Resurrectionist

church? You visited Quill, you saw the remains – or had the memory slipped your mind?”

Hawkwood shook his head. He knew the Chief Magistrate was right, of course. The idea was as insane as any of Bedlam’s patients. And yet …

He felt a stirring at the back of his mind; a memory of his meeting with Apothecary Locke. He tried to recall the conversation; it had involved the Reverend Tombs. What was it? And then, suddenly, it came to him. It was the reason for the parson’s visit being later than usual. The apothecary’s words came back to him: … attending to parish matters. A burial, I believe it was.

And a tiny thought began to grow.

The Chief Magistrate returned to his desk.

“I need you to arrange something for me,” Hawkwood said.

Read looked up. “What is it?”

Hawkwood told him.

The Chief Magistrate looked sceptical. “What you’re asking is highly irregular. It might even be considered unethical. And what would be the purpose? I’m not certain it will prove anything.”

“It’ll ease my mind,” Hawkwood said.

The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips. “Your peace of mind is hardly sufficient grounds for carrying out such a serious procedure.” Read sighed. “However, I can see by your face that you have the bit between your teeth. You are not going to let the matter rest, are you?” Read favoured Hawkwood with a shrewd look. “No, somehow I didn’t think so. Very well, I will make the necessary arrangements. Though I fail to see what good it will serve, other than to raise more questions. Was there anything else?”

“I might need a little help.”

“I was afraid of that, too.” There was a weary acceptance in the Chief Magistrate’s tone. “And did you have anyone particular in mind?”

“Hopkins. He struck me as a capable lad. And he’s young and healthy.”

James Read raised an eyebrow. “Is that relevant?” Hawkwood grinned. “Someone has to do the digging.”

The fire had done its work.

The tower was still standing, as was the body of the church, but they had been gutted by the flames. The bruised and blackened stonework told the story. Glass splinters from the broken windows lay strewn over the ground like shattered eggshells. Inside the nave, two charred roof beams rested in disarray across the remnants of the altar and half a dozen scorched pews. All the decorative material items – tapestries, altar cloths, drapes and the like – had been reduced to strips of tattered rag. The snow that had fallen during the night, and which had helped dampen the fire, had melted away, leaving glistening streaks of moisture in its wake. The smell of burnt wood hung uneasily in the damp air.

Sexton Pegg stared at the ruins. His face was haggard. Judging from the devastation, Hawkwood doubted there was much left worth saving but he was reminded that the sexton had lost not only his livelihood but his wife as well.

He had assigned Hopkins to find the sexton and bring him to the church. The old man’s first words on seeing Hawkwood had been, “When am I going to get ’er back?”

It had taken a second for Hawkwood to realize that the sexton was referring to his late wife. He sensed Constable Hopkins throwing him a despairing look behind the old man’s back.

“We’re still making enquiries,” Hawkwood said tactfully. “It might be some time.” And you wouldn’t want to see her anyway, he thought. Not the way she looks now.

The old man accepted the news with a philosophical shrug. “She could be a right cow, but she’ll need buryin’ all the same.”

There was an awkward pause.

“There was a burial …” Hawkwood said into the silence. “A man, maybe middle- aged. Buried a few days ago; probably late afternoon or evening. It would have been Reverend Tombs’ last funeral.”

The sexton looked up. His forehead creased at the change of subject. “That’s right. Name of Foley.” Then he frowned. “Why you askin’?”

Hawkwood jerked a thumb towards Hopkins. “Because he’s going to dig him up.”

The sexton’s jaw dropped. Even Hopkins looked taken aback, and he’d known what to expect. “You ain’t serious? I can’t let you do that. It ain’t …” the sexton searched for the right word “… legal. Is it?”

“I’ve a paper says it is,” Hawkwood said. “Signed by a Bow Street magistrate.” Hawkwood wondered why Hopkins had not warned the old man beforehand, and then it occurred to him that the constable had opted to play it safe, absolving himself of the responsibility by leaving it to Hawkwood to break the news. At least it proved that Constable Hopkins had a mind of his own.

The sexton peered around him vaguely, at what had once been his place of employment. He looked like a man wading slowly out of his depth and knowing he was powerless to prevent it. When he spoke, his voice was a subdued murmur. “Still don’t seem right.” His narrow shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Why don’t you show us the grave,” Hawkwood prompted. “We’ll need a shovel and a couple of lanterns.”

“Lanterns?” The sexton looked doubtful. “It’s broad daylight.”

“Just get them,” Hawkwood said.

The burial ground lay adjacent to the church. The grave was sited off to one side, close to a small hummock and the stump of what might have been a long-dead oak tree. There was no headstone, only a small wooden cross on which had been carved, in none too neat lettering, the name of the deceased.

“Cross was temporary,” Pegg explained. “Mason’s still workin’ on the inscription for the stone.”

The young constable looked first at the shovel, then at Hawkwood, and then at the task in hand. When Hawkwood had told him what his assignment was, Constable Hopkins had been curious, then strangely excited by the prospect. Now, faced with the imminent unearthing of a dead body, enthusiasm had rapidly given way to a growing feeling of unease.

“Look on the bright side, Constable,” Hawkwood said. “It could be worse. It could be raining.”

Hopkins looked neither happy nor convinced.

“You do know what a shovel’s for, Constable? You use the big end to shift the dirt from one place to another. It’s easy, once you get the hang of it.”

The constable blushed.

“He’ll ’ave ’is bleedin’ work cut out,” Sexton Pegg said morosely. As if to emphasize the validity of his observation, the sexton followed his remark by clearing his throat and expectorating the resulting sac of mucus against the side of a nearby tomb marker. “We buried this one deep.”

Hearing the sexton’s words, the constable’s heart sank further. But then he remembered that Hawkwood had asked for him by name, which at the very least meant that the stern-faced Runner did not consider him to be a total numbskull; unless, of course, no one else had been available. This could be the chance he’d been waiting for, the opportunity to show he was ready for advancement. What was it they said about mouths and gift horses?

Bolstered by a fresh surge of self-confidence, Constable Hopkins squared his shoulders and began to dig.

Fifteen minutes later, the constable paused in his digging. Despite the cold, it was proving warm work. The soil was hard on top while underneath it was damp and heavy and clung to the blade of the shovel like fresh dog turds. Rain might have been a blessing. At least it would have cooled him down. He removed his cap and jacket and hung them over the grave marker. Taking a gulp of air, he pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his brow. The old man had been right, it was taking longer than he had expected. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, half expecting to be met with a cold glare, but Hawkwood had his back to him. Wrapped in his riding coat, the Runner looked to be deep in thought, gazing out across the burial ground like a lookout atop a masthead. Hopkins wondered what was going through his mind.

“Not far to go now,” Sexton Pegg said, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re almost there.”

It took another ten minutes. By the time he had dug down to the coffin lid, Hopkins was already counting the blisters on his hands and the number of aching muscles in the small of his back. His russet hair was plastered to his