Resurrectionist

“I’m sorry?”

“Look at them closely. Regard the style of the illustrations and the attendant lettering. Would you say they look familiar?”

Hawkwood looked. He shook his head. “You’ve lost me, Doctor.”

Locke lifted the papers and placed them to one side. “Perhaps I can refresh your memory.”

Locke moved around the desk, opened a drawer, and took out another sheet of paper. He opened it out. “Do you remember this?”

Hawkwood recognized it. It was the drawing that Locke had shown him on his first visit: the Air Loom.

“Compare the style of the illustrations and the lettering,” Locke said. He moved aside.

Hawkwood stared at the drawings, his gaze moving from one to another, and back again. The similarity between the two was striking.

“Note the lettering in particular,” Locke said. “The bottom curlicue in the letter A, for example.”

Hawkwood followed the apothecary’s fingertip. It was undeniably the same small, neat hand.

“Matthews?” Hawkwood said. “They knew each other? But they had their own rooms. I thought you kept patients like them separated?”

Locke shrugged. “By their nature, hospitals are enclosed communities. Bethlem’s no different. Despite the popular assertion that we are England’s Bastille, we are not a prison. We do allow some patients a certain amount of fraternization. Indeed, where we feel the experience will be of benefit to the patients, we actively encourage it. We have common rooms where they can meet – under supervision, of course. James Tilly Matthews is one of our best-known residents. I remember the colonel expressing great interest in Matthews’ designs for the new hospital, and I recall seeing them in conversation on a number of occasions.”

Hawkwood looked down at the papers. He’d assumed that Hyde had spent all his time in isolation in his rooms, his only contact being the keepers and the medical staff and, latterly, the late Reverend Tombs. He hadn’t expected this.

“I want to see Matthews. Now.”

Locke nodded and picked up the drawings. “Come with me.”

The apothecary led the way along the first-floor corridor. Most of the cell doors were open. Patients were mingling freely with the blue-coated attendants.

They stopped outside a closed door and Locke murmured softly, “He does not have a very high opinion of the judiciary. It would be best, there-fore, if you do not tell him you are a police officer.”

Before Hawkwood could respond, Locke knocked twice on the door and pushed it open. “James, my dear fellow,” he announced amiably. “How are we today? May we come in?”

The room was considerably smaller than the colonel’s quarters; probably no more than twelve feet by nine. There were the same basic items of furniture, however: bed, chair, small table, and a chest. There was a sluice pipe in the corner for waste. To add to the claustrophobia, there were several shelves full of books and the walls were covered in drawings. They were all architectural plans. Hawkwood recognized a copy of the design for the new hospital. It was less detailed than the one Locke had shown him and he assumed it was an early draft. Nevertheless, the attention to detail was exceptional.

A short, compact, dark-haired man was leaning over the table. He had a pencil in one hand and a rule in the other. He did not look up, but continued to fuss over the drawing laid out before him. His pale face was fused in rapt concentration as he tapped the pencil against his right leg.

“James?” Locke said again.

The man started and turned around. “Dr Locke! Come in! Come in!”

“James, allow me to present a colleague of mine, Mr Hawkwood.”

Hawkwood found himself perused from head to toe by a pair of eyes that were as bright as buttons. “A pleasure, Mr Hawkwood!”

Locke approached the table. “James has taken up engraving. He’s working on some new architectural illustrations. Come and see.”

Hawkwood walked forward.

The drawing was of a town house; a rather grand one, with steps and a portico and an honour guard of tall trees. A ground-floor plan of the house was laid alongside. As with the sketches on the wall, the quality was exceptional.

Locke patted the patient on the shoulder. “James has plans for a magazine of architectural illustrations. What’s it to be called again? I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind. Do tell Mr Hawkwood.”

Matthews’ face lit up. “I will indeed! It’s to be called Useful Architecture. It will explain the basics of architecture for the common man. It is also my intention to provide designs, so that each reader can make use of them for his own purpose,” he added grandly.

“Doesn’t that sound like a splendid idea?” Locke said, blinking behind his spectacles.

“Splendid,” Hawkwood agreed warily.

“There’ll be hothouses for cabbages,” Matthews said suddenly. He took Hawkwood’s arm. “You do know the efficacious benefit of a good hothouse, don’t you, Mr Hawkwood? I explained it to the French but the damned fools took not a jot of notice. And look what’s happened to them,” he added darkly.

Hawkwood looked blankly at Locke, who shook his head imperceptibly, but Matthews hadn’t finished. Hanging on to Hawkwood’s arm, he drew himself up. “Each home will have its own hothouse. I shall then petition the government to commandeer the great army of the unemployed to gather up all the filth in the city. This will be transported by cart and barrow and barge to every hothouse, where it will be used as fertilizer upon the cabbages, which will grow in abundance, thus providing a nourishing supply of vegetables for the nation. Now,” he concluded triumphantly, hand on hip, “what do you think of that, sir?”

Hawkwood wondered whether the patient was waiting for applause. He rescued his sleeve. He could see that Locke was sending him warning signs across the table. Behind his spectacles, the apothecary’s eyebrows were going up and down like signal flags.

Hawkwood nodded. “That’s the thing about the French. They wouldn’t recognize a good idea if it bit them on the arse.”

There was a pause. He saw Locke’s eyebrows lift almost to his hairline. Then, beside him, James Matthews jabbed the air with his pencil. “Ha! Exactly, sir! Exactly! I couldn’t have put it better myself!” He looked down at his drawing and began to take measurements with the rule. His movements were brisk and precise.

Locke stepped forward quickly. “Well, James, we mustn’t keep you from your work. We’ll leave you to get on.”

Matthews nodded distractedly. “So much to prepare, and so little time.” He glanced up, a determined expression on his face. “One must stay busy, what?”

“Oh, absolutely, James! Indeed one must.” Locke nodded enthusiastically and then paused. “Though, before we go, I wonder if we might ask your advice. Mr Hawkwood and I are not, alas, of a technical persuasion and we were hoping you could assist us with an explanation of these –” Locke held up the papers he’d taken from the colonel’s cell. “They are quite beyond our comprehension, I’m afraid. I thought a draughtsman with your expertise could shed some light … What say you?”

Hawkwood was wondering if Locke wasn’t laying it on a bit thick, but then he saw the patient’s eyes flicker towards the papers and he remembered Locke saying that some patients thrived on companionship. On flattery and curiosity, too, it seemed. Locke was playing his patient well, like a fish on a line.

“But of course, Doctor. It would be my pleasure. What do you have there?”

Locke spread the drawings across the table.

Matthews smiled broadly when he saw the top sheet. He reached for it. “Ah, yes! Galvani!”

“Is that so?” Locke said, without a hint of guile.

“It’s his frog experiment. He dissected a frog and placed one of its legs on an iron plate. When he touched the nerve with a metal scalpel, the leg twitched violently. He reasoned, therefore, that there must be electricity in the frog. Fascinating conclusion. He was quite wrong, of course. Volta proved that.”

Another bloody name I don’t know, Hawkwood thought.

Locke lifted the paper to reveal the second drawing.

Matthews gave an exclamation of amusement. “Why, it’s one of mine!”

“We thought it might be,” Locke said, with a sideways glance towards Hawkwood. “We were wondering what