Resurrectionist. James McGee

one. It was left here for a purpose.”

      “Purpose?”

      Hawkwood returned the verger’s gaze.

      “It’s meant as a warning.”

      “You think that’s why they left the body? As a warning?”

      James Read asked the question with his back to the room. He was gazing out of the window, looking down into Bow Street. It was early. The Public Office on the ground floor was not due to open for over an hour. Outside, however, the roads were already busy with morning traffic. The click-clack of hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels could be heard, along with the cries of street vendors as they made their way to and from Covent Garden, barely a stone’s throw away round the corner at the end of Russell Street.

      The fire, still crackling in the grate, had raised the room’s temperature considerably since Hawkwood’s last visit. James Read did not like the cold so he was studying the oppressive late November sky with no small degree of despair. He suspected that the weather was about to take a turn for the worse. There was a sullen quality in the air that hinted of yet more precipitation, possibly sleet, and that probably meant the early arrival of winter snow. He sighed, shivered in resigned acceptance, and turned towards the fire’s warming embrace.

      “That was my first thought,” Hawkwood said.

      Knowing James Read’s propensity for an open fire, Hawkwood had wisely left his coat in the ante-room under the eye of Ezra Twigg. He was glad he had done so. He would be roasting otherwise.

      “You base that on the manner of death and the removal of the dead man’s tongue, I presume?”

      Hawkwood nodded. “The gravediggers and the verger got a good look. It’ll be all round the parish by midday. If it isn’t already.”

      “I would have thought the crucifixion would have sufficed,” James Read said. “The tongue seems rather excessive. Not to mention the teeth. You have thoughts on the teeth?”

      “Waste not, want not,” Hawkwood said dispassionately. “The body and the tongue were left as a warning. The teeth were taken for profit.”

      A fine profit, too, if one had the stomach for it. Most body stealers had. It was a lucrative sideline. Many resurrection men removed the teeth from corpses before delivering their merchandise to the anatomists. A good set could fetch five guineas if you knew your market.

      “As I said: excessive.”

      “Not if you really want to put the fear of God into your rivals,” Hawkwood said.

      The Chief Magistrate frowned. “Which would indicate a serious escalation in violence.”

      “They’re making their mark,” Hawkwood said. “Staking their territory. The Borough Boys will be looking to their laurels.”

      The Borough Boys had long been the capital’s most notorious team of resurrectionists. They plied their trade mostly around Bermondsey but supplemented their incomes by regular forays north of the river. Up until now they had ruled the roost, but a rivalry had begun to develop. There were rumours of a new gang based along the Ratcliffe Highway, whose members had a mind to deter all the other body stealers from entering their domain by whatever means necessary. Fear and intimidation were their watchwords. Unbeknownst to the majority of respectable citizens, deep in the city’s shadows and the gutters a vicious war was being waged.

      “What about the deceased?” Read asked. “Do we know his identity?”

      “There’s a possibility his name is Edward Doyle.”

      The Chief Magistrate raised an eyebrow.

      “Hicks, one of the gravediggers told me. He denied knowledge at first, but then had a change of heart after he’d taken a closer look at the face second time around, so he said.”

      James Read kept his eyebrow raised.

      “I wasn’t satisfied with his first answer. I pressed him on it.”

      “I’ve always admired your powers of persuasion, Hawkwood,” Read said drily. “So, you think he was involved?”

      Hawkwood shook his head. “In the murder? No, his shock was genuine. In planning the removal of the woman’s body? Maybe. Proving it might be difficult.”

      “So your thought is that he tipped off Doyle there was a newly buried body. Doyle turned up to collect it and ran into a rival gang who stole the body, killed Doyle and left his body on display?”

      “I’d say so,” Hawkwood agreed.

      That James Read expressed no concern at the gravedigger’s alleged involvement came as no surprise to Hawkwood. It was common knowledge that most resurrection men plied their business with the connivance of those connected to the burial trade, be they undertakers or gravediggers. It wasn’t unheard of for those who dug the graves to be personally involved in exhumations. After all, they knew where the bodies were buried, literally. A common ruse was for gravediggers to let slip to interested parties that certain cadavers, by prior arrangement, were not in the coffins that had been recently buried but left instead on top of the casket, hidden under a thin layer of loose earth just below the surface, ready for retrieval.

      “What else do we know about Doyle?” Read asked.

      “Hicks thinks he may have been a porter, one of the Smithfield lot.”

      “And?”

      “And nothing. That was all he knew.”

      Read sucked in his cheeks. “What does that leave us?”

      “Not much,” Hawkwood admitted. “But it’s all I’ve got. If he does work out of Smithfield, the odds are he’ll have had a regular watering hole close by, maybe one of those drinking dens up on Cow Street. And if he was a resurrectionist on the side, it’s even more likely. From what I’ve heard, most of the bastards spend their takings on rotgut.”

      The Chief Magistrate bit his lip. “I take it you intend paying the area a visit?”

      “I thought I might,” Hawkwood said. “Ask around. See what I can dig up.” Hawkwood kept his face straight.

      “Thank you, Hawkwood. Most amusing.” The Chief Magistrate returned to his desk and took his seat. “But, before you do, I’ve another pressing matter that requires immediate attention. I’m afraid to say this is turning out to be a most memorable morning. While you were investigating the incident in Cripplegate, I received word of another murder, a most curious occurrence, not to mention a most intriguing coincidence, given your recent encounter with death and divinity.”

      Hawkwood wasn’t sure if this was another example of the Chief Magistrate’s mordant wit, or how he was expected to respond, if at all. He decided to wait and see.

      “The conveyor of the information was in a severe state of agitation, understandably. As a result the details are somewhat incomplete. We do know the victim is a Colonel Titus Hyde.”

      “Army?” Hawkwood frowned.

      The Chief Magistrate nodded. “Indeed, which is why I felt it appropriate that an officer with your background should initiate the investigation. Bizarrely, we were also provided with the murderer’s identity, and his address. The perpetrator would appear to be a man of the cloth; a Reverend Tombs.”

      “A parson?” Hawkwood couldn’t mask his surprise.

      “I’ve dispatched constables to the parson’s house. It’s doubtful he’ll be there, of course. Most likely he’s gone to ground somewhere, but it’s the logical place to start looking for him. I’d like you to visit the scene of the crime.”

      The expression on the Chief Magistrate’s face told Hawkwood there was more to come. “Which was where?”

      The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips. “Ah, again, that is another perplexing factor. The killing took place last night, or rather in the early