Resurrectionist. James McGee

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      “The artist. He has received many plaudits for his works. His forte is landscapes, I believe.”

      “I know who Turner is,” Hawkwood snapped.

      The apothecary stiffened and blinked. The look that flickered across the bespectacled face suggested that Locke’s expectation of a Bow Street emissary had probably run to a ponderous, black-capped, blue-waistcoated conductor of the watch with an ingratiating manner and a pot-belly. Patently what the apothecary had not made provision for was an arrogant, long-haired, scar-faced, well-dressed ruffian with a passing knowledge of the arts.

      For his part, Hawkwood recalled Locke’s initial response to his question. The apothecary’s turn of phrase had seemed a little odd at the time, as had the emphasis on the word “canvas”. All was now becoming clear. He hadn’t imagined Attendant Leech’s smirk. The unmistakable whiff of resentment hung in the air. There might be more to this timid-faced apothecary than he had first thought. And that was certainly an avenue worth exploring.

      “Forgive me, Doctor, it just seemed curious to me that the hospital’s chief physician would appear to spend rather more time with his paintings than his patients. However, there’s another doctor on the staff, I believe: Surgeon Crowther? Or have his duties taken him elsewhere, too?”

      Hawkwood allowed just the right amount of sarcasm to creep into his voice. His tactic was rewarded. This time, the apothecary’s reaction was less restrained. He flushed and coughed nervously.

      Over his shoulder, Hawkwood heard Attendant Leech shift his feet.

      Locke’s eyes flickered towards the sound. “I’d be obliged, Mr Leech, if you would be so good as to wait outside.”

      The attendant hesitated then nodded. Locke waited until the door had closed. He turned back to Hawkwood. Removing his spectacles, he extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish each lens. “I regret that Surgeon Crowther is …” the apothecary pursed his lips “… indisposed.”

      “Really? How so?”

      Locke placed his spectacles back on his nose and tucked away his handkerchief.

      “The man’s a drunkard. I haven’t seen him for three days. I suspect he’s either at home soaking up the grape or lying in a stupor in some Gin Lane grog shop.”

      This time there was no mistaking the edge in the apothecary’s voice. It was sharp enough to cut glass. “Which is why you are talking to the apothecary, Officer Hawkwood. Does that answer your question? Now, perhaps you would care to see the body?”

      Attendant Leech led the way.

      As they were going down the stairs, the apothecary paused as if to collect his thoughts. Allowing Leech to get a few steps ahead of them, he took a deep breath. “My apologies, Officer Hawkwood. You must think me indiscreet. I fear I rather let my tongue run away with me, but it has been somewhat difficult of late, what with the surveyors’ final report and the notice and so forth.”

      “Notice?” Hawkwood said.

      “The building’s been condemned. Hadn’t you heard?” The apothecary made a face. “Some would say not before time. You saw that the east wing’s already gone? That used to house the male patients. Since its destruction we’ve had to move the men into the same gallery as the women; not the most suitable arrangement, as you may imagine. It’s fortunate we’re not operating at full capacity. When I started there were double the number of patients there are now. Hopefully we’ll have more room when we move to our new quarters, though goodness knows when that will be.”

      They descended a few more steps, then Locke said, “A site has been procured, at St George’s Field. Plans have been agreed, though there’s been some doubt about the funding. You may have seen the subscription campaign for donations in The Times? Ah, well, no matter. Unfortunately, attention has been diverted to the New Bethlem very much at the expense of the old one. We have been abandoned, Officer Hawkwood. Some might even say betrayed. Which accounts for the deplorable state of repairs you see before you.”

      They reached the bottom of the stairs. A few of the keepers nodded as the apothecary passed. Most of them ignored him and continued to swab the floor.

      “I’ve a hundred and twenty patients in my care, male and female, and less than thirty unskilled staff to tend them. That includes attendants, maidservants, cooks, washerwomen and gardeners – though God knows there’s scant need for their services. I’m required to sleep on the premises and to make rounds every morning, dispense advice and medicines and direct the keepers in the management of the patients. Note that I said ‘direct’, Officer Hawkwood. I have no authority over them, save in the supervision of their daily schedule. I’m not permitted to dismiss or even discipline the keepers, despite the fact that many of them are frequently the worse for drink. My complaints continue to fall on deaf ears. Wait, did I say ‘deaf’? Absent would be a better word.”

      They had left the rattle of mops and pails behind them. The damp smell, however, seemed to follow them along the corridor.

      The apothecary’s nose twitched. “Is this your first visit, Officer Hawkwood?”

      Admitting that it was, Hawkwood wondered where the question was leading.

      “And what was the first thing that struck you when you walked through the door? I beg you to be truthful.” As he spoke, the apothecary sidestepped nimbly around a puddle.

      “The smell,” Hawkwood said, without hesitation.

      The apothecary stopped and turned to face him. “Indeed, Officer Hawkwood, the smell. The place reeks. It reeks of four centuries of human excreta. Bethlem is a midden; it’s where London discharges its waste matter. This is the city’s dung heap and it has become my onerous duty to ensure that the reek is contained.”

      Hawkwood knew it was going to be bad. He’d seen it in the pallor on Locke’s face, in the expression of dread in the young apothecary’s eyes, in the quickening of his breath and the faint yet distinct tremor in Leech’s hand as the keeper had unlocked the door.

      The window shutters were open but, as the morning sky was overcast, the room was suffused in a spectral half-light. When he entered, Hawkwood felt as if all the warmth had been sucked from his body. He wondered whether that was due to the temperature or his growing feeling of unease. He’d seen death many times. He’d witnessed it taking place and had visited it upon his enemies, both on the battlefield and elsewhere, and yet, as soon as his eyes took in his surroundings, he knew this was going to be different to anything he had experienced.

      He heard the apothecary murmur instructions to Attendant Leech, who began to move around the room lighting candle stubs. Gradually, the shadows started to retreat and the cell’s layout began to take form, as did its contents.

      It was not one room, Hawkwood saw, but two, separated by a low archway, as if two adjoining cells had been turned into one by removing a section of the intervening wall. Even so, with its cold stone floor and dark, dripping walls, the cell resembled a castle dungeon more than a hospital room. Hawkwood recalled a recent investigation into a forgery case which had taken him to Newgate to interview an inmate. The gaol was a black-hearted, festering sore. The cells there had been dank hellholes. The design of this place, he realized, looked very similar, even down to the bars on the windows.

      In the immediate area, there were a few СКАЧАТЬ