Resurrectionist

Resurrectionist
James McGee

Hawkwood, the Regency James Bond, returns in this gripping, action packed sequel to the bestselling ‘Ratcatcher’.Matthew Hawkwood. Soldier, spy, lover – a man as dangerous as the criminals he hunts.The tough Bow Street Runner is back where he's not wanted, in the most forbidding places London has to offer: its graveyards and the rank, sinister halls of Bedlam, the country’s most notorious lunatic asylum.There are missing bodies all around – dead and alive. 'Resurrection men' serve the demands of the city's surgeons by stealing corpses – and creating a few of their own along the way.Far more worrying is the escape from Bedlam of a very unusual inmate: one Colonel Titus Xavier Hyde, an obsessive, gifted surgeon whose insanity is only matched by his dark intelligence. And this twisted genius has a point to prove. Which will mean plenty more work for the gravediggers…

JAMES McGEE

Resurrectionist

CONTENTS

Cover (#u4775e87f-636d-5072-bee2-bcd5eed87152)

Title Page (#u59d50f74-4cbf-5a3b-aa31-a4442ddf9a87)

Prologue (#u18fd368c-dea6-592f-88e2-121c37c4c8a8)

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Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_219f8086-8770-5dc1-9993-2cf3e00d89cc)

When he heard the sobbing, Attendant Mordecai Leech’s first thought was that it was probably the wind trying to burrow its way under the eaves. On a night such as this, with rain lashing the windows like grapeshot, it was not an unusual occurrence; the vast building was old and draughty and had been condemned years ago. Only as Leech turned the corner at the foot of the broad stairway leading to the first floor, candle held aloft, did he realize that the weeping was not emanating from outside the building but from one of the galleries on the landing above him.

The galleries were long with high, arched ceilings and sound had a tendency to travel, so it was hard to tell the exact source of the distress, or even whether the sufferer was male or female.

Probably the bloody American, Norris, Leech thought, as another low moan drifted down the stairwell. It was followed by a long-drawn-out howl, like that made by a small dog. Judging from the intensity of the ululation, it sounded as if the poor bastard was in mortal torment, in the throes of another of his regular nightmares. But then, Leech reflected in a rare moment of compassion, if I were chained to the bloody wall by my neck and ankles, I’d probably be suffering bad dreams too.

The howl gave way to a keening wail and Leech cursed under his breath. The ruckus was liable to disturb the wing’s other inhabitants, and once they’d picked up the din and joined in it would sound like feeding time at the Tower menagerie, which was a guarantee that no one would get a wink of sleep. God rot the mad bastard!

Reluctantly, Leech prepared to mount the stairs, only to be startled by the harsh jangle of a bell. Suddenly he remembered that was why he’d come downstairs in the first place – in answer to a summons from someone outside, requesting admittance. Leech reached into his jacket pocket and consulted his watch. It was a little after ten o’clock. He didn’t need to look through the inspection hatch to see who it was.

As he was reaching for the bolts on the inside of the door, Leech noticed that the wailing had stopped. It was as if the sound of the bell had triggered the silence. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it would be a quiet night after all.

The door swung inwards to reveal a slender figure dressed in a black, rain-sodden cloak and wide-brimmed hat, dripping with water. A woollen scarf, wrapped round the visitor’s neck and lower face as a protection against the inclement weather, hid his features.

Leech stood aside to let the man enter. “Ev’ning, Reverend,” he whispered. “I was wondering if the bloody rain would keep you away. Beggin’ your pardon,” Leech added hurriedly. His voice remained low, as if he was afraid he might be overheard. Members of the clergy were not welcome here. That was the rule, by order of the governors.

The clergyman untied his scarf, revealing his clerical collar, and lifted his head. “I was detained; a burial service for one of my parishioners and a host of other duties, I’m afraid.”

In raising his head and thus elevating the brim of his hat, the clergyman’s countenance was revealed. It was neither a young nor an old face. But there was wisdom there, in the eyes and the crow’s feet and the deep furrows etched into the cheeks and forehead. There were several scars, too, along the jawline: small and round, hinting at a brush with some variation of the pox. High along the priest’s right cheekbone what looked suspiciously like a wound from a blade had created a shallow runnel.

Leech had often wondered about the scar and the priest’s background, but he had been too wary to ask the man directly and no one he had mentioned it to knew the circumstances of the disfigurement; or, if they did know, they chose not to impart information on the subject. So Leech remained ignorant and more than a mite curious.

The priest removed his hat and cloak and shook them to expel the rain. “How is he?”

Leech shrugged. “Wouldn’t know, Reverend. I don’t have a lot to do with ’im. You probably see more of ’im than I do. I make sure ’is door’s bolted and that he gets ’is victuals, an’ that’s as much as I ’as to do with it. An’ that suits me just fine. Anything else, you’d be better askin’ the apothecary. How long’s it been since you’ve seen ’im?”

“We played our last game a week ago. I was soundly beaten, I’m afraid. His command of strategy is quite formidable and, alas, I was rather a poor adversary. However, he was exceedingly magnanimous in victory.” The priest patted Leech’s arm. “Let us hope this evening’s contest proves more rewarding.”

Another low moan drifted down from on high and the keeper tensed. “Buggeration. Er … sorry, Reverend.”

The slam of a metal door from deeper inside the building echoed through the darkened wing. It was followed by the sound of heavy footsteps and an angry warning. “God damn it, Norris! If you don’t keep it down, I’ll be in there tightening the bloody screws!”