Resurrectionist

It looked like a piece of furniture, a large box with a set of four large organ pipes protruding from the top. On the left-hand side stood three barrels which were connected to the box by flexible hoses resembling the tentacles of some strange sea monster. Seated in front of the mechanism was the figure of a man. His arms were manipulating two huge levers. Three other human figures were also shown, one standing, the other two lying down. Each one appeared to be transfixed by what looked to be a beam of light radiating from the device. The drawing, like the other two, had been very skilfully fashioned. Each component of the device had been designated a letter of the alphabet. The key to the letters was written in a neat copperplate.

“What are these?” Hawkwood pointed at the beams, which were tinted a pale yellowish-green.

“Magnetic rays. They are controlled by the man you see seated at those levers. He is using the beams to manipulate the thoughts of his victims.”

“And he really believes all this?” The whole thing was preposterous, Hawkwood thought.

“Most assuredly, and yet this is the same man who produced these splendid architectural drawings. If you knew nothing of Matthews’ circumstances, and someone else had shown you these plans, I’d wager that you’d never for one moment suspect the artist was of unsound mind. Am I right?”

Hawkwood stared down at the designs. There was little else he could do except agree.

“You understand what I am saying?” Locke said.

“I think you’re telling me,” Hawkwood said, “that, unless you happen to know the colonel’s history, to look at him there’s no way to tell that he’s mad.”

Locke nodded. “Essentially, yes. He can formulate ideas and arguments, but in his case it’s as though – how can I put it? – his thoughts and feelings, even his memories, have been taken over by an outside force. To the colonel, it would be as though messages are being forced into his brain.”

Hawkwood hesitated, trying to grasp the implications. “Messages? You mean he thinks people are talking to him, telling him to do things? Like … what? Voices in his head?” Even as he posed the question, he thought the idea sounded ludicrous, but to his surprise the apothecary nodded.

“And these … voices … told him to murder the priest?”

Locke made a face. “A simplification, but, yes, I do believe that might account for his actions. Not unlike Matthews and his revolutionaries.”

“Tell me about the priest,” Hawkwood said.

The apothecary’s face seemed to sag. He suddenly looked older than his years. “There you have me. The Reverend Tombs was here because I chose to disregard the hospital’s regulations.” He looked up. “Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

“What are you telling me, Doctor?”

Locke sighed. “A hundred years ago, the superintendent thought it would be a good idea if visiting days were introduced, allowing the public to interact with patients. The scheme proved very popular. The crowds flocked, the patients flourished. But then the gawkers began to arrive, and with the gawkers came the pedlars and the pickpockets and the pulpit bashers, not to mention the doxies. Come to Bedlam, pay tuppence and watch the lunatics perform. What fun! It wasn’t long before Bethlem became just another attraction, like the Tower and the Abbey. So, the visits were stopped. No more sightseers, no more pedlars, and no more preachers. It was the governors’ fear that their sermons were as likely to inflame the patients as pacify them.”

“But you didn’t agree?”

Locke steepled his fingers. “On the contrary. At the time, they were probably right. It’s hard enough trying to keep the poor devils quiet as it is, without having some irate Wesleyan ranting up and down the corridors. But there are preachers and there are preachers. I am not a particularly God-fearing man, Officer Hawkwood, but I’m quite prepared to believe in the efficacy of prayer and contemplation as a means of calming the fevered mind. Not that it works in every case, of course. But, in certain instances, I would consider the taking of counsel to be very therapeutic. And they do say, after all, that confession is good for the soul, do they not?”

“They might also say that ten o’clock at night was an odd time to be hearing someone’s confession.”

The apothecary flattened his palms on the desk. “The governors’ ruling still applies. Although I personally saw no harm in the Reverend Tombs’s visits, I felt that a certain amount of discretion was advisable. At that time of night there are fewer staff around, not so many eyes to see or mouths to spread idle tittle-tattle. Though I understand that on this occasion Reverend Tombs was a little later than he had intended. He told Attendant Leech he’d been attending to parish matters. A burial, I believe it was.”

“His parish is St Mary’s, correct?”

The apothecary nodded.

“We dispatched constables to his house,” Hawkwood said. “Not that it’s done any good, seeing as we sent them after the wrong bloody man.” Hawkwood paused to let the point sink in. “Which prompts me to ask you how the two of them came together in the first place. How did they meet?”

“It was purely by chance. We had an application, about a year and a half ago, to admit a patient who was suffering from the most distressing and quite violent fits. His family arranged his admittance, as they were no longer able to cope with his condition. They were fearful the poor devil would harm his children. The commissioners accepted the petition and we took him in. He was later transferred to our incurable department. Sadly, his condition continued to deteriorate. When it became clear there was no further hope, the family asked that he might receive visits from the Reverend Tombs. The patient had been one of his parishioners and it was hoped that, in his final days, he might derive some comfort from the reverend’s presence. I took it upon myself to arrange for the Reverend Tombs to visit him. I do believe it helped. Towards the end, there were moments when he was able to converse in quite lucid terms and bid his family goodbye. It was a very sad case for all concerned. The patient, incidentally, was a former soldier, an infantryman who’d fought in the Peninsula. It was my suspicion that his condition also harked back to his time on the battlefield. Not that it could be proved, of course, though Crowther’s examination of his brain did at least confirm it had suffered morbid damage.”

“You examined his brain?”

The apothecary blanched and said hurriedly, “Not I, Crowther. At least we can be thankful that the man was sober on that occasion. He –”

“I don’t care who wielded the damned knife, Doctor. You’re telling me the hospital cuts open its dead patients?”

“Not all of them.”

Not all of them. Good Christ, Hawkwood thought. What sort of place is this?

“You look shocked, Officer Hawkwood,” Locke said, his composure restored. “Dissections are a necessary procedure if we are to advance our knowledge. As I’ve told you, I believe there’s a direct correlation between diseases of the brain and madness. My own research has convinced me, for example, that the lateral ventricles in the brain are greater in maniacs than those who are sane. I –”

“I’m sure that comes as a comfort to the grieving widows,” Hawkwood growled, not having the slightest clue what the apothecary was talking about and unable to keep the bite from his voice. “You were telling me about the Reverend Tombs.”

For a moment it appeared the apothecary was about to attempt further justification for his argument, but Hawkwood’s demeanour obviously made him reconsider. Clearly the Runner was in no mood to engage in a bracing discussion about ethics.

“Indeed,” said Locke. “I understand the colonel heard of the Reverend Tombs’s visits from one of the keepers, a passing reference perhaps and mention made that the patient had been a military man like himself. Whatever the circumstances, I do recall that after some consideration I decided there’d be little harm if the Reverend Tombs were to accept Colonel Hyde’s request to call upon him. That would have been about six months ago. Since then the reverend has been a regular visitor to his room, usually once a week.”

“So the priest was here to hear the colonel’s confession?”

The apothecary shook his head. “You misinterpret the situation. Besides, Reverend Tombs was an Anglican. No, although on this latter occasion he was here to play chess, I’m sure their conversations touched upon a variety of topics: medicine, philosophy, history, the war …” The apothecary frowned and added pointedly, “I did not place my ear against the door.”

“Did they ever tell you what they talked about?”

The apothecary shrugged. “Only in the most general terms.”

“So you weren’t aware of any recent disagreement the two of them might have had?”

Locke pursed his lips. “No, not at all. As far as I was aware they always parted on the best of terms.”

There were plenty of men who’d come to blows over a game of hazard, Hawkwood mused. Why not chess? But even as the notion entered his mind, he dismissed it as so unlikely, it bordered on the ridiculous.

“What about the colonel’s mood? Did you notice any changes recently?” Even as he posed the question, he was reminded that the colonel had been diagnosed as incurably mad. The man had probably suffered more mood changes than there were fleas on a dog. How could anyone, even a mad-doctor, differentiate one from the other?

But Locke shook his head. “None. There was nothing in his manner to suggest his state of mind had been … transformed in any way. In any case, the colonel was never one to display emotion. Indeed, that was one of his characteristics. In many respects it made him an ideal patient. His demeanour was always calm, one might even say tranquil, accepting of his lot, if you will. You’ve seen his room. It was a place of order, of study and contemplation.”

Hawkwood considered the implications. If there had been no obvious disagreement or falling out between the two of them and the colonel had displayed no startling changes of personality, that left … what? He needed more information; a lot more.

“I want to see your admission documents on Colonel Hyde,” Hawkwood said. “And I need a description. We know what he was wearing when he left, but we need to know the rest – his height, hair colour and so forth – if we’re to hunt him down.”

“Very well.” The apothecary paused before continuing. “I can tell you that Colonel Hyde is forty-nine years of age. His hair is still dark, though it is receding and he has some grey around the temples. He is of slender but not slight build and he has a military bearing which can make him look taller. If truth were told, his physique is not dissimilar to that of the unfortunate Reverend Tombs.”

How convenient, Hawkwood thought. “Other than his madness, is he well … physically?”

Locke blinked, as if the question had been unexpected. “Indeed he is. The colonel enjoys excellent health. In fact, he made a point of maintaining his physical condition through a routine of daily exercises. I recall it was the cause of some amusement among the staff.”

Hawkwood frowned. “What sort of exercises?”

“He told me once that he learned them from his regimental fencing master. I believe that, during his military service, the colonel was considered an excellent swordsman.”

“Scalpels and sabres,” Hawkwood said. “My, my.”