Resurrectionist. James McGee

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      Hawkwood examined the corpse. The clothes were still damp, presumably from last night’s rain, so it had been up there a while. It was male, although that had been obvious from the outset. Not an old man but not a boy either; probably in his early twenties, a working man. Hawkwood could tell that by the hands, despite the recent mauling they had received from the shovels. He could tell from the calluses around the tips of the fingers and from the scar tissue across the knuckles; someone who’d been in the fight game, perhaps. It was a thought.

      “Anyone recognize him?” Hawkwood asked.

      No answer. Hawkwood looked up, saw their expressions. There were no nods, no shakes of the head either. He looked from one to the other. No reaction from the verger, just a numbness in his gaze, but he saw what might have been a shadow move in gravedigger Hicks’ eye. A flicker, barely perceptible; a trick of the light, perhaps?

      Hawkwood considered the significance of that, placed it in a corner of his mind, and resumed his study.

      At least the manner of death was beyond doubt: a broken neck.

      Hawkwood loosened the noose and removed the rope from around the dead man’s throat. He stared at the necklace of bruises that mottled the cold flesh of the victim’s neck before turning his attention to the rope knot. Very neat, a professional job. Whoever had strung the poor bastard up had shown a working knowledge of the hangman’s tool. In a movement unseen by the verger and the gravediggers, Hawkwood lifted a hand to his own throat. The dark ring of bruising below his jawline lay concealed beneath his collar. He felt the familiar, momentary flash of dark memory, swiftly subdued. Odd, he thought, how things come to pass.

      Placing the rope to one side and knowing it was a futile gesture, Hawkwood searched the cadaver’s pockets. As he had expected, they were empty. He took a closer look at the stains on the dead man’s jacket. The corpse’s clothing bore the evidence of both the previous night’s storm as well as the brutal manner of death. The back of the jacket and breeches had borne the brunt of the damage, caused, Hawkwood surmised, by contact with the tree trunk as the victim was hoisted aloft. He had already seen the slice marks in the bark made by the dead man’s boot heels as he had kicked and fought for air.

      There were other stains, too, he noticed, on the front of the jacket and the shirt beneath. He traced the marks with his fingertip and rubbed the residue across the ball of his thumb.

      Hawkwood examined the face. There was congealed blood around the lips. Had the rooks feasted there, too?

      Hawkwood reached a hand into the top of his right boot and took out his knife. Behind him, the verger drew breath. One of the gravediggers swore as Hawkwood inserted the blade of the knife between the corpse’s lips. Gripping the dead man’s chin with his left hand, Hawkwood used the knife to prise open the jaws. He knelt close and peered into the victim’s mouth.

      The teeth and tongue had been removed.

      The extraction had been performed with a great deal of force. The ravaged, blood-encrusted gums told their own story. Hawkwood could see that a section of the lower jawbone, long enough to contain perhaps half a dozen teeth, was also missing. A bradawl had been used for the single teeth, Hawkwood suspected, and probably a hammer and small chisel for the rest. Hard to tell what might have been used to sever the tongue; a razor, perhaps.

      The verger’s hand flew to his lips, as if seeking reassurance that his own tongue was still in situ. He stared at Hawkwood aghast. “What does it mean? Why would they do such a thing?”

      Hawkwood wiped the blade on his sleeve and returned it to his boot. He looked down at the corpse. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

      The three men stared back at him.

      Hawkwood stood up and addressed the verger. “Your most recent burial – where was it?”

      Verger Symes looked momentarily confused at the sudden change of tack. His face lost even more colour. “Burial? Why, that would be … Mary Walker. Died of consumption. We buried her yesterday.” The verger glanced at the two gravediggers, as if seeking confirmation.

      It was the older man, Hicks, who nodded. “Four o’clock, it were, just afore the rain came.”

      “Where?” Hawkwood demanded.

      Hicks jerked a thumb. “Over yonder. Top o’ the pile, she was.”

      A sinking feeling began to stir in Hawkwood’s belly.

      “Show me.”

      The gravedigger led the way across the burial ground towards a large patch of shadow close to the boundary of the churchyard, and pointed to a dark rectangle of freshly turned soil.

      “How deep was she?” Hawkwood asked.

      The two gravediggers exchanged meaningful glances.

      Not deep enough, Hawkwood thought.

      “All right, let’s take a look.”

      The verger stared at Hawkwood in disbelief and horror.

      “I’d step away, if I were you, Verger Symes,” Hawkwood said. “You wouldn’t want to get your shoes dirty.”

      Blood drained from the verger’s face. “You cannot do this! I forbid it!”

      “Protest duly noted, Verger.” Hawkwood nodded at Hicks. “Start digging.”

      Hicks looked at his partner, who looked back at him and shrugged.

      The shovels bit into the soil in unison.

      At that moment Hawkwood knew what they would find. He could tell from the expressions on the faces of the gravediggers that they knew too. He had the feeling even Verger Symes, despite his protestation, wasn’t going to be surprised either.

      In the event it took less than six inches of topsoil and a dozen shovel loads to confirm it.

      There was a dull thud as a shovel struck wood. They used the edges of the shovels to scrape the soil away from the top of the coffin. What was immediately apparent was the jagged split in the wood halfway down the thin coffin lid.

      “Good God, have you no pity?” The verger made as if to place himself between Hawkwood and the open grave.

      “If I’m wrong, Verger Symes,” Hawkwood said, “I’ll buy your church a new roof. Now, stand aside.” He nodded to Hicks. “Open it up.”

      Hicks glanced at his partner, who looked equally uncomfortable.

      “Give me the bloody shovel,” Hawkwood held out his hand.

      Hicks hesitated, then passed it over.

      The three men watched as Hawkwood inserted the blade of the shovel under the widest end of the lid and pressed down hard. His effort met with little resistance. Other hands had already rendered the damage. The cheap lid splintered along the existing split with a drawn-out creak. Hawkwood handed the shovel back to its owner, gripped the edges of the shattered lid and lifted.

      The verger swallowed nervously.

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