Resurrectionist

crow-ravaged eye sockets gave the grey-skinned features the hollowed appearance of a skull.

“This one died hard,” Quill said. The surgeon’s breath hung in the air like a cloud of steam. He appeared impervious to the chill in the cellar and unaffected by the smell of the cadavers around him.

Hawkwood looked again at the body, remembering how he had first seen it. Time had done little to erase the memory. His eyes fastened on the face. There was something protruding from the corpse’s open mouth, he saw. He stared. It looked like frog spawn, though he knew it wasn’t.

Quill, following his gaze, frowned, and gave a dismissive grunt. “Purge. It’s caused by an expansion of gases in the body. You’ll have seen it before, no? The gases put pressure on the stomach, forcing recent contents into the oesophagus and up into the mouth. It’s not uncommon. If he were alive, he’d either be burping or farting. Another week or two and it won’t be bile he’ll be leaking, it’ll be what’s left of his brain.”

Hawkwood said nothing. He couldn’t think of an appropriate response.

The surgeon pursed his lips. “Cause of death was a broken neck leading to asphyxiation, though I dare say you’d assumed that already.” Quill did not look up but walked around the body, lifting and peering at each of the corpse’s wrists in turn. “Interesting.”

“What is?” Hawkwood asked.

Quill raised the arm he was holding. “These stigmata. The nails were placed through his wrists and not the palms of his hands. Had that been done, the nails would not have supported the body’s weight but would likely have been torn free. One wonders where the killers learned their trade. There’s a lot of damage to the wrists, not consistent with the nailing, by the way.”

Hawkwood explained the efforts by the two gravediggers to get the dead man down from the tree.

“Could he have been alive when they nailed him up?” Hawkwood asked.

Quill did not respond immediately. He lowered the dead man’s arm and then said, “Probably done post mortem. I found traces of skin beneath his fingernails. They correspond to the scratch marks on his neck – d’you see there?” The surgeon pointed. “That would be from clawing at the rope, which would indicate he was alive when he was raised up. I would surmise he was lifted, probably with someone holding on to his arms and legs. Once he was in position, his limbs were released, leaving him to hang, struggling for air. The weight of his body, pressure on the rope and gravity would have done the rest.”

“They took out his teeth and his tongue,” Hawkwood said.

The doctor grimaced. It was the first time he had shown any emotion. “Indeed they did. And the removal, as you saw, was crudely done.”

“They couldn’t have done that while he was still alive,” Hawkwood said. “Could they?”

“Unlikely. I doubt he’d have opened his mouth voluntarily.” Quill smiled grimly. “And it is difficult to force someone’s mouth open against their wishes. Most probably they waited until he was dead, then lowered him back to the ground, performed the deed, and raised him back into place, which is when they would have hammered home the nails to keep the body in position. Somewhat convoluted, I admit, but effective, nevertheless. As I said, he died hard.”

Hawkwood wondered how many it had taken. At least four, he thought: two to hold the arms while they secured the rope, another to hang on to the feet, the fourth to do the job. It didn’t bear thinking about.

The surgeon draped the sheet back over the bloodless face and moved to the next table. The second sheet was lifted away.

“Remarkable,” Quill murmured, staring down.

Hawkwood wondered if it was his imagination or whether he had detected a note of admiration in the doctor’s voice.

Quill looked up. “A man of the cloth, I understand?”

“Reverend Tombs,” Hawkwood said.

“Interesting name for a God-botherer,” Quill observed.

If the comment had been the doctor’s attempt at humour, Hawkwood didn’t respond.

“No evidence of restraint here,” Quill murmured. “There’s no question the victim was dead before the mutilation was performed. I examined the chest; the lungs were healthy, but there was a slight engorgement of blood. I suspect laudanum could well have been swallowed, probably administered by means of a beverage. There was a faint smell around the mouth. As I perceive no other signs of injury, other than the obvious, I would deduce that the victim was smothered after the narcotic had done its work. The facial skin was removed once death was established. There was clearly a degree of expertise involved.” Quill looked up. “Curious that asphyxiation should be the common denominator, though I doubt it was the same killer. I take it the crimes are not related?”

Hawkwood nodded. Quill’s conclusions confirmed some of Apothecary Locke’s suspicions. More damningly, they also indicated that the scalpel hadn’t been the only thing the colonel had purloined from the apothecary’s bag. Hawkwood recalled the empty bottle of cordial that had been on the table in Hyde’s room. The colonel hadn’t needed to hit his victim to subdue him. He’d used the laudanum, mixing it with the cordial. It probably wouldn’t have taken too much to make the priest drowsy. Perhaps Hyde had then offered him use of his bed. Which was when the pillow would have been used.

Another nail in the apothecary’s coffin, never mind the parson’s.

Quill gazed down at the corpse. “Remarkable,” he said again.

Hawkwood had been bracing himself for the third and fourth bodies. Even so, he could never have prepared himself totally. He’d seen the effects of fire on a corpse before. In war it was inevitable, but it didn’t make this sight any more palatable.

Each body had been reduced to little more than a grossly deformed lump of charred flesh and blackened bone. There was a curious mantis-like look to the way the limbs had contracted in the heat, transforming the extremities into gnarled claws. The cadavers bore more resemblance to a species of grotesque insect than anything human.

Ashes to ashes, Hawkwood thought.

What appeared to be remnants of burnt cloth hung from the blistered bodies of both decedents, though he supposed it could just as easily have been strips of seared skin. Hawkwood felt the gorge rise to the back of his throat. He swallowed, determined that Quill should not see his reaction. He didn’t want to give the doctor the satisfaction of knowing that Doyle’s wasn’t the only stomach in the room suffering side-effects.

He listened as Quill went through the results of his examinations. Two bodies, one male, one female, the male aged in his late forties, the female older, perhaps in her sixties. Each of them burnt beyond recognition.

“Not that they died from the fire, of course.” The surgeon regarded Hawkwood with a speculative expression. “The female has a crushed larynx, probably caused by strangulation. The male has suffered a broken clavicle and splintered radius of the right arm, a cracked tibia of the right leg and fracture of the frontal bone of the skull. I would say those are injuries consistent with a high fall.”

A vision rose into Hawkwood’s mind. He saw again the black-robed figure outlined against the open window of the bell tower, turning and pitching into the flames. It had been a long way to the ground.

The porter, Doyle, hadn’t been the only one who had died hard, Hawkwood reflected. But that didn’t mean he felt any sympathy. Hyde had killed a priest and an elderly woman. Hell, Hawkwood thought, was probably too good for the murdering bastard.

Hawkwood stared down at the bodies. Quill’s examination and conclusions were confirmation that the investigation into the murder of the priest was at an end. In all respects, the outcome was final.

So, why am I suddenly not convinced? Hawkwood wondered.

Colonel Hyde, according to Apothecary Locke, had been an intelligent man. Despite the man’s mental tribulations, Locke had even admitted to consulting with the colonel on medical matters on more than one occasion. As for the killing of the priest, all indications pointed to the colonel having plotted his escape from Bethlem with murderous efficiency. There had definitely been method in his madness, if such a thing were possible. And yet, no sooner had the colonel achieved his goal than he had brought his short-lived freedom to a spectacular end by killing himself out of a sense of guilt.

It didn’t make any sense.

Chief Magistrate James Read regarded Hawkwood with what might have been sympathy.

“Sense, you say? I’m not sure that would apply in this particular instance. The colonel’s mind was clearly