneath the windowsills. The only difference was that a fire had been lit in the grate, as much to keep back the encroaching damp as to provide warmth and comfort, Hawkwood suspected. Apothecary Locke was at his desk. He looked just as apprehensive as he had the first time.
“Thank you, Mr Leech. I’ll ring if I need you.”
The attendant hesitated and then left the room.
Locke spread his hands. “So much paperwork. There are times when I swear I will drown under its weight.” The apothecary stared morosely through his spectacles at the sea of forms before him then stood up. “A terrible business. The Chronicle stated that most of the church was destroyed. Is that true? I’ve not been to see for myself, and one never knows whether the reports in the newspapers are exaggerated. The governors asked for a full report, of course. It goes without saying that I shall be including details of my own … lapses of judgement. I’m only hoping they will be magnanimous in their deliberations.”
Locke took off his spectacles and reached for the handkerchief in his sleeve. “So, Officer Hawkwood, what can I do for you?” The apothecary smiled nervously.
Hawkwood wondered how much of that nervousness was due to the apothecary’s discomfort with the governors’ new confidentiality directive. Leech’s manner hadn’t seemed any different, but as a keeper in a madhouse he was probably used to being ordered around, even if he didn’t like it. But then, Leech didn’t look like the sort of man who had too many scruples, especially when his job was at stake. The apothecary, though, was different. Hawkwood sensed a streak of integrity in Locke and, if that observation held true, the apothecary’s unhappiness at having to conform to the governors’ desire for secrecy was understandable.
“You assume correctly, Doctor. I want to see the admission documents relating to Colonel Hyde’s commitment to the hospital.”
Locke nodded. “Your visit is most timely, for I recently retrieved them from Dr Monro’s archive. I thought they would be useful for my summation. I’ve not yet read them, though I could tell they have not emerged unscathed from their hibernation. As you will have observed, we are not immune to the vicissitudes of Mother Nature. Over the years flooding has been a persistent enemy and the accumulative damage has been considerable. Fortunately, with regard to the colonel’s records, not all has been lost. If you’ll allow me a moment, I’ll see if I can locate them. I put them down here somewhere.”
Without waiting for a reply, the apothecary began to rifle through his papers.
Finally, he held up a thin collection of yellowing documents secured in a black ribbon. “Yes, here we are. As you will see, the elements have left their mark. The damage may not be too severe,
however.” The apothecary glared at the tell-tale stains running down the walls. “I shall be glad when we move to our new premises. The conditions here are becoming quite intolerable.”
Clearing a space on the desk, Locke untied the ribbon.
Hawkwood moved closer and looked over the apothecary’s shoulder. Locke’s collar was quite frayed, he noticed, and there were strands of hair and white flecks of dandruff on both it and the back of his jacket.
Carefully, the apothecary laid the ribbon to one side and began to flatten out the papers.
The documents had indeed been severely affected by the rain and damp. Dark water stains framed the top edges and extended in ugly brown blotches for two or three inches across the upper half of each page. Separating the first sheet, the apothecary tutted as his fingertips traced the unsightly marks.
“This is the Admittance Document. There are the particulars: patient’s name, age, period of distraction, and so forth. As you can see, and as you may recall from our last discourse, Colonel Hyde was admitted to the hospital on the grounds of melancholy.”
Ignoring the rain damage and the smudges to the ink, Hawkwood ran his eye down the page. At the top of the document, in faint print and just discernible beneath the water stains, he could make out the words: It is necessary the following Particulars should be made known for the Admission of Patients into Bethlem Hospital.
The rest of the form was as Locke had described; a concise summary of the patient’s personal circumstances. The period of distraction, Hawkwood noted, had been given as four months. Which didn’t seem very long. Other than that, for all the rest of the densely worded text, there was precious little information on the state of the patient’s mind, other than the one-word diagnosis. Interestingly, there was no space for the date of the admission, but in the margin, someone had written in an untidy hand: 23rd Oct 1809.
His gaze moved down the page. His eye caught the word Bond.
“What’s this?”
“The bond? It is purely a note of surety. The signatories agree to cover the cost of the patient’s clothing, the cost of their removal if discharged, or their burial when dead. It’s a set amount, as you see: one hundred pounds. I have the colonel’s here.”
Locke produced another page from the sheets on the desk and muttered with annoyance. Of all the pages, the bond looked to have suffered the most discoloration. The ink had run and the top quarter of the page was completely illegible. Grimacing, Locke smoothed the page out as best he could with the palm of his hand. The rest of the document was readable, but only just.
Hawkwood’s eyes moved to the two signatures on the bottom right-hand side of the page.
The first signature was illegible. Had the top half of the document not been ruined, it would have been possible to read the official scribe’s notation, with the names clearly rendered, but water damage had made that impossible. In any case, it was not the name of the first signatory that had drawn Locke’s attention. It was the second, more legible signature over which his finger hovered.
Eden Carslow, FRCS.
Hawkwood read the name again. “The Eden Carslow?”
Locke nodded. A little cautiously, Hawkwood thought.
“You’re sure?”
“I doubt there’s another,” Locke murmured.
While there were many men whose names commanded instant respect, the number whose reputation bordered on the supernatural based solely on their profession could be counted on the fingers of one hand. If the Army had Wellington and the Royal Navy had Nelson, the world of medicine had Eden Carslow.
“They say he makes over fifteen thousand a year from private practice alone,” Locke said. There was a note of awe in his voice. “And that his lectures to students command audiences of four hundred or more.”
“Which makes you wonder why he’s bothering to stand as security on a £100 bond for a patient in a madhouse,” Hawkwood murmured.
Locke was silent. At first Hawkwood presumed it was because the apothecary was still overwhelmed by the proximity of greatness. But it turned out it was because he was preoccupied with another of the pages. “There’s more,” Locke said quietly, passing over the page. “Look.”
It was a letter, written in an elegant hand:
Whitehall, 27th October 1810
Gentlemen,
It is my recommendation that you continue to detain in your hospital as a fit and proper subject the patient, Titus Xavier Hyde, a lunatic, who is at present under your charge. It is also my recommendation that care shall be taken that the customary expense of clothing, etc, together with the expense of his funeral, in case he should die, shall be settled.
I have the honour to be your most obedient humble servant,
Ryder
“Hawkwood read the words, his mind turning. Finally, he pushed himself away from the desk and took a deep breath. Someone had to say it.
“All right, Doctor, I’ve two questions for you. The first is: why would a man of Eden Carslow’s standing put up a bond for a patient in your care? The second is: would you mind telling me exactly how many of your other patients have had their discharge from the hospital denied by a personal note from the Home Secretary?”
Sawney and Hanratty were in the Dog.
“Done some checkin’, like you asked,” Hanratty said. “On that Runner.”
“Oh, yes?” Sawney sucked on a tooth cavity and winced as a nerve twanged. “An’ what ’ave you found out?”
“He’s a right bastard.” Hanratty slid into the booth.
“Jesus, I could’ve told you that,” Sawney said, shaking his head in disbelief. Ever mindful of earwiggers, he took a quick look around. The Dog was filling up. The floor was already awash with spilt beer, black sawdust and spit.
“What I mean is, he’s a bigger bastard than most, and useful with it.”
“Probably why Tate and Murphy didn’t make it then,” Sawney said scathingly. “Serves ’em bleedin’ right.”
“Rumour is, he used to be army.”
Sawney felt a vague ripple of interest. “Is that right?”
“Makes two of you, don’t it? Be funny if’n you’d met up before.”
“That ain’t likely,” Sawney grated. “I’d ’ave remembered. What else did you find out?”
“About what?”
“The price of apples. Christ! This bleedin’ Hawkwood, of course.”
“I ’eard he was the one who shut down that old witch Gant and her brood a while back.”
“That the one with the idiot son?”
“That’s her. Likely they’re somewhere off the Malabar Coast by now, spewin’ their guts over the side of a bloody transport.”
“Maybe we should be buyin’ the bugger a drink then,” Sawney said sarcastically.
“How about I set my boys on him? They’d make sure.” Hanratty grinned lopsidedly. “’Sides, they could do with the exercise.”
Sawney shook his head. He’d already come to the conclusion that Hanratty had been right in the first place. Sending Tate and Murphy after Hawkwood had been a mistake. With both of them dead, or at least one dead and the other having disappeared or gone to ground, it was probably best if everyone calmed down.
“We’ll take things easy for a bit,” Sawney said. “But we’ll keep our eyes open in case he comes sniffin’ round again. Not that the bastard’s got anything on us. Far as anyone here’s concerned, Tate and Murphy were just two ’pads tryin’ their luck. The verger ain’t around any more, so that trail’s gone cold.” Sawney gave a grin. “In a manner of speakin’.”
Hanratty drew a blunt finger down his stubble. “What about Sal?”
“What about her?” Sawney’s eyes narrowed.
“People ’ere will ’ave seen her with Symes, seen that she knew him.”
“If you mean like in the scriptures,” Sawney said, “that’d apply to ’alf your bleedin’ customers, or all the ones who’ve ever ’ad money in their pocket, at any rate. Christ, that’d include anyone with a pulse
between here and Limehouse Reach. Besides, who’s goin’ to say anything? Sal sure as hell ain’t. It’ll be all right. We’ll take a breather, the fuss’ll die down and that Runner’ll get bored and move on. It’s already been a couple of days.”
Hanratty shifted in his seat.
“What?” Sawney said.
“I heard he ’as a few eyes and ears over on our side of the street.”
“Meanin’?”
“There’s word he’s been seen with that bastard Jago.”
“Jago?”
“Jesus, Rufus, you should get out more. He’s definitely one you don’t want to cross. Runs the rackets over St Giles’ way.”
“An’ that’s supposed to impress me, is it?”
“Bleedin’ impresses me,” Hanratty said with feeling.
“Well, just as long as ’e keeps to ’is patch and stays upwind …” Sawney said.
“Let’s hope so. I’ll keep diggin’, though. See if there’s anything else I can find out. Never does any harm, keepin’ an eye on the opposition.” Hanratty hawked and spat. “Far as the rest of it’s concerned, we sit tight then, right?”
“You can sit tight,” Sawney said. “Some of us have work to do.”
Hanratty frowned and stroked his crown. “Thought you said we should take things easy.”
“So I did, but that don’t mean we should stop altogether. There’s mouths to feed. We’ll put an ’old on our regular stuff. I’ve got a client who’s prepared to pay big money for special deliveries. That should tide us over for a bit.”
“You got a job on?” Hanratty asked.
“Could be. Won’t know until I get the nod. I’m meetin’ ’im later. You seen Maggsie or the Ragg boys, by the way?”
“Think Maggett’s over in ’is yard. The Raggs took a couple of the girls upstairs a while back. They like to do ’em together and swap ’alfway through.’ Ave to say, you wouldn’t catch me putting my old man anywhere either of them ’as been.”
Sawney passed no comment. The appetite of the Ragg brothers had long since ceased to impress, repel, or even interest him. Provided they did their bit and followed orders, Sawney couldn’t care less what they did with the rest of their time. They could have had a troupe of monkeys and a marching band upstairs, for all he cared, long as they kept the noise down, of course, and didn’t attract the attention of the law.
