Resurrectionist. James McGee

when the sexton raised an eyebrow. “Who was it raised the alarm? Was it the wife?”

      “The wife?” Rafferty repeated. A dark thought beckoned.

      Unconcerned by the Irishman’s delayed response, Sexton Pegg nodded towards the house behind them. “She’s ’is ’ousekeeper. That’s why I ’appened along. I was away gettin’ this sharpened.” The sexton indicated the hoe. “Thought I might be back in time for a bite o’ breakfast. Mind you, she weren’t around earlier; probably at ’er sister’s place. Thick as two fleas, those two are. Spends more time with ’er than she does with me, moody cow.”

      Rafferty hesitated, though he knew the question had to be asked. “Your wife … what does the good lady look like?”

      The sexton sniffed and held his left hand up, palm down. “’Bout this tall, face like a shrew, nose you could pick a lock with.”

      Rafferty knew then, beyond any shadow of doubt, the identity of the woman in the church. He suspected that her current disposition was probably a long way from moody.

      “Why do you want to know?” the sexton asked, suddenly wary.

      Rafferty, irritated that the sexton seemed to be asking all the pertinent questions, told him.

      The sexton stared aghast at the sturdy wooden door. The hoe slid through his fingers. “Bleedin’ ’ell. What are we going to do?”

      We? Rafferty thought. Then he remembered that he was a police officer and therefore supposedly in charge of the situation.

      “We wait.”

      “Wait?” The sexton looked doubtful. “What for?”

      “Reinforcements,” Rafferty said sagely. “They’ve already been sent for.”

      Let Captain bloody Hawkwood sort this one out.

      Sexton Pegg didn’t look too convinced by the Irishman’s reply.

      “And ’ow long’s that goin’ to take?” The sexton nodded towards the church. “Can’t leave herself in there with ’im. You just told me ’e had a go at you, and you’re a bleeding police officer. There’s no knowin’ what he might do to ’er. What ’appens if ’e decides to ’ave ’is way with ’er?” The sexton, in contrast to his earlier uncharitable remarks, was now looking distinctly queasy at the prospect of his wife becoming the victim of a serious sexual assault by a vicar.

      Hell would probably freeze over first, Rafferty thought. He turned, only to discover that the sexton was no longer at his side. His ears picked up a thin, intermittent, trickling sound. He followed the source and found that the sexton had discarded the hoe and was busy relieving himself against the same tomb marker.

      Nerves, Rafferty supposed. He was about to pass a barbed comment, when the sexton lifted his nose and sniffed the air. “Can you smell that?”

      Rafferty threw the sexton a look.

      Sexton Pegg buttoned himself up and wiped his hands on his breeches. “No, not that. More like … something burning.”

      Both men turned towards the church. They were just in time to see the first bright tongues of flame rise into view behind the stained-glass windows.

      And the screaming began again.

      They had left the hospital behind them and cut down along Little Bell Alley, which wasn’t so much an alley as a six-foot-wide, effluent-flooded, rat-infested passageway. They were attracting stares and catcalls as they ran, but Hopkins’ uniform was proving valuable in clearing a path, and the determined look on Hawkwood’s face as he pushed his way through made it clear to all that it would be unwise to try and impede their progress.

      Hawkwood was breathing hard. He was also wishing he hadn’t worn his riding coat. It was flapping like a cape and seemed to gain weight with every stride he took. Tradition had it that Runners had gained their sobriquet because of their fleetness of foot. Another half mile of this, Hawkwood thought, and they’ll be calling us Bow Street Crawlers. He wondered how Hopkins was faring. He could hear the constable’s boots pounding along the street alongside him.

      There was no immediate profit, Hawkwood knew, in telling Hopkins that the Reverend Tombs was dead and the man they were pursuing was in fact an inmate of the country’s most notorious lunatic asylum. The constable, Hawkwood recalled, was new to the job and looked excited enough as it was. There was such a thing as too much information. But the lad had stamina, that was for sure.

      Hopkins was thinking the same thing about Hawkwood, as he hastened to keep up.

      The constable had managed to avoid Hawkwood’s eye since leaving the hospital. He suspected that Hawkwood was aware of his nervousness and that only served to make him more jittery. He’d shot the Runner a few surreptitious glances along the way, taking in the severe features, the scar below the left eye and the ribbon-tied hair, and wondered how much of the captain’s fearsome reputation was fact and how much was hearsay.

      He’d heard that Hawkwood was a man who did not suffer fools gladly, so the last thing Hopkins wanted was to appear foolish, especially this early in his career. He’d also heard it whispered that Hawkwood lived by his own rules, with unique contacts within the criminal underworld. Hopkins wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, and he wasn’t about to ask, but it certainly added to the air of menace that seemed to attach itself to Hawkwood’s shadow. The mere mention of his name had been sufficient to drain the blood from Conductor Rafferty’s face when he learned the identity of the officer in charge of their assignment.

      In the short time he’d been attached to Bow Street, Hopkins had soon picked up on some of Conductor Rafferty’s less than enviable character traits, sloth and deviousness being the most prominent. Rafferty also liked to throw his weight around among the new recruits. Susceptibility to intimidation, therefore, was not one of his most obvious weaknesses. So Hopkins had been intrigued to discover what it was about Hawkwood that had Conductor Rafferty quaking in his pants.

      Now he knew.

      A thunderous rumble broke into the constable’s thoughts. He looked up, just in time to see the carriage bearing down on him. He leapt aside awkwardly, nearly losing his footing in the process. The horse’s heaving flank missed him by less than an inch as the carriage pummelled its way past, but he was too late to avoid the wave of water thrown up as the chaise’s wheels trundled heavily through one of the muddy puddles left by the night’s rain. The constable cursed as his breeches fell prey to the deluge. Recovering his balance and what remained of his dignity, the hapless and waterlogged constable hurried to make up ground.

      They were nearly there. Hawkwood could smell the river; a pungent mix of cordage, tar, wet mud, rotting fish and shit from the night-soil barges heading downstream. Calvert’s Brewery was less than a mile away and the smell of fermenting hops also hung heavily in the air. The locals, Hawkwood thought, would have no need to visit a tavern for their pleasure. Simply opening their windows and inhaling would have them intoxicated in no time.

      The streets were narrower here, and the buildings more decrepit. City commerce had given way to riverside industry, and instead of chaises and phaetons they found themselves dodging drays, barrows and handcarts as they raced towards the church.

      When his ears picked up the ringing of the bell, Hawkwood’s first thought was that it was coming from one of the merchant ships off-loading at a nearby wharf. It was only when the clanging tones intensified that he knew they were signalling an event far more urgent than a change of watch.

      And then he saw the smoke.

      Struck by a quickening sense of dread, Hawkwood lengthened his stride. He sensed Hopkins coming up behind him. The two men emerged from the alley simultaneously, and stopped dead.

      ‘Bloody hell!” Constable Hopkins stared wide-eyed at the scene, his soggy breeches forgotten.

      The church of St Mary’s was being consumed.

      The church was smaller than Hawkwood had expected; plain