Читать книгу The Reckoning - James McGee - Страница 9

When Hawkwood re-entered the dead room, there was no shouted order to close the door and this time, when Quill turned to greet him, there was no humour in the surgeon’s expression, either. Instead, Quill’s face looked as if it had been carved from stone. The cellar appeared darker than it had before; colder, too, perhaps because of Quill’s less than welcoming disposition. The smell, though, was as bad as ever.

Taking his cue from the room’s chilly atmosphere, Hawkwood did not speak as he took the note from his pocket and held it up. Quill crooked a finger and, with a rising sense of dread, Hawkwood followed him across to the examination table.

The body was there, covered by the sheet. Wordlessly, Quill drew the material aside.

The corpse now lay on its back in the prone position, hands by its sides. This time the eyes were fully closed but it was not to her eyes that Hawkwood’s attention was drawn. It was to the dead woman’s abdomen and the trauma that had been inflicted upon it.

“They’re not stab wounds,” Hawkwood said cautiously. “They don’t look deep enough.”

“No,” Quill said. “I was mistaken. She was not stabbed.”

“Scratched, then.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I’m not with you.”

Quill reached for a candle. “Take this.”

Hawkwood took the light and held it above the body. Caught in a sudden draught, the candle flame fluttered and then steadied. He stared down at the wounds, which still looked nothing more than a series of random score marks angled across the surface of the skin. While they were not deep, they were not that shallow, either. They were the sort of cuts which, suffered singly, might have been caused by catching the skin on a rusty nail; quick to bleed but, by the same token, quick to close and form a scab. Lowering the flame, Hawkwood allowed his eyes to follow the progression of the wounds across the width of the body. Only then was he able to take in what Quill had seen.

The first letter that had been carved into the flesh was a sharp-angled . It had been made by two distinct strokes of a blade, as if the perpetrator had been trying to form a triangle and given up. The second letter had been made using the same principle, with the addition of a horizontal incision linking the two cuts to form an . The next was an , followed by a single vertical slash to represent an . There were three more letters, all rendered using a minimal number of strokes.

“C-A-R-I-T-A-S,” Quill said, “in case you were wondering.”

“I can spell, damn it!” Hawkwood stared at the cuts. “What I don’t know is what the hell it’s doing there. Is it even a word?”

Quill said calmly, “I believe it’s Latin.”

“Latin?”

“It means charity.”

Hawkwood turned.

Quill gave what could have been interpreted as an apologetic shrug. “Latin studies; one of the consequences of a classical education, though a necessity when considering a career in medicine.”

Hawkwood returned his attention to the body.

“This is not something I’ve come across before,” Quill said. “You?”

Hawkwood found his voice. “Not like this.”

“Like this?” Quill countered sharply.

“When I was in Spain, the guerrilleros used to mutilate the bodies of dead French soldiers as a warning to others.”

“They wrote messages in the flesh?”

“No, usually they’d cut something off. Noses, fingers, cocks. It scared the Frogs shitless.”

“I can imagine,” Quill said, adding pointedly, “Not quite the same though.”

“No,” Hawkwood agreed. “Not quite.”

Quill let out a sigh. “But bad enough.”

“Yes.”

Quill held Hawkwood’s gaze. His expression was even darker than it had been before.

“Did you find anything else?” Hawkwood asked, wondering what other horrors might be lurking.

“No,” Quill said. “Mercifully. She was not violated – not as we understand the term, at any rate, though my examination did reveal that she was no stranger to coition.”

There followed a moment’s pause then Quill chewed his lip and said pointedly, “Fore and aft.”

Offering a contrite shrug for having used the phrase, the surgeon made a face. “Your suspicions regarding her likely profession would, therefore, appear to have merit.”

“Then cover her up, for Christ’s sake.” Hawkwood stepped away from the table, allowing Quill to draw the sheet over the body. He turned back. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“No apology required,” Quill said.

“I want him,” Hawkwood said. “I want the bastard who did this.”

“Him?” Quill said.

“Him. Them.”

God help us if it’s a “her”. What kind of woman would do this to another?

“Ah, but it’s not just the ‘who’ though, is it?” Quill said. “It’s the rest of it. And I’m afraid I can’t help you with that conundrum. My responsibility extends only as far as determining the cause of death, not the persons or reasoning behind it. My domain is the ‘how’. The ‘who’ and the ‘why’ are your department.”

Thanks to Magistrate bloody Turton, and a sexton with a conscience, Hawkwood thought bitterly.

“That’s not to say I’m not intrigued, of course,” Quill added, “as a medical man. But it ain’t my field. You want an answer as to why someone should carve anything into some poor woman’s belly, you don’t need a surgeon; you need a mind doctor.” The surgeon cocked his head. “Know any mind doctors?”

Hawkwood stared at Quill. Quill stared back at him. “What?”

“As a matter of fact,” Hawkwood said. “I believe I do.”

It had been winter when Hawkwood had last visited the building and there had been a heavy frost on the ground. It was winter once again, or at least the tail end of it, and while the weather was not as harsh, it was immediately apparent that the intervening months had not been kind, for the place appeared even more decrepit and run down than it had before.

Segments of the surrounding wall looked as if they were about to collapse, while the trees, which, during the summer, would have formed a natural screen, appeared to be suffering from some form of incurable blight, with many of their lower branches having been lopped off by the neighbouring residents for use as domestic kindling. Moorfields, the area of open ground which fronted the building, had all the characteristics of a freshly ploughed pasture. Subsidence, having bedevilled the site for decades, had taken a more drastic toll of late and the ponds which had formed in the resulting depressions had almost doubled in size. Most of the iron railings that had once ringed the common land had disappeared.

The twin statues were still there, guarding the entry gates: both male – one wearing shackles, head drawn back; the other reclining as if having just awoken from a troubled sleep. Their naked torsos, stained black over the years, were splattered with ash and pigeon droppings. Steeling himself, Hawkwood ducked beneath them, crossed the courtyard and headed for the main door. Tugging on the bell pull, he waited. The eye-hatch slid aside and a pale, unshaven face appeared in the opening.

“Officer Hawkwood, Bow Street Public Office; here to see Apothecary Locke.”

“You expected?” a gravelly voice wheezed.

Hawkwood had anticipated the question and raised his tipstaff so that the brass crown was displayed. “I don’t need an appointment.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the hatch scraped shut. The sound of several large bolts being withdrawn was followed by the rasp of wood on stone as the door was hauled back. Hawkwood took a quick gulp of air and stepped through the gap. The door closed ominously behind him.

Welcome to Bedlam … again.

The last time he’d called upon Robert Locke, the apothecary’s office had been on the first floor. To get there, he’d been escorted through the main gallery, past cell doors that had opened on to scenes more suited to a travelling freak show than a hospital wing. The sight of distressed patients – male and female – chained to walls, many squatting in their own filth, and the pitiful looks they’d given him as he’d gone past, had stayed in the mind for a long time afterwards, as had their cries of distress at spying a stranger in their midst. He was considerably relieved, therefore, when, this time, the unsmiling, blue-coated attendant avoided the central staircase and led him down a dank and draughty ground-floor corridor towards the rear of the building, the uneven floorboards creaking beneath their combined tread.

While the route might have altered, the smells had not. The combination of rotting timbers, damp straw, stale cabbage and human sewage were as bad as he remembered and easily equalled the odours at the bottom of the grave-pit and the stench in Quill’s dead house. It was further indication – as if the exterior signs had not been proof enough – that Bethlem Hospital had reached its final stage of decomposition.

This time, there was no brass plate beside the door. There was only the word Apothecary scrawled on a piece of torn card looped over the doorknob. The attendant knocked and Hawkwood was announced. Hearing a small grunt of surprise, Hawkwood pushed past the attendant and very nearly went sprawling arse over elbow due to a metal pail that had been placed on the floor two feet inside the door. As entrances went, it wasn’t the most dignified he’d ever made.

Recovering his footing, he saw that the pail was one of several mis-matched receptacles that had been placed around the room in order to catch the rainwater that was dripping from the ceiling. An assortment of buckets, basins, pots and jugs had been pressed into service. Even as he took in the sight, there came the sound of a droplet hitting the surface of the water in one of the makeshift reservoirs, more than half of which were ready for emptying. A quick glance above his head at the spots of mould high in the corners of the walls and the dark, damp patches radiating out from the ceiling rose told their own depressing story.

“Officer Hawkwood?”

The bespectacled, studious-looking man who rose from behind his desk could have been mistaken for a bank clerk or a schoolteacher rather than an apothecary in a madhouse, though it was plain that, like the building in which he worked, Robert Locke looked as though he had seen better days. He appeared thinner than Hawkwood remembered and older, too, for there were lines on his face that had not been there before.

“Doctor,” Hawkwood said, as the apothecary advanced towards him, looking both flustered and, Hawkwood thought, more than a tad apprehensive.

Removing his spectacles – an affectation which Hawkwood had come to know well from their previous encounters – Locke wiped them on a handkerchief, slid them back on to his nose and turned to the hovering attendant. “Thank you, Mr O’Brien; that will be all.”

Dismissed, the attendant left the room. Locke, despite his obvious concern as to why Hawkwood might have returned, extended his hand. The apothecary’s grip was firm, though cold to the touch. Hawkwood wondered if it was a sign that Locke’s health was failing or a reflection of the state of the building which was disintegrating brick by brick around him.

“Come in, sir, come in,” Locke said. “Please forgive the accommodation. As you can see, there’s been little improvement since your last visit.” The apothecary offered an apologetic smile. “That is to say, there has been no improvement whatsoever.”

“You’ve changed offices,” Hawkwood pointed out.

“Well, yes, but that was a matter of necessity – the ceiling fell in upstairs.” Locke indicated the state of the decor above his head and the crockery at his feet. “I fear it’s only a matter of time before the same thing happens again. Mind where you step.”

“I thought you were moving to new premises,” Hawkwood said.

Locke sighed wearily. “Oh, indeed we were; or rather, we will be: St George’s Fields. The first stone was laid back in April, though God knows when it will be finished. In the meantime, you find us thus. Still sinking, but making do as best we can. Come, stand by the fire. It’s one of the few comforts I have left, though that might alter when we run out of wood, unless I start burning the furniture.”

Rubbing his hands together, Locke crossed to the fireplace and picked up a poker. Crouching down, the apothecary took two small logs from a stack at the side of the hearth and added them to the embers, allowing Hawkwood a bird’s-eye view of his frayed collar and the specks of dandruff adhering to it.

Stoking life into the flames, he laid the poker down and stood up. “So,” he said, turning. “What brings you back to our door? It seems only five minutes, but it must be … what? – a year or thereabouts since the affair with Colonel Hyde?” He threw Hawkwood a worried look. “I’m assuming this has nothing to do with those appalling events?”

“No,” Hawkwood said.

Strange, he thought, how previous cases came back to haunt you. It had been Hyde, a former army surgeon, whose escape from Bedlam and demand for bodies upon which to practise his skills had led to the confrontation with the murderous resurrection gang, an encounter from which no one had emerged untarnished.

Clearly relieved, Locke nodded. “I followed it all in the news sheets, of course; a foul business. When his crimes were finally brought to light, I did ask myself if there was anything I could have done differently that might have deterred him from his actions.”

“There was nothing anyone could have done,” Hawkwood said. “He was insane and he was clever. And now he’s dead and the world’s the better for it.”

“According to the newspapers, he died while resisting arrest.”

“Yes,” Hawkwood said.

After I ran the bastard through.

He found that Locke was regarding him closely. When he’d first called upon the apothecary, Hawkwood had thought Locke to be nothing more than a lickspittle, a petty official harbouring resentment towards his superiors for having left him in sole charge of a shambles of a hospital and a largely incompetent and uncaring workforce. Subsequent events had altered Hawkwood’s perception of the man, for it had been Locke’s knowledge of his former patient’s mental condition that had enabled Hawkwood to eventually track down the lunatic Colonel Hyde, and dispatch him to a place where he was no longer a threat to humanity: to wit, the fires of hell and damnation. A rapier thrust had been the method of execution, though that was just one of many details that had been omitted from the official report.

“So,” the apothecary prompted as his gaze fell away. “How may I be of service?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Hawkwood said, “and I need your advice in narrowing my search.”

Locke frowned. “Really? How so?”

“I’m investigating a murder.”

Taken aback, Locke’s eyes widened.

“A woman’s been killed. At the moment, she’s nameless.”

Locke blinked. “And what? You think she may have a connection with the hospital; a former patient, perhaps?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Locke looked even more nonplussed. “Then, forgive me, but why …?”

“The circumstances of her death are … unusual.”

The apothecary opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it abruptly. Clearly confused, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “We should make ourselves more comfortable.” Returning to his former position behind the desk, he settled himself and said, “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Locke remained silent as Hawkwood related the circumstances surrounding the finding of the body and its delivery to Quill’s necropsy room. When it came to a description of the mutilations that had been performed upon the corpse, the apothecary’s head lifted and he sat back. Taking out his handkerchief, he removed his spectacles and began to clean the lenses, his face still; his movements slow and deliberate.

Hawkwood waited. Several seconds passed before Locke tucked the handkerchief away and used both hands to position his spectacles back on the bridge of his nose. Blinking, he searched Hawkwood’s face. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll help me,” Hawkwood said.

“But of course. I’ll assist in any way I can, though I’m not sure how. What do you require?”

“When we were dealing with Hyde, I asked you what circumstances might have driven him to commit murder.”

Locke nodded. “I remember.”

“I’m hoping you can do the same again. I need to know what sort of person I’m looking for this time. I’m assuming it’s a ‘he’. If you can give me some idea of what might be going through the bastard’s mind, then maybe I can use the information to hunt him down.”

“Hunt?” Locke said cautiously. “You make him sound like some kind of wild animal.”

“He killed a woman and carved a word into her flesh. How would you describe him?”

Locke blinked. “From what I know, animals usually have a valid reason for killing: to survive; to acquire food or a mate; to establish their territory; or to protect their offspring. I think you’ll find that men kill for a far greater variety of reasons, most of them trivial – excluding war, of course … though even then, I wouldn’t swear to it.” Tilting his head, Locke fixed Hawkwood with a pointed look. “But I suspect that is something you are well aware of.”

The apothecary knew that Hawkwood had served as an officer in the Rifles and was, therefore, intimately familiar with the horrors of the battlefield.

“I was a soldier. It wasn’t my place to question the why. My duty was to take care of the how and the when.” Hawkwood smiled thinly at Locke’s bemused expression. “Forgive me; I had a similar conversation recently with the Coroner’s surgeon.”

Locke said nothing.

“With Hyde,” Hawkwood said, “I was sure we were dealing with a madman because he’d been locked up in this place, but you convinced me it wasn’t that simple. For a start, even though he was a patient here, Hyde did not consider himself to be mad.”

Locke spread his hands. “That is the nature of the sickness. I told you at the time, while other doctors consider madness to be a spiritual malaise, I believe it to be a physical disease, an organic disorder within the brain. It can affect anyone, from a soldier to a surgeon, from a kitchen maid to a—”

“King?” Hawkwood finished.

“Indeed.” Locke smiled faintly. “And while their behaviour may be unfathomable to others, within their own minds, they are being perfectly rational.”

“And Hyde didn’t think of himself as either sane or insane, because that was the nature of his delusion.”

“Correct.”

“When I asked you what made Hyde commit murder, you told me it was necessary to know how his delusion arose in the first place.”

“But of course. Without knowledge of a person’s history there is no way of determining what makes them commit irrational acts, which is why I’m unable to provide you with the information you require. You forget; Hyde was already known to us. We had both his medical and his army records, thus we were able to chart the course of his delusions. His crimes were not committed in isolation. They were part of a natural progression, stemming from his experiences during the war. There was a purpose to his actions; validity, if you will; at least in his mind. With regards to the individual you are now seeking, we have no point of reference, therefore I have nothing to chart.”

“We have caritas,” Hawkwood said, clutching at his remaining straw. “Does that tell us anything?”

Locke considered the question. “It implies the author is an educated man.”

“And?”

“His education may prompt him to believe he is of a superior intellect to those around him, which could mean he holds a position of authority. Alternatively, he could occupy a more modest position but believes he has been held back by those above him who, in his opinion, are his inferiors. Jealousy turns to resentment. Resentment turns to anger, anger to rage …”

“And rage to murder,” Hawkwood said softly.

“A simplistic rendering, but yes. Though, murder is not always born of anger. It is also an illustration of the control one person wields over another; a way of the killer showing that he has the power over life and death.”

“Like Hyde?”

The apothecary nodded. “Like Colonel Hyde. He decides who lives and who dies. In his own mind, he is the one before whom all others should bow down.”

“You’re not telling me he thinks he’s God?”

As Hawkwood absorbed that thought, Locke said, “Clearly, the word caritas holds a particular significance.”

“You mean why not ‘whore’ or ‘Jezebel’,” Hawkwood said.

Locke made a face. “Perhaps we should be thankful for small mercies. If I remember my scriptures, Jezebel was consumed by a pack of stray dogs. Had your murderer chosen that as his means of disposal, I doubt she’d have been found at all.”

Hawkwood was digesting that morbid titbit and wondering if it was the apothecary’s attempt at wit when Locke said, “From your description of the wounds, he is clearly prone to rage; yet methodical, too; capable of deliberation.”

“How can you tell that?”

The apothecary paused and then said, “Because it took thought to choose that particular word and it would have taken time to carve it into her flesh.”

Reaching for a pencil, Locke took a sheet of paper from the detritus on his desk and, employing a series of single strokes of the pencil, began to write. When he had finished, he held up the paper. Upon it was etched the word CARITAS.

“From your description of the wounds, he would have had to employ some eighteen separate cuts. Therefore he took his time. Ergo, he was not afraid of being interrupted.” Locke paused and then said, “As a matter of interest, were there any other similar cuts on the body, close to the same area?”

Hawkwood thought back. “One or two, yes, now you mention it.”

“More than likely they were practice cuts, to allow him to perfect his calligraphy.” The apothecary laid the paper on the desk and studied his penmanship. “One has to wonder who the message was for.”

“For?” Hawkwood said, still trying to come to terms with the fact that the killer had perfected his technique before committing himself to the final indignation.

“We must assume it was meant to be read. Otherwise, why take the trouble?” Locke looked up. “You are aware that caritas can have other meanings besides ‘charity’?”

“No,” Hawkwood said. “I wasn’t.”

“It can also mean ‘esteem’ or ‘virtue’. If she was a working girl, as you suspect, then the latter interpretation would be more apposite.”

“Because she’d be considered a woman without virtue? So this was what? Some kind of punishment?”

“Possibly, or a warning to those who would ply a similar trade. The killer is giving notice that this is the fate that will befall them if they do not change their immoral ways.”

“Well, if that’s his goal,” Hawkwood said, “he’ll have his work cut out, given the number of molls in this city.”

“So will you,” Locke observed. “Seeing as you’ll be the one trying to stop him.”

A faint, far-off scream made the apothecary cock his head. As he did so, a water droplet splashed on to his sleeve from the ceiling above. Cursing, he dabbed the offending spot with his handkerchief while a cacophony of hoarse cries began to spread through the building. It was as if the first scream had been a prompt. It sounded, Hawkwood thought, as though a pack of wolves had been loosed from a cage.

Taking the interruption as his cue, and struck by a sudden and overwhelming desire to escape the hospital’s oppressive atmosphere, Hawkwood got to his feet.

Locke rose with him. As he did so, the apothecary reached for the bell pull on the wall behind his desk and gave the cord a short tug. “I’m sorry I could not be of more help.”

Hawkwood shook his head. “On the contrary, you’ve confirmed what I’d already half suspected.”

Somewhere in the depths, he presumed a bell had rung and he wondered if the sound of it had been drowned by the noises that were beginning to echo through the corridors, among them the clatter of running feet.

At that moment, however, the door opened to admit the attendant who’d delivered him to Locke’s inner sanctum, causing Hawkwood to wonder if the man had been hovering outside throughout the entire course of his and Locke’s conversation.

“Second opinions are my speciality,” Locke said, smiling. “Should any further information come to light, my door will still be open.”

“If it hasn’t been consigned to the flames,” Hawkwood said.

Locke chuckled. “I’ll make sure it’s the last thing to go.” He held out his hand. “Mr O’Brien will show you out. It was a pleasure seeing you again … despite the circumstances.”

The smile was replaced suddenly by a more thoughtful expression. “I hope you catch him.” There was the merest pause then Locke said, “When you do run him down, it will be interesting to see if he also tries to resist arrest.”

Before Hawkwood could respond, the apothecary gave a quick, wry smile, nodded and turned for his desk, his hands clasped behind his back.

The attendant moved aside to allow Hawkwood to exit. It was as the door was closing behind him that the thought struck. Sticking out a hand to stop the door’s swing, he stepped back into the room. Locke was back behind his desk. He glanced up.

“There is one thing,” Hawkwood said.

Locke half rose.

“Something I forgot to ask.”

The apothecary nodded sombrely. “I know.”

“You know?”

Locke lowered himself into his chair. “It’s just occurred to you that the question you should have asked is not: will he kill again? The question is: has he killed before?”

“Yes.”

“Because if you are to prevent him from committing a similar crime, it is not the future you should concentrate upon, but the past. If you can establish a truth using that method, then you will have your point of reference from which everything else will stem.”

“So?” Hawkwood said. “In your opinion, could he have done this before?”

Gazing back at him, Locke removed his spectacles and the handkerchief from his sleeve and began to clean each lens with slow, circular motions. After several seconds of concentrated thought, he put away the handkerchief, placed the spectacles back on the bridge of his nose, and stared at Hawkwood.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Almost certainly.”