Resurrectionist

by James McGee

“What do we do now?” Dawes asked nervously. Older than Hopkins, he was a lanky, unambitious man and had no intention of attempting anything remotely valiant.

  “You go round the back. See if there’s another door. If there is, you stand guard. I don’t want no heroics.”

  Rafferty turned to Hopkins.

  Earlier that morning, when he’d been told the name of the Runner assigned to the case, Rafferty had known his day was unlikely to be a happy one. Hawkwood. The name alone had been enough to cause palpitations. In Rafferty’s opinion, a harder bastard never drew breath. Just the thought of being confronted by those blue-grey eyes and having to admit that he’d been threatened and outwitted by a bloody vicar was enough to shrivel Rafferty’s balls to the size of redcurrants.

  However, if there was one maxim Rafferty lived by, it was that even middling rank had its privileges. Rafferty knew that, in sending Hopkins to track down Hawkwood at Bethlem rather than going himself, he was merely delaying the inevitable, but at least it gave him a little more breathing space. There was always the possibility that in between Hopkins’ departure and Hawkwood’s arrival, the vicar might see the error of his ways and surrender. Well, it was a church. Miracles could happen.

  No sooner had the two constables departed on their respective missions than another uncomfortable realization wormed its way into Rafferty’s sub-conscious: he needed to take a piss.

  Rafferty knew if he left his post and the vicar made a run for it, and got away, Hawkwood would have his guts – literally, if their previous run-in had been anything to go by.

  Rafferty eyed the church door. No voices could be heard, though he thought he detected scraping sounds, as if someone was dragging furniture across a stone floor. Rafferty tried peering in through one of the windows, but the lower sills were too high, even standing on tiptoe. In any case, the windows were composed of stained glass so viewing anything through them was impossible.

  The need to empty his bladder had suddenly become all-consuming. The Irishman eyed the nearest grave marker, a tall, moss-encrusted stone cross. Nothing else for it. He’d have to piss and keep an eye on the church at the same time.

  It was only as he was performing the act that he realized it wasn’t as easy to do both as he had first supposed. There was the danger that if he concentrated only on the door, he’d very likely end up watering his breeches. The irony of the situation was not lost on Rafferty. The thought occurred to him, as he let go over the base of the cross, that Hawkwood hadn’t yet arrived on the scene and here he was, already in danger of wetting himself.

  His bladder emptied, Rafferty, relieved in more ways than one that the tricky moment had passed without incident, prepared to do up his breeches.

  “Oi!”

  Caught, if not with his breeches down then certainly unbuttoned, Rafferty swung round, cock half in hand, heart fully in mouth. Stumping towards him was a small, round-shouldered, sour-faced man of about sixty, brandishing a long- handled hoe.

  “What’s your bleedin’ game?”

  Hastily, Rafferty shoved himself back in his breeches.

  “I asked what your game was,” the man snarled again. He lifted the hoe, holding it across his body like a quarter-staff.

  Modesty restored, Rafferty was wise enough to follow the old adage that attack was the best form of defence. “Police business. And who might you be?”

  “Quintus Pegg, and I’m the bleedin’ sexton, that’s who. An’ since when did police business give you the right to piss all over the bloody gravestones?” The hoe carrier nodded towards the dark tell-tale stains on the stonework at the foot of the cross and the thin wisps of steam rising up from the grass.

  Rafferty frowned at the unexpected and ferocious response. Avoiding the natural inclination to follow the sexton’s irate gaze, he drew himself up. “Sexton, is it? Well, cully, when I’m on police business, I’m thinking that I can piss just about anywhere I damned well choose and that includes down your neck, if I’ve a mind to. Now, is there a back door?”

  The sexton blinked at the change of subject. “What?”

  “You heard. The church; is there another door round the back?”

  The sexton looked confused. “Aye, course there is, but it’s locked an’ there ain’t no key. Why you askin’?”

  It explained why Dawes hadn’t returned, Rafferty thought. Having found another door, the poor bugger was probably soiling himself at the thought that someone might actually come through it. But at least he was staying at his post.

  “Sweet Mother –” Rafferty rolled his eyes at the sexton’s question. “Because the vicar’s locked himself inside, that’s why, and –”

  “Stupid bugger!” the sexton snorted.

  Cut off by the remark, Rafferty blinked. Then the thought struck him that Sexton Pegg, having no knowledge of that morning’s events, was assuming the vicar had locked himself in the church by accident.

  He was about to set the record straight when the sexton raised an eyebrow. “Who was it raised the alarm? Was it the wife?”

  “The wife?” Rafferty repeated. A dark thought beckoned.

  Unconcerned by the Irishman’s delayed response, Sexton Pegg nodded towards the house behind them. “She’s ’is ’ousekeeper. That’s why I ’appened along. I was away gettin’ this sharpened.” The sexton indicated the hoe. “Thought I might be back in time for a bite o’ breakfast. Mind you, she weren’t around earlier; probably at ’er sister’s place. Thick as two fleas, those two are. Spends more time with ’er than she does with me, moody cow.”

  Rafferty hesitated, though he knew the question had to be asked. “Your wife … what does the good lady look like?”

  The sexton sniffed and held his left hand up, palm down. “’Bout this tall, face like a shrew, nose you could pick a lock with.”

  Rafferty knew then, beyond any shadow of doubt, the identity of the woman in the church. He suspected that her current disposition was probably a long way from moody.

  “Why do you want to know?” the sexton asked, suddenly wary.

  Rafferty, irritated that the sexton seemed to be asking all the pertinent questions, told him.

  The sexton stared aghast at the sturdy wooden door. The hoe slid through his fingers. “Bleedin’ ’ell. What are we going to do?”

  We? Rafferty thought. Then he remembered that he was a police officer and therefore supposedly in charge of the situation.

  “We wait.”

  “Wait?” The sexton looked doubtful. “What for?”

  “Reinforcements,” Rafferty said sagely. “They’ve already been sent for.”

  Let Captain bloody Hawkwood sort this one out.

  Sexton Pegg didn’t look too convinced by the Irishman’s reply.

  “And ’ow long’s that goin’ to take?” The sexton nodded towards the church. “Can’t leave herself in there with ’im. You just told me ’e had a go at you, and you’re a bleeding police officer. There’s no knowin’ what he might do to ’er. What ’appens if ’e decides to ’ave ’is way with ’er?” The sexton, in contrast to his earlier uncharitable remarks, was now looking distinctly queasy at the prospect of his wife becoming the victim of a serious sexual assault by a vicar.

  Hell would probably freeze over first, Rafferty thought. He turned, only to discover that the sexton was no longer at his side. His ears picked up a thin, intermittent, trickling sound. He followed the source and found that the sexton had discarded the hoe and was busy relieving himself against the same tomb marker.

  Nerves, Rafferty supposed. He was about to pass a barbed comment, when the sexton lifted his nose and sniffed the air. “Can you smell that?”

  Rafferty threw the sexton a look.

  Sexton Pegg buttoned himself up and wiped his hands on his breeches. “No, not that. More like … something burning.”

  Both men turned towards the church. They were just in time to see the first bright tongues of flame rise into view behind the stained-glass windows.

  And the screaming b
egan again.

  They had left the hospital behind them and cut down along Little Bell Alley, which wasn’t so much an alley as a six-foot-wide, effluent-flooded, rat-infested passageway. They were attracting stares and catcalls as they ran, but Hopkins’ uniform was proving valuable in clearing a path, and the determined look on Hawkwood’s face as he pushed his way through made it clear to all that it would be unwise to try and impede their progress.

  Hawkwood was breathing hard. He was also wishing he hadn’t worn his riding coat. It was flapping like a cape and seemed to gain weight with every stride he took. Tradition had it that Runners had gained their sobriquet because of their fleetness of foot. Another half mile of this, Hawkwood thought, and they’ll be calling us Bow Street Crawlers. He wondered how Hopkins was faring. He could hear the constable’s boots pounding along the street alongside him.

  There was no immediate profit, Hawkwood knew, in telling Hopkins that the Reverend Tombs was dead and the man they were pursuing was in fact an inmate of the country’s most notorious lunatic asylum. The constable, Hawkwood recalled, was new to the job and looked excited enough as it was. There was such a thing as too much information. But the lad had stamina, that was for sure.

  Hopkins was thinking the same thing about Hawkwood, as he hastened to keep up.

  The constable had managed to avoid Hawkwood’s eye since leaving the hospital. He suspected that Hawkwood was aware of his nervousness and that only served to make him more jittery. He’d shot the Runner a few surreptitious glances along the way, taking in the severe features, the scar below the left eye and the ribbon-tied hair, and wondered how much of the captain’s fearsome reputation was fact and how much was hearsay.

  He’d heard that Hawkwood was a man who did not suffer fools gladly, so the last thing Hopkins wanted was to appear foolish, especially this early in his career. He’d also heard it whispered that Hawkwood lived by his own rules, with unique contacts within the criminal underworld. Hopkins wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, and he wasn’t about to ask, but it certainly added to the air of menace that seemed to attach itself to Hawkwood’s shadow. The mere mention of his name had been sufficient to drain the blood from Conductor Rafferty’s face when he learned the identity of the officer in charge of their assignment.

  In the short time he’d been attached to Bow Street, Hopkins had soon picked up on some of Conductor Rafferty’s less than enviable character traits, sloth and deviousness being the most prominent. Rafferty also liked to throw his weight around among the new recruits. Susceptibility to intimidation, therefore, was not one of his most obvious weaknesses. So Hopkins had been intrigued to discover what it was about Hawkwood that had Conductor Rafferty quaking in his pants.

  Now he knew.

  A thunderous rumble broke into the constable’s thoughts. He looked up, just in time to see the carriage bearing down on him. He leapt aside awkwardly, nearly losing his footing in the process. The horse’s heaving flank missed him by less than an inch as the carriage pummelled its way past, but he was too late to avoid the wave of water thrown up as the chaise’s wheels trundled heavily through one of the muddy puddles left by the night’s rain. The constable cursed as his breeches fell prey to the deluge. Recovering his balance and what remained of his dignity, the hapless and waterlogged constable hurried to make up ground.

  They were nearly there. Hawkwood could smell the river; a pungent mix of cordage, tar, wet mud, rotting fish and shit from the night-soil barges heading downstream. Calvert’s Brewery was less than a mile away and the smell of fermenting hops also hung heavily in the air. The locals, Hawkwood thought, would have no need to visit a tavern for their pleasure. Simply opening their windows and inhaling would have them intoxicated in no time.

  The streets were narrower here, and the buildings more decrepit. City commerce had given way to riverside industry, and instead of chaises and phaetons they found themselves dodging drays, barrows and handcarts as they raced towards the church.

  When his ears picked up the ringing of the bell, Hawkwood’s first thought was that it was coming from one of the merchant ships off-loading at a nearby wharf. It was only when the clanging tones intensified that he knew they were signalling an event far more urgent than a change of watch.

  And then he saw the smoke.

  Struck by a quickening sense of dread, Hawkwood lengthened his stride. He sensed Hopkins coming up behind him. The two men emerged from the alley simultaneously, and stopped dead.

  ‘Bloody hell!” Constable Hopkins stared wide-eyed at the scene, his soggy breeches forgotten.

  The church of St Mary’s was being consumed.

  The church was smaller than Hawkwood had expected; plain and rectangular in shape, with the bell tower at the northern end. He’d seen chapels that were more impressive. The outside walls looked relatively untouched, but the stained-glass windows, illuminated by a backcloth of dancing flames deep within the building, glowed like jewels. There was a series of splintering cracks like distant musket fire. Gathering onlookers cried out as rainbow-tinted shards of glass, forced from their frames by the heat, showered the ground like hailstones. Plumes of black smoke billowed from the newly ruptured panes, spiralling skywards as if seeking refuge in the grey clouds above. Small fiery eruptions, hesitant at first but quickly growing in confidence, leapt from the body of the church. Hawkwood watched as lizard tongues of flame began to lick the edges of the roof.

  At first glance the tower appeared as though it might be immune to the devastation being wrought below. Gradually, however, drifts of smoke could be seen issuing from the louvred window shutters at the tower’s summit. The building, its lead spire outlined against the sky, began to take on the appearance of a brightly lit altar candle. The bell continued to toll loudly, drowning the cries of alarm from the watching crowd.

  There was a sudden commotion at the entrance to a nearby alleyway. Half a dozen men jogged into view hauling a wooden cart. The fire brigade had arrived. Dutifully, the crowd parted to let them through. Bringing their contraption to a halt, the men stared balefully at the burning building. At first Hawkwood thought they were looking for the fire mark indicating the building was covered by the insurance company that employed them. If no plaque were visible, in all likelihood the brigade would return from whence they came. But the mark was displayed on the wall to the right of the door where the firemen could not help but see it. Hawkwood realized they had stopped because they were completely overawed. It wasn’t hard to see why. Their crude equipment was spectacularly inadequate for a blaze of this scale.

  Hawkwood spotted Rafferty hovering uneasily at the edge of the throng.

  Sensing someone observing him, the Irishman turned. Panic flared momentarily in his eyes as he watched Hawkwood’s approach.

  “What the devil happened here?” Hawkwood demanded.

  It was almost comical the way the Irishman shook his head, immediately defensive. “It weren’t me, Captain. Honest, I had nothing to do with it, swear to God. The parson locked himself inside the bloody place before we had a chance to stop him.”

  “He’s still in there?” Hawkwood stared aghast at the flames. Drifts of steam were now rising from the shallow guttering along the edges of the roof as rainwater, trapped in the aftermath of the night’s storm, was brought to boiling point by the fire below.

  Rafferty nodded uneasily.

  “Hopkins said there was a woman.”

  Rafferty raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

  “Has anyone tried to force an entry?”

  Rafferty certainly hadn’t but he wasn’t about to admit that to Hawkwood. Instead he nodded towards the tower. “He’s blocked the door, barricaded himself in. Mad bastard,” he added.

  If you only knew, Hawkwood thought.

  Hawkwood caught sight of a small, thin, poorly dressed man squatting on a nearby gravestone, holding his head in his hands.

  “The sexton,” Rafferty murmured, following the direction of his gaze. “It’s his wif
e what’s inside.”

  There was a shout. Grit and determination having triumphed over doubt, the fire fighters were attempting to unravel their hose. Hawkwood wondered why they were bothering. Even a blind man could see there was little hope. But the fire crew seemed intent on going through the ritual anyway.

  “Haven’t got a prayer,” Rafferty muttered. “Poor beggars.”

  For once Hawkwood was inclined to agree with him.

  Having unloaded their leather buckets from the wagon, the firemen ran to a horse trough by the alley entrance and began filling them at the pump. Two of the men armed themselves with axes. As if reading Hawkwood’s thoughts, one pulled a handkerchief from his shirt, soaked it in the water trough and tied it round the lower part of his face. Gripping his axe tightly, he headed for the church door. He was halfway there when he paused, frozen in mid stride, and looked up.

  It was then Hawkwood realized he could no longer hear the bell.

  The crowd had also fallen silent. All that could be heard was the crackle of the flames, followed by several sharper reports as more windowpanes cascaded on to the ground. The firemen were looking around them anxiously. Hawkwood knew they were worried in case the fire spread; if it did, they had no hope of controlling it. Fortunately, the church was isolated from its immediate neighbours by the graveyard. And in the event that a stray spark should be carried on the breeze, it would struggle to ignite timber still sodden from last night’s downpour.

  A high-pitched scream caught everyone by surprise. The crowd looked up, following the woman’s pointing finger. There was a collective gasp of horror.

  The louvred shutters at the top of the bell tower had been flung wide open. The figure of a man, dressed in the black robe of a priest, stood framed in the opening.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Conductor Rafferty crossed himself hurriedly.

  The fireman, en route to the church door, was transfixed by the sight. The axe slid through his fingers. As one, the crowd took an involuntary step backwards.

  Wreathed in smoke, the black-clad apparition turned its face to the sky. A tortured cry rose high above the crackle of the flames.