Resurrectionist. James McGee

gnarled branches outlined against the dull, rain-threatening sky like the knotted forearms of some ancient warrior, it was still an imposing presence, standing sentinel over the gravestones that rested crookedly in its shadow. Most of the markers looked to be as old as the tree itself. Few of them remained upright. They looked like rune stones tossed haphazardly across the earth. Centuries of weathering had taken their toll on the carved inscriptions. The majority were faded and pitted with age and barely legible.

      At one time, this corner of the cemetery would probably have accommodated the more wealthy members of the parish, but that had changed. Only the poor were buried here now and single plots were in the minority. The graveyard had become a testament to neglect.

      And a place of execution.

      The corpse had been hoisted into position by a rope around its neck and secured to the trunk of the tree by nails driven through its wrists. It hung in a crude parody of the crucifixion, head twisted to one side, arms raised in abject surrender.

      Small wonder, Hawkwood thought, as his eyes took in the macabre tableau, that the gravediggers had taken to their heels.

      Their names, he had discovered, were Joseph Hicks and John Burke and they were standing alongside him now, along with the verger of St Giles, a middle-aged man with anxious eyes, which Hawkwood thought, given the circumstances, was hardly surprising.

      Hawkwood turned to the two gravediggers. “Has he been touched?”

      They stared at him as if he was mad.

      Presumably not, Hawkwood thought.

      A raucous screech interrupted the stillness of the moment. Hawkwood looked up. A colony of rooks had taken up residence in the graveyard and the birds, angry at the invasion of their territory, were making their objections felt. A dozen or so straggly nests were perched precariously among the upper forks of the tree and their owners were taking a beady-eyed interest in the proceedings below. The evidence suggested that the birds had already begun to exact their revenge. They’d gone for the tastiest morsels first. The corpse’s ragged eye sockets told their own grisly story. A few of the birds, showing less reserve than their companions, had begun to edge back down the branches towards the hanged man’s body in search of fresh pickings. Their sharp beaks could peck and tear flesh with the precision of a rapier.

      Hawkwood picked up a dead branch and hurled it at the nearest bird. His aim was off but it was close enough to send the flock into the air in a clamour of indignation.

      Hawkwood approached the tree. His first thought was that it would have taken a degree of effort to haul the dead man into place, which indicated there had been more than one person involved in the killing. Either that, or an individual possessed of considerable strength. Hawkwood stepped closer and studied the ground around the base of the trunk, careful where he placed his own feet. The previous night’s rain had turned the ground to mud. But earth was not made paste solely by the passage of rainwater. Other factors, Hawkwood knew, should be taken into consideration.

      There were faint marks; indentations too uniform to have been caused by nature. He looked closer. The depression took shape: the outline of a heel. He circled the base of the oak, eyes probing. There were more signs: leaves and twigs, broken and pressed into the soil by a weight from above. They told him there had definitely been more than one man. He paused suddenly and squatted down, mindful to avoid treading on the hem of his riding coat.

      It was a complete impression, toe and heel, another indication that at least one of Hawkwood’s suspicions had been proved correct. Hawkwood was an inch under six feet in height. He placed the base of his own boot next to the spoor and saw with some satisfaction that his own foot was smaller. The depth of the indentation was also impressive.

      Hawkwood glanced up. He found that he was standing on the opposite side of the tree to the body. The first thing that caught his attention was the rope. It was dangling from the fork in the trunk, its end grazing the fallen leaves below. The noose was still secured around the neck of the deceased.

      In his mind’s eye, Hawkwood re-enacted the scene and looked at the ground again, casting his eyes back and to the side. There was another footprint, he saw, slightly off-centre from the first. It had been made by someone planting his feet firmly, digging in his heel, taking the strain and pulling on the rope. The indication was that he was a big man, a strong man. There were no other prints in the immediate vicinity. The hangman’s companions would have been on the other side of the tree, hammering in the nails.

      Hawkwood stood and retraced his steps.

      He looked up at the victim then turned to the gravediggers.

      “All right, get him down.”

      They looked at him, then at the verger, who, following a quick glance in Hawkwood’s direction, gave a brief nod.

      “Do it,” Hawkwood snapped. “Now.”

      It took a while and it was not pleasant to watch. The gravediggers had not come prepared and thus had to improvise with the tools they had to hand. This involved hammering the nails from side to side with the edge of their shovels in order to loosen them enough so that they could be pulled out of the oak’s trunk. The victim’s wrists did not emerge entirely unscathed from the ordeal. Not that the poor bastard was in any condition to protest, Hawkwood reflected grimly, as the body was lowered to the ground.

      Hawkwood stole a look at Lucius Symes. The verger’s face was pale and the gravediggers didn’t look any better. More than likely, their first destination upon leaving the graveyard would be the nearest gin shop.

      Hawkwood examined the corpse. The clothes were still damp, presumably from last night’s rain, so it had been up there a while. It was male, although that had been obvious from the outset. Not an old man but not a boy either; probably in his early twenties, a working man. Hawkwood could tell that by the hands, despite the recent mauling they had received from the shovels. He could tell from the calluses around the tips of the fingers and from the scar tissue across the knuckles; someone who’d been in the fight game, perhaps. It was a thought.

      “Anyone recognize him?” Hawkwood asked.

      No answer. Hawkwood looked up, saw their expressions. There were no nods, no shakes of the head either. He looked from one to the other. No reaction from the verger, just a numbness in his gaze, but he saw what might have been a shadow move in gravedigger Hicks’ eye. A flicker, barely perceptible; a trick of the light, perhaps?

      Hawkwood considered the significance of that, placed it in a corner of his mind, and resumed his study.

      At least the manner of death was beyond doubt: a broken neck.

      Hawkwood loosened the noose and removed the rope from around the dead man’s throat. He stared at the necklace of bruises that mottled the cold flesh of the victim’s neck before turning his attention to the rope knot. Very neat, a professional job. Whoever had strung the poor bastard up had shown a working knowledge of the hangman’s tool. In a movement unseen by the verger and the gravediggers, Hawkwood lifted a hand to his own throat. The dark ring of bruising below his jawline lay concealed beneath his collar. He felt the familiar, momentary flash of dark memory, swiftly subdued. Odd, he thought, how things come to pass.

      Placing the rope to one side and knowing it was a futile gesture, Hawkwood searched the cadaver’s pockets. As he had expected, they were empty. He took a closer look at the stains on the dead man’s jacket. The corpse’s clothing bore the evidence of both the previous night’s storm as well as the brutal manner of death. The back of the jacket and breeches had borne the brunt of the damage, caused, Hawkwood surmised, by contact with the tree trunk as the victim was hoisted aloft. He had already seen the slice marks in the bark made by the dead man’s boot heels as he had kicked and fought for air.

      There were other stains, too, he noticed, on the front of the jacket and the shirt beneath. He traced the marks with his fingertip and rubbed the residue across the ball of his thumb.

      Hawkwood examined the face. There was congealed blood around the lips. Had the rooks feasted there, too?

      Hawkwood reached a hand into the top