The Reckoning

“You really do end up with the most interesting ones, don’t you?” Quill murmured.

“It’s a curse,” Hawkwood said as he turned to go.

Quill smiled grimly. “You should have my job.”

“I’m sorry, but can you explain to me again why this is Bow Street’s case,” Hawkwood said, “and not the Garden’s?”

The “Garden” was Hatton Garden. St George the Martyr’s burying ground fell within the Hatton Garden Public Office’s area of jurisdiction, though only by the width of a few streets.

Chief Magistrate James Read turned away from the rain-spattered window, clasped his hands behind his back and raised his coat-tails to the fire. Late middle-aged and trimly built, with aquiline features and swept-back silver hair, the magistrate’s fastidious appearance exuded quiet authority. If he was irritated by the lack of grace in Hawkwood’s enquiry, he gave no outward sign.

“It was at Hatton Garden’s request.”

“Request?” Hawkwood said cautiously.

“For assistance; from Magistrate Turton.”

“Magistrate Turton has his own Principal Officers,” Hawkwood said, still unconvinced. “Why does he need us?”

“It would appear he has a shortage.”

“Of Principal Officers.”

“Correct,” Read said patiently. “He has six at his disposal. Four are engaged in investigations of their own and thus cannot be spared. The other two are confined to their beds because of illness; hence the request. And before you say anything, I confess that I, too, was somewhat surprised. However, as we are on Magistrate Turton’s doorstep, I saw no reason why we could not offer him assistance, on this occasion.”

Excluding Bow Street, there were seven other Public Offices located across the metropolis. Autonomous save in matters of staffing and the setting of annual budgets – for which the Home Department was responsible – each one operated independently from its neighbours. So much so, that it was almost a point of honour for offices not to exchange information. Requests for help, therefore, were rare. Requests for help from Bow Street were exceedingly rare.

“Besides,” Read continued, “an initiative has been issued; from the Home Department, from Mr Callum Day, the official conduit between this office and Whitehall.”

Hawkwood groaned inwardly. He’d never met Day, but the last time the Home Department had used its initiative, he’d ended up in France and, as a consequence, the other side of the Atlantic, an endeavour from which he was still smarting.

Leaving the fire and returning to his desk, the Chief Magistrate took his seat. “It has long been felt among certain circles that the fight against the criminal element would be better served if there was more cooperation between the Public Offices.”

James Read smiled thinly at Hawkwood’s less than overjoyed expression. “I can tell what you’re thinking. Nevertheless, I’m inclined to agree that there is merit in the idea and, in times of adversity, I see no reason why the parishes should not combine their resources. We are, in case you’ve forgotten, supposed to be on the same side.”

Read’s eyes flickered to the paperwork on his desk. One of the communiqués, Hawkwood saw, was affixed with a broken wax seal, upon which the indentation of the Home Minister’s office was plainly visible.

“Also …” Read said, “… it will give you something to do after your adventures abroad.”

Placing the Home Department correspondence to one side, the Chief Magistrate looked up. “And now that your curiosity has been satisfied, what can you tell me – besides the fact that we have a body … in a grave?”

Ignoring the Chief Magistrate’s mordant comment, Hawkwood nodded. “The burial plot was adjacent to the Foundling Hospital. I thought it might be a child, a cast-off.”

“But it wasn’t and you have another theory?”

“In as much as it’s not a child but a woman. Surgeon Quill and I think she may have been a working girl.”

Read frowned and listened as Hawkwood described the tattoo.

“You’re suggesting that if we can identify the victim through the ink-work, we may have a lead to her killer?”

“Yes.”

Lowering his forearms on to his desk, his fingers still laced, Read appeared sceptical. “If she is a working girl, I put it to you that you’ll have more than a lead, you’ll likely have scores of them.”

“There is that,” Hawkwood admitted.

“You have a means of establishing her identity?”

“I’m working on it.”

Read looked thoughtful.

Hawkwood recognized the look. “Sir?”

Read let out a sigh. “Murder’s a foul business, though, sadly, a far from uncommon occurrence, especially among the more – how shall I put it? – socially disadvantaged. And our resources are not infinite. Truth be told, they are anything but. So, given what we know, this could be a fruitless exercise. While the young woman’s death is undoubtedly a heinous crime, if I were to assign an officer of your experience to the case for a significant length of time it would seriously deplete our own resources. In short, therefore, while I’m willing for this office to render assistance to Magistrate Turton, I do not intend it to become our life’s work. It will be for a few days at the most. So use them well. I take it your strategy is to cultivate your informers who have access to the more shadowy areas of our city?”

He means Jago.

“It is.”

“Very well. But if nothing is forthcoming after what I consider to be an appropriate period, know that I will reassign you to more pressing duties and a lower-ranked officer will be delegated to continue the enquiry; that is, if Magistrate Turton remains short-staffed. Young Hopkins is proving to be a most capable individual and has, in fact, expressed a desire to become a Principal Officer. It would be a shame to discourage him from pursuing that ambition.”

“Indeed it would, sir.”

Hawkwood was rewarded with a sharp look. Then the Chief Magistrate nodded. “Keep me informed and do try not to tread on too many toes.”

“I’ll do my best.”

But if all else fails …

Reaching the door, he was about to let himself out when Read’s voice sounded again.

“Officer Hawkwood.”

Hawkwood turned.

“Regarding Surgeon Quill; I assume it was on your authority that the body was delivered to his dead house?”

“It was.”

“Rather presumptuous, was it not? You do know there are coroners and rules governing investigations into wrongful deaths?”

“I’ve always thought of them more as a set of recommendations than hard rules.”

The Chief Magistrate fixed Hawkwood with a flinty gaze. “Only when they suit you, you mean.”

“I used my judgement. If we’d gone by the book, by the time we’d found a coroner willing to drag himself from his bed, there would have been two bodies in the pit. There’s nothing worse than a confused coroner, sir. Take it from me.”