peering at something. His eyes were narrowed, as if he couldn’t quite make out what he was seeing. Suddenly he straightened. Sensing Hawkwood beside him, he turned. His face was transfixed, an immovable yellow mask. Then his lips parted. They continued to move in silence, his throat constricting, as though he was about to disgorge something recently swallowed. No words were uttered. It was the expression of horror in the constable’s eyes that compelled Hawkwood to look down.
“Look at her face,” Hopkins whispered.
Hawkwood did so.
Affixed to the front of the corpse’s skull, in perfect alignment with the eyes and nose, cheeks and jaw, was what appeared to be some kind of visor. It was the nature of the material the visor had been fashioned from that had caused the tremor in the constable’s voice. The visor was not made of metal, neither was it cut from cloth or hide, though it did bear some semblance to seasoned leather. It also gave the impression the deceased had suffered from some terrible flesh-wasting disease. It was a mask of human skin.
12
“Very well, Hawkwood. You’ve convinced me.”
The Chief Magistrate pushed himself away from his desk and moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “Even though you saw him fall. You and a hundred others.”
“No,” Hawkwood said. “We didn’t see him fall. We saw him jump. He didn’t trip. He didn’t overbalance. He bloody jumped. It was deliberate. He knew what he was doing and he fooled us all. That’s why we heard the bell toll. He used the rope to lower himself to the ground. Then he climbed down into the crypt, closed the trap after him and made his way through the tunnel. Came up inside the dead house and made his escape. It would have been a close-run thing. It would have taken exceptional timing, but he did it. It was bloody clever.”
“And he is not a young man,” Read said.
“No, he’s not, but Apothecary Locke told me he’s an athletic man who kept himself in good physical shape by performing regular exercises.”
“In other words,” Read said flatly, “he was preparing himself.”
Hawkwood nodded. “He planned everything, even down to the theft of the scalpel and the laudanum. The apothecary said that Tombs was a regular visitor to the colonel’s cell. Hyde used the visits to bleed Tombs for information. He’d have found out about the church, the charnel house and the tunnel, even the spare bloody key. Tombs probably made him laugh with a story of some poor bugger getting locked in, which was why they had another key made. The sexton checked the house. The second key was missing. I’ll wager the bastard even got the parson talking about recent burials during each of his visits and timed his escape to coincide with the burial of someone close to his own age and size. He knew if he could fake his own death and make us all believe he’d done away with himself, we’d give up the chase. So he waited until the right corpse came along and then made his move. Dug the poor sod up, maybe even dressed him in some of the parson’s spare clothes – he’d have found them in the house – and placed the body in the church, then he lit his funeral pyre. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been wearing Foley’s burial suit when he made his escape. Probably stowed it in the crypt in preparation. The shine I saw on his clothing before he jumped would have been water. He’d doused himself as a precaution. That’s why the jacket and breeches I found felt damp. They hadn’t had time to dry.”
“And the sexton’s wife got in his way,” Read said heavily.
“She probably disturbed him at the house, or maybe she saw him moving the body. Either way, he had to kill her; she was a witness. By God, the man was thorough, I’ll grant him that; all that quoting from the scriptures and the Book of Titus. And he’s an arrogant bastard. He couldn’t resist that final joke, leaving the parson’s face in the woman’s coffin. But his arrogance made him careless. He didn’t close the bloody lid properly.”
Read looked thoughtful. “How is the constable, by the way?”
“He might be due for a few sleepless nights, but he’ll get over it. It’s worth a commendation, though. He did well.”
“I’ll see to it,” Read said. The Chief Magistrate moved to his desk. “You still think Hyde is responsible for the mutilations?”
Hawkwood nodded.
Read stared at him for what seemed like a long time. Finally the Chief Magistrate sighed. “What do you intend to do?”
“Catch the bastard. But to do that I’ll need to know more about his background.”
“You intend to revisit Bethlem?”
“It’s the logical place to start,” Hawkwood agreed.
Read looked pensive.
“What is it?”
“My sources tell me that the hospital governors are most anxious to avoid releasing information that might alarm the public.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“They feel it would be best for all concerned if the full details of the colonel’s escape were kept confidential.”
Hawkwood stiffened. “You mean they want to cover it up?”
“Admitting that murderers can wilfully abscond from the country’s foremost lunatic asylum in order to create mayhem is hardly conducive to the retention of public confidence. Bethlem is not a country estate; it lies within a city, surrounded by a million people going about their business, most of them lawfully. Far better if they are able to sleep easy in their beds than worry about escaped murderers on the loose.”
“The bloody place is crawling with murderers on the loose,” Hawkwood said, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “That’s why you employ people like me.”
Read sighed. “You know very well what I mean.”
“So, what are they going to do: swear everybody to silence? How are they going to explain the church going up in smoke? That’s already in the news-sheets.”
“A church burned down, a parson died. A tragedy occurred.”
Hawkwood stared at the Chief Magistrate. “The parson didn’t just die, he was murdered. So was the sexton’s wife. And the murderer’s still out there,
“No, as far as the public is concerned, the murderer died in the fire,” Read said.
The significance of the magistrate’s words struck home. “So the poor bloody parson’s going to take the blame?”
“A hundred witnesses heard his confession and saw him commit suicide. It suits our purpose if they continue to believe that.”
“But too many people know what really happened.”
“Not that many. Only two members of the hospital staff know the truth: the apothecary and the keeper, Leech. They have been persuaded to amend their story, in the interests of the hospital. If anyone should make enquiries, it was the colonel who was killed, not his visitor; and if rumours of an alternative scenario should circulate, that’s all they’d be: rumours. The only other people who know the correct version of events are in this room.”
“There’s Hopkins.”
“Hopkins knows?”
“He does now. I thought it was only fair to tell him. Though I warned him, if he breathes a word, I’ll hang him by his ears from Blackfriars Bridge. And he does have
“Let us hope they were in full working order when you made your threat.”
“Keeping the knowledge that Hyde is alive between ourselves could play to our advantage,” Hawkwood conceded. “He probably thinks we’re a bunch of clodhoppers and that he’s outwitted us. And that may make him even more careless …” Hawkwood paused. “If I’m going to run him down, I may have to step on a few toes.”
The Chief Magistrate nodded. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’d be very surprised if you didn’t,” he said drily. “You’ll be discreet and keep me appraised, of course?”
“Don’t I always, sir?” Hawkwood said.
