Resurrectionist

cloth, soaked in the oil, would have acted like wicks. It explained how the flames had been able to take such a strong hold.

The old man stopped suddenly and pointed through the two splintered and blackened beams to the crushed remains of the altar. “Down there.”

Hawkwood assessed the extent of the damage. Beside him, the constable’s face fell. Hawkwood straightened and took off his coat. He found a length of beam that was relatively dry and draped the coat across it. Then he turned to the constable. “Jacket off, lad. There’s more work to be done.”

The sexton joined them, though Hawkwood could see the multitude of questions in the old man’s eyes. At first sight, the task seemed overwhelming, but Hawkwood had seen that much of the immediate wreckage, although considerable, was not immovable. With the three of them doing the work, it did not, in the end, take long. Mostly, it consisted of careful lifting and leverage, but by the time they had cleared the worst away their clothes and faces were caked in ash and grime.

Before them, at the base of the flame-blackened altar, lay what had once been some sort of floor covering. The flames and the melted snow had rendered it down to a misshapen strip of water-sodden, ash-singed matting. To one side, cut into the stone floor and clearly visible, was the outline of a trapdoor. Inset into a recess in the door was a large iron ring.

Hawkwood felt a quickening inside his chest. Lifting the ring, he bent his knees, braced himself, and pulled. The stone lifted with remarkably little resistance, almost taking him by surprise. Hawkwood slid the stone to one side. A waft of cold, moist air rose to meet him.

“Ain’t much down there,” Pegg said, sniffing. “’Cepting a few bones.”

The constable paled. Hawkwood reached for his coat and held out his hand. Wordlessly, the sexton passed over one of the lanterns, then reached into his pocket and passed Hawkwood a small tinderbox.

Hopkins put on his jacket and picked up the second lantern. He had no idea why Hawkwood wanted to enter the crypt, any more than he’d understood why the Runner had wanted to examine the grave, but as he’d come this far, it didn’t seem right to hang back now. Besides, he was becoming more and more intrigued by Hawkwood’s bizarre behaviour. Something strange was going on. He didn’t know what, but if he remained in Hawkwood’s shadow there was a possibility he would find out.

Hawkwood lit the lantern and handed the tinderbox to the constable. Holding the lantern over the hole, he looked down. A set of grey stone steps came into view.

If Hyde had taken shelter in the crypt, how had he been planning to get out? There would have been no guarantee he’d be able to open the trap again. The two collapsed roof beams, which Hawkwood, Hopkins and the sexton had just moved, were proof of that.

“There’s another entrance,” Hawkwood said. He turned to the sexton. “Isn’t there?”

The sexton’s head came up. “Aye, that’s right.” His eyes narrowed. “’Ow come you know about that?”

“Where is it?”

The sexton nodded back the way they had come. “There’s a tunnel. Comes up in the corner o’ the burial ground. Inside the old dead house.”

Hawkwood recalled seeing the small stone structure, shaped like a miniature castle keep, complete with crenellated battlements, while he’d been waiting for Hopkins to excavate the grave. Common to a few churchyards, they were used to store coffins. Increasingly, they were also used to store bodies, sometimes for weeks, in the hope that the resulting putrefaction would prevent grave robbery. Hawkwood wondered if Foley’s body had been stored there. He didn’t know enough about the deterioration rate of bodies after death to know if the cadaver he’d seen in the mortuary had begun to putrefy before it had been consigned to the flames. Quill hadn’t said anything, but then even if it had been in storage, the extent of decay might not have been noticeable because of the fire damage. Not that it mattered now.

Hawkwood considered the distance between the nave and the dead house. It meant the tunnel had to be close to eighty or ninety paces in length.

The sexton read Hawkwood’s expression. “It’s old. They reckon there was another tunnel, once, which came out nearer the river. They say it was used for carryin’ the dead to the plague boats for shippin’ downstream. Not there now though, if it ever was. Probably one o’ them fairy tales told to scare the little ’uns.”

Hopkins, who had been listening to the exchange, took a step back.

“Don’t worry, Constable,” Hawkwood said softly. “It was a long time ago. It’s probably safe enough.”

“You might need this,” Pegg said.

Hawkwood looked down. The sexton was holding out a key.

“What’s this for?”

“Key to the dead-’ouse door. Didn’t think you’d want to come all the way back again in the dark. You can let yourselves out and bring it back to me later.”

Of course the place was going to be locked, Hawkwood thought. They wouldn’t store fully laden coffins in the place and then leave the bloody door open, would they? But then Hyde would have had to open the door to gain his freedom, and the sexton had just handed him the key. Which must mean …

“How many keys are there?” Hawkwood asked.

“Two. Vicar kept the other one.”

“In the house?”

“That’s right.”

“Is it still there?”

“’Ow the ’ell should I know?”

“Find out.”

“Eh?”

“I want to know if the other key’s still there. Do you know where it was kept?”

“With the rest of ’em. They’re all on hooks behind the scullery door.”

“Won’t take you long to check, then, will it?”

“But the place is locked up,” the sexton said. “On order of the bishop.”

“Break in, then,” Hawkwood said, putting his foot over the lip of the trapdoor.

Pegg stared at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as Hawkwood sank from view.

Hopkins was still thinking about Hawkwood’s use of the words “probably safe enough” in relation to the amount of risk involved in treading in the footsteps of plague victims. It was the “probably” that worried him. If I don’t get a commendation after this, he thought dolefully, there’s no such thing as justice. Lighting his lantern, he returned the tinderbox to the sexton.

“Was ’e serious about breakin’ in?” Pegg asked hesitantly. “Not sure I should do that.”

“Put it this way, Mr Pegg,” Hopkins said, “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if he finds out you haven’t done it.”

“But –”

“Do it, Mr Pegg. Don’t think about it, just do it.”

“Right, well, just so you know, it ain’t my responsibility, is all I’m sayin’.”

“Understood, Mr Pegg. Best not waste any time though, eh?” The constable smiled. Then, gritting his teeth and leaving a reluctant Sexton Pegg to investigate the vicarage, he pressed his cap firmly on to his head and followed Hawkwood down the stairway.

Hawkwood could see immediately that the chamber was very old. The walls, from what he could make out in the darkness, looked to be a mixture of ancient brick and crumbling stone. The roof was low and curved. It reminded him of Quill’s mortuary, though a less well-lit, smaller and more claustrophobic version, and it undoubtedly predated the remains of the church above them, if not the one that had gone before, and, quite possibly, the one before that. He heard Hopkins’ boots clumping down the steps behind him and moved aside to give the constable room.

Holding his lantern at shoulder height, Hopkins surveyed his surroundings. Shadows played across his pale face. “What are we looking for, s—, Captain?”

Maybe I’ll know it when I see it, Hawkwood thought. He left Hopkins’ side without answering and moved away from the steps, following the line of the wall. The roof wasn’t much more than a foot or so above his head. The urge to tuck his neck into his shoulders increased with every step he took. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw there were cavities along the walls. Some of them held stone coffins.