Resurrectionist. James McGee

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?”

      “The usual items: salves, pills, emetics and suchlike.”

      “And your instruments?”

      There was a moment’s pause before the apothecary answered. When he did so, his voice was close to a whisper. “Yes.”

      “Your surgical knives, with their sharp blades? Because you’d need a knife with a sharp blade to lance an abscess, wouldn’t you, Doctor?” Hawkwood said.

      The apothecary glanced towards Leech, but there was no sympathy on the attendant’s face, merely relief that someone else was in the firing line.

      Hawkwood pressed home his attack. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? At some time during one of your visits to remove a boil from the colonel’s arse, he managed to steal one of your damned scalpels.”

      Locke’s face crumpled.

      “And you’re telling me you didn’t even notice the loss?”

      Locke’s expression was one of abject misery.

      Hawkwood shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve half a mind to arrest you, Doctor, though, frankly, I wouldn’t know what to charge you with – complicity or incompetence. I’m beginning to wonder what sort of place you’re running here. Good Christ, who’s in charge of your damned hospital, the staff or the lunatics?”

      Locke’s cheeks coloured. His eyes, magnified by the round spectacle lenses, looked as big as saucers.

      Hawkwood was aware that Attendant Leech was staring at him. Word of the apothecary’s dressing down would be all over the hospital the moment Leech left the room. He nodded towards the body and the ruin that had once been a man’s face. “How long would it have taken to do that?”

      Locke took a deep breath; his lips formed a tight line. “Not long, if the murderer knew his trade.”

      There was a pause.

      “Well, go on, tell me,” Hawkwood said, wondering what else was to come.

      “Colonel Hyde was an army surgeon. He operated in field hospitals in the Peninsula. His treatment of the wounded was, I understand …” Locke bit his lip “… highly regarded.”

      “Was it indeed?” Hawkwood digested the information. Then, taking a candle from the table, he stepped through the archway into the other half of the cell.

      There was another table upon which stood a jug and a washbowl. Against one wall sat a mahogany desk, a folding chair and a large wooden chest bound with brass. Looking at them, Hawkwood felt an instant stab of recognition. As a soldier he’d seen desks and chests like these more times than he cared to remember. Enter any officer’s quarters, be it in a barracks, or even a battlefield bivouac, and it would be furnished with identical items; they were standard campaign equipment. He even had a chest of his own, strikingly similar to the one here, back at his lodgings in the Blackbird tavern. It had been acquired during his time in the Peninsula, at an auction following the death of the chest’s former owner on the retreat to Corunna.

      The room and its contents were at complete odds with the bare functionality of the sleeping quarters and a world apart from the conditions in which the other patients, or at least the ones he’d seen, were being kept. Those had bordered on the inhumane. By contrast this accommodation was verging on the palatial. Why should that be? Hawkwood wondered.

      By far the greatest contrast lay in the collection of books and the drawings that covered the walls; several score, by Hawkwood’s rough estimate. So many, they would not have disgraced a small library. Hawkwood held the