Resurrectionist

“For adhering to the hospital routine. It’s an established practice. We make the patient aware that if there are any infringements, privileges such as access to writing materials, personal possessions and so forth, may be withdrawn. For someone with the colonel’s intellect the removal of such privileges would be a very serious matter and, in the long term, likely to be detrimental to his health. A patient he may be, but with his military background he is a man who understands only too well the consequences of not observing protocol. It has proved a most effective system with a number of our patients.”

“Really?” Hawkwood said. “From where I’m standing I’d say the colonel didn’t give two figs for your so-called routine, or your damned protocol, and that makes me wonder just how well you knew him.”

“On an intellectual level, I would say I knew him tolerably well. I’ve spent a number of hours in his company. We would talk of all manner of things: literature, politics and science … medicine, of course. We are, after all, both doctors, though our backgrounds are somewhat different. My family comes from modest stock. The colonel’s family were land owners. We both studied abroad, however. I studied in Uppsala before going on to Cambridge. The colonel attended the university at Padua. He was – is – a learned man. You saw his library. I even consulted with him on several occasions, seeking his advice on the treatment of some of my patients. His understanding of anatomy far exceeds my own and his knowledge of medicine in general is far superior to that of Dr Monro and that drunken sot, Crowther. I found his assistance invaluable. Some of his opinions were rather … innovative. It made for interesting discussion.”

“You sound as if you liked him,” Hawkwood said.

Locke reached for his handkerchief and spectacles. It was a tactic Hawkwood had come to expect. It allowed the apothecary a few seconds to compose his reply.

“Perhaps I did. But then, you’ve seen the calibre of the staff. Is it any wonder I sought out his company?” The apothecary held up his spectacles and squinted through the lenses. Satisfied that he had removed every smear, he tucked the handkerchief into his waistcoat pocket and placed his spectacles back on to his nose. He looked, Hawkwood thought, not unlike a self-satisfied barn owl.

“When I asked you if you knew how the colonel’s delusions arose, you said you could only generalize,” Hawkwood prompted. “How?”

The apothecary placed his hands palm down on the desk, and nodded. “From my study of other patients in my immediate care, I believe it’s as if every event in their lives, even those that might appear trivial to someone else, carries a hidden significance. It is as though their brains are under attack from a never-ending whirligig of possibilities. Thoughts swirl through their heads in a maelstrom until one thought eventually forces its way to the surface and breaks free of the maelstrom’s pull. Suddenly everything becomes wondrously clear, as if the mind has been set free to soar above the clouds. From that point, every germ of thought becomes indelibly linked to that blinding moment of enlightenment.

“I believe that sense of awakening is so intense that the fabric of the delusion begins to expand backwards and forwards in time, forming a kind of framework, an explanation, if you will, for events that took place long before it existed, perhaps as far back as childhood. It’s the same going forward. Whenever a new experience is received, that too is perceived to be an intrinsic part of the framework.”

Hawkwood’s head was starting to ache. It occurred to him that the colonel wasn’t the only one whose brain was spinning. “So to the colonel this moment of enlightenment would have been like some kind of …” he searched for the word “… revelation?”

“That’s as good a definition as any.”

“And this revelation gave him the idea to escape?”

“I see that you have begun to follow my reasoning.”

“So to us, killing the parson was cold-blooded murder, but to the colonel it would have made perfect sense.”

“Yes.”

“Cutting the priest’s face off made sense?”

“To Colonel Hyde, yes.”

“So escaping may not have been his sole ambition. It was only the beginning. And unless we discover the nature of this … revelation, we won’t know the form of his delusion or what he might be planning to do next?”

“That is so, broadly speaking.” Locke leaned forward, his face earnest. If he was impressed with Hawkwood’s apparent grasp of the situation, he gave no indication. “And that, of course, is the problem, for the colonel’s delusion is his reality, no one else’s. Only he does not know that. You recall, I told you about Matthews and his Air Loom, the thing that he believes controls people’s minds?”

Hawkwood nodded.

“Let me show you.” Apothecary Locke opened a drawer in his desk and took out a sheaf of documents. He began to sift through them. Hawkwood moved to the desk to look over Locke’s shoulder.

“Here,” Locke said. Extracting four sheets from the bundle, he spread them out on the desk.

Three of them were clearly architectural drawings.

“These are Matthews’ plans for the new hospital. As you can see, they are of a very high standard. And this –” Locke said, passing over a fourth sheet “– is his Air Loom.”

Hawkwood stared down at the drawing in front of him.

It looked like a piece of furniture, a large box with a set of four large organ pipes protruding from the top. On the left-hand side stood three barrels which were connected to the box by flexible hoses resembling the tentacles of some strange sea monster. Seated in front of the mechanism was the figure of a man. His arms were manipulating two huge levers. Three other human figures were also shown, one standing, the other two lying down. Each one appeared to be transfixed by what looked to be a beam of light radiating from the device. The drawing, like the other two, had been very skilfully fashioned. Each component of the device had been designated a letter of the alphabet. The key to the letters was written in a neat copperplate.

“What are these?” Hawkwood pointed at the beams, which were tinted a pale yellowish-green.

“Magnetic rays. They are controlled by the man you see seated at those levers. He is using the beams to manipulate the thoughts of his victims.”

“And he really believes all this?” The whole thing was preposterous, Hawkwood thought.

“Most assuredly, and yet this is the same man who produced these splendid architectural drawings. If you knew nothing of Matthews’ circumstances, and someone else had shown you these plans, I’d wager that you’d never for one moment suspect the artist was of unsound mind. Am I right?”

Hawkwood stared down at the designs. There was little else he could do except agree.

“You understand what I am saying?” Locke said.

“I think you’re telling me,” Hawkwood said, “that, unless you happen to know the colonel’s history, to look at him there’s no way to tell that he’s mad.”

Locke nodded. “Essentially, yes. He can formulate ideas and arguments, but in his case it’s as though – how can I put it? – his thoughts and feelings, even his memories, have been taken over by an outside force. To the colonel, it would be as though messages are being forced into his brain.”

Hawkwood hesitated, trying to grasp the implications. “Messages? You mean he thinks people are talking to him, telling him to do things? Like … what? Voices in his head?” Even as he posed the question, he thought the idea sounded ludicrous, but to his surprise the apothecary nodded.

“And these … voices … told him to murder the priest?”

Locke made a face. “A simplification, but, yes, I do believe that might account for his actions. Not unlike Matthews and his revolutionaries.”

“Tell me about the priest,” Hawkwood said.

The apothecary’s face seemed to sag. He suddenly looked older than his years. “There you have me. The Reverend Tombs was here because I chose to disregard the hospital’s regulations.” He looked up. “Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

“What are you telling me, Doctor?”

Locke sighed. “A hundred years ago, the superintendent thought it would be a good idea if visiting days were introduced, allowing the public to interact with patients. The scheme proved very popular. The crowds flocked, the patients flourished. But then the gawkers began to arrive, and with the gawkers came the pedlars and the pickpockets and the pulpit bashers, not to mention the doxies. Come to Bedlam, pay tuppence and watch the lunatics perform. What fun! It wasn’t long before Bethlem became just another attraction, like the Tower and the