The Reckoning

“There was nothing anyone could have done,” Hawkwood said. “He was insane and he was clever. And now he’s dead and the world’s the better for it.”

“According to the newspapers, he died while resisting arrest.”

“Yes,” Hawkwood said.

After I ran the bastard through.

He found that Locke was regarding him closely. When he’d first called upon the apothecary, Hawkwood had thought Locke to be nothing more than a lickspittle, a petty official harbouring resentment towards his superiors for having left him in sole charge of a shambles of a hospital and a largely incompetent and uncaring workforce. Subsequent events had altered Hawkwood’s perception of the man, for it had been Locke’s knowledge of his former patient’s mental condition that had enabled Hawkwood to eventually track down the lunatic Colonel Hyde, and dispatch him to a place where he was no longer a threat to humanity: to wit, the fires of hell and damnation. A rapier thrust had been the method of execution, though that was just one of many details that had been omitted from the official report.

“So,” the apothecary prompted as his gaze fell away. “How may I be of service?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Hawkwood said, “and I need your advice in narrowing my search.”

Locke frowned. “Really? How so?”

“I’m investigating a murder.”

Taken aback, Locke’s eyes widened.

“A woman’s been killed. At the moment, she’s nameless.”

Locke blinked. “And what? You think she may have a connection with the hospital; a former patient, perhaps?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Locke looked even more nonplussed. “Then, forgive me, but why …?”

“The circumstances of her death are … unusual.”

The apothecary opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it abruptly. Clearly confused, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “We should make ourselves more comfortable.” Returning to his former position behind the desk, he settled himself and said, “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Locke remained silent as Hawkwood related the circumstances surrounding the finding of the body and its delivery to Quill’s necropsy room. When it came to a description of the mutilations that had been performed upon the corpse, the apothecary’s head lifted and he sat back. Taking out his handkerchief, he removed his spectacles and began to clean the lenses, his face still; his movements slow and deliberate.

Hawkwood waited. Several seconds passed before Locke tucked the handkerchief away and used both hands to position his spectacles back on the bridge of his nose. Blinking, he searched Hawkwood’s face. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll help me,” Hawkwood said.

“But of course. I’ll assist in any way I can, though I’m not sure how. What do you require?”

“When we were dealing with Hyde, I asked you what circumstances might have driven him to commit murder.”

Locke nodded. “I remember.”

“I’m hoping you can do the same again. I need to know what sort of person I’m looking for this time. I’m assuming it’s a ‘he’. If you can give me some idea of what might be going through the bastard’s mind, then maybe I can use the information to hunt him down.”

“Hunt?” Locke said cautiously. “You make him sound like some kind of wild animal.”

“He killed a woman and carved a word into her flesh. How would you describe him?”

Locke blinked. “From what I know, animals usually have a valid reason for killing: to survive; to acquire food or a mate; to establish their territory; or to protect their offspring. I think you’ll find that men kill for a far greater variety of reasons, most of them trivial – excluding war, of course … though even then, I wouldn’t swear to it.” Tilting his head, Locke fixed Hawkwood with a pointed look. “But I suspect that is something you are well aware of.”

The apothecary knew that Hawkwood had served as an officer in the Rifles and was, therefore, intimately familiar with the horrors of the battlefield.

“I was a soldier. It wasn’t my place to question the why. My duty was to take care of the how and the when.” Hawkwood smiled thinly at Locke’s bemused expression. “Forgive me; I had a similar conversation recently with the Coroner’s surgeon.”

Locke said nothing.

“With Hyde,” Hawkwood said, “I was sure we were dealing with a madman because he’d been locked up in this place, but you convinced me it wasn’t that simple. For a start, even though he was a patient here, Hyde did not consider himself to be mad.”

Locke spread his hands. “That is the nature of the sickness. I told you at the time, while other doctors consider madness to be a spiritual malaise, I believe it to be a physical disease, an organic disorder within the brain. It can affect anyone, from a soldier to a surgeon, from a kitchen maid to a—”

“King?” Hawkwood finished.

“Indeed.” Locke smiled faintly. “And while their behaviour may be unfathomable to others, within their own minds, they are being perfectly rational.”

“And Hyde didn’t think of himself as either sane or insane, because that was the nature of his delusion.”

“Correct.”

“When I asked you what made Hyde commit murder, you told me it was necessary to know how his delusion arose in the first place.”

“But of course. Without knowledge of a person’s history there is no way of determining what makes them commit irrational acts, which is why I’m unable to provide you with the information you require. You forget; Hyde was already known to us. We had both his medical and his army records, thus we were able to chart the course of his delusions. His crimes were not committed in isolation. They were part of a natural progression, stemming from his experiences during the war. There was a purpose to his actions; validity, if you will; at least in his mind. With regards to the individual you are now seeking, we have no point of reference, therefore I have nothing to chart.”

“We have caritas,” Hawkwood said, clutching at his remaining straw. “Does that tell us anything?”

Locke considered the question. “It implies the author is an educated man.”

“And?”

“His education may prompt him to believe he is of a superior intellect to those around him, which could mean he holds a position of authority. Alternatively, he could occupy a more modest position but believes he has been held back by those above him who, in his opinion, are his inferiors. Jealousy turns to resentment. Resentment turns to anger, anger to rage …”

“And rage to murder,” Hawkwood said softly.

“A simplistic rendering, but yes. Though, murder is not always born of anger. It is also an illustration of the control one person wields over another; a way of the killer showing that he has the power over life and death.”

“Like Hyde?”

The apothecary nodded. “Like Colonel Hyde. He decides who lives and who dies. In his own mind, he is the one before whom all others should bow down.”

“You’re not telling me he thinks he’s God?”

As Hawkwood absorbed that thought, Locke said, “Clearly, the word caritas holds a particular significance.”

“You mean why not ‘whore’ or ‘Jezebel’,” Hawkwood said.

Locke made a face. “Perhaps we should be thankful for small mercies. If I remember my scriptures, Jezebel was consumed by a pack of stray dogs. Had your murderer chosen that as his means of disposal, I doubt she’d have been found at all.”

Hawkwood was digesting that morbid titbit and wondering if it was the apothecary’s attempt at wit when Locke said, “From your description of the wounds, he is clearly prone to rage; yet methodical, too; capable of deliberation.”