by James McGee
“Go on,” Hawkwood said.
“Field hospitals were set up in preparation – commandeered farms, schools, churches and so forth. You know how these things work. Colonel Hyde’s hospital was located in the monastery of San Miguel. It was on the outskirts of a village about four miles from the battlefield. It took a lot of the injured.”
Talavera had been a great victory though it had been far from clean cut. French losses had exceeded those of the British, yet Wellington’s forces had been reduced by a quarter.
“They hadn’t been there long when they had to begin the withdrawal.” McGrigor scowled.
Shortly after the battle, Wellington’s scouts advised him that Marshal Soult, the man who’d fled from Oporto, had reorganized his troops and descended on the British line of communications at Plasencia. With his Spanish allies unwilling to commit, his army reduced and supplies for an extended campaign dwindling, Wellington had been forced to retreat towards the Portuguese border. He’d set up camp at Badajoz.
“A lot of the wounded were left behind,” McGrigor said. “It was hoped the French would honour their side of the bargain. They damned nearly didn’t.”
James Read frowned. “What happened?”
“When the French moved up they took the hospitals, including the monastery …” McGrigor paused, collecting his thoughts. “There were several outhouses. When the French began their inventory they discovered that one of the more isolated buildings was a winery. Most of it had been destroyed by fire, but the reconnaissance patrol thought there might be a few bottles still intact, so they decided to explore. When they broke into the cellars, they discovered a room full of dead French soldiers. All the bodies, according to witnesses, showed signs of severe disfigurement …” Again McGrigor paused. “And it wasn’t from their battle wounds.”
Hawkwood glanced towards the Chief Magistrate. Read looked back at him, his expression still.
McGrigor continued: “They also found an assortment of preparations.”
“Preparations?” Hawkwood said.
“Specimens.”
Hawkwood wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, but he knew he had to ask the question. “Of what?”
“Body parts, bones, tissue, teeth – that sort of thing. Most of them were wet.”
“The place was flooded?”
McGrigor shook his head. “It’s a term anatomists use. Preparations are either wet or dry. Wet ones are preserved in solution – spirit of wine, usually; alcohol at any rate. It was a winery. There was a ready supply. Dry refers to muscles and organs that have been air-dried, usually by hanging. As I said, there weren’t as many of those.”
“Like curing game, what?” Ryder murmured to no one in particular. He had the grace to look shamefaced as soon as he’d said it.
“No,” McGrigor said coldly. “Not like that, at all.”
Ryder’s cheeks coloured.
“How do you know all this?” Read asked.
“Captain Grant’s agents intercepted French dispatches, including a report from a French surgeon who was called to examine the scene. From the state of the bodies, he concluded that someone had been trying to perform restorative surgery. One example was a cadaver with a severe sabre wound in its skull. A portion of bone from another skull had been fashioned to size and inserted into the wound. There was one soldier who’d suffered a serious wound to the face, including the loss of an ear. An attempt had been made to rebuild the face, using the skin and ear from another man’s corpse. Two of the bodies had burns to the legs …” The Surgeon-General glanced towards Hawkwood. “You recall the fires on the battlefield?”
Hawkwood nodded. It was the smell he remembered the most, like pork on a spit.
“The burnt sections of their skin had been removed and replaced with skin taken from other bodies. Some of the adjacent corpses were missing corresponding areas of skin. According to French military surgeons’ reports, it looked as though they’d been flayed.”
McGrigor shifted in his seat. “A number of graves were also discovered. They’d not been filled in properly. Most likely they’d been dug in haste. Upon examination, it was found that some of the interred bodies had been interfered with: organs removed, flesh excised, limbs severed … A lot of the missing organs matched the ones found in the preparation room in the cellar.”
There was a pause, and then McGrigor continued: “They also found … animal parts.”
“What?”
“One of the corpses had a bowel wound. Someone had tried to join the two segments of the bowel together using a section of windpipe from a goat.”
For a moment, Hawkwood thought he must have misheard. “Did you say a goat?”
“The goat’s trachea had been inserted into both ends of the bowel, which had then been drawn together over it. I’ve heard about it, but never seen it performed. They also found that a section of the goat’s intestines had been removed. The French surgeon’s report stated that it was most likely intended as some sort of a conduit and that Hyde had been attempting a transfusion of blood.”
“From a goat to a man?” Hawkwood stared at the Surgeon-General in disbelief.
“Good God, no!” McGrigor shook his head, but then, to Hawkwood’s astonishment, he said, “Although Denys and Lower carried out similar procedures using lamb’s blood.”
Hawkwood looked over towards the Chief Magistrate. James Read’s face was pale, as was the Home Secretary’s; though presumably the latter wasn’t hearing anything he didn’t already know.
McGrigor frowned. “I read the French surgeon’s report – fellow by the name of Lavalle. He said the corpses in the cellar were not the remains of men. They were monsters. He referred to the cellar as l’abattoir.”
The word hung in the air. No translation was necessary.
“You’re telling us,” Hawkwood said, “that Colonel Hyde carried out surgery on prisoners of war using body parts taken from the corpses of French soldiers, and animals?”
“That is what I am saying, yes. The report suggested that he had been trying to mend them, using flesh, bone and blood from their dead comrades.”
“And when he couldn’t mend them and he received his orders to withdraw, he left them to their fate,” Read said, staring balefully at McGrigor. “The fire and the graves were clearly a deliberate attempt to conceal the evidence of his activities.”
“At least we know where he got the notion to burn down the church,” Hawkwood said heavily. Then he caught the look on the Surgeon-General’s face. “What? You mean there’s more?”
McGrigor hesitated. He looked uncomfortable. “Lavalle’s report also hinted that some of the casualties’ wounds would not have been considered terminal.” McGrigor paused again to let his words sink in.
“You mean their deaths were induced in order to provide the body parts?”
McGrigor nodded.
“When you caught up with him, did he have anything to say for himself?”
McGrigor shrugged. “He was remarkably calm, philosophical almost; as if he’d been expecting it. He told us we’d never understand. He said there could be no barriers in science and medicine and that our minds were closed, and if surgery was ever to advance we should open ourselves to the endless possibilities that lay before us. He even had the nerve to quote Hunter at us. I remember it distinctly. He said it wasn’t enough for a surgeon to know the different parts of an animal, he should know their uses in the machine, and in what manner they act to produce their effect. You’ll note his use of the word ‘machine’.
“To add to our woes, we’d received a direct communication from the French Commander, Victor. He sent a courier under flag of truce. Threatened that if we didn’t hand over the man responsible, we couldn’t expect French surgeons to show any mercy to British casualties. Needless to say, the medical officers we’d left behind at Talavera had already been given a rough ride, though they’d sworn blind they had no idea it had been going on. It seemed that Hyde had managed to keep his experimentati
on secret. Don’t ask me how.
“We presumed he’d had some assistance, probably from the lower ranks. But with all the troop movements and with so many men spread over such a large area, it was impossible to pin anyone down. We knew all about the teeth being taken from the dead, but this was different, far worse.”
“Obviously you didn’t hand Hyde over,” Hawkwood said. “How did you answer the French demand?”
McGrigor made a face. “We knew we couldn’t dismiss it. Especially since one of the letters carried by the courier was a personal request from my opposite number, a fellow called Percy.
“It was clear that Colonel Hyde had become severely distracted, but we certainly weren’t prepared to surrender him. That was out of the question. Equally, it would have been impossible for him to remain. You know what the army’s like. If word got out that our surgeons were experimenting on the wounded, there’d be panic in the ranks. We couldn’t let that happen. Our only solution was to relieve Colonel Hyde of his duties and ship him back to England. Lord Wellington advised Percy that he had taken charge of the matter personally, and that the colonel was being transported home with all dispatch. He would be dealt with, and he would not return.”
“And the French accepted that?” Hawkwood said. He was unable to conceal his scepticism.
“Victor and Percy are, for the most part, honourable men. They understood that, if Lord Wellington gave his word, the British would not go back on it.”
“So he was brought back and admitted into Bedlam? Why not a military hospital?”
“We learned that the colonel had been corresponding with an old friend, Mr Eden Carslow, who had influence with the Bethlem board of governors. I, too, am acquainted with Mr Carslow. It seemed fitting, given his influence and our personal knowledge of Colonel Hyde, that Bethlem would be more suitable. So we arranged for his admission and guaranteed his bond.”
“On the Admittance Document you stated he was melancholic. He was a lot more than that, wasn’t he? He was as mad as a bloody mule.”
McGrigor spread his hands. “To be admitted to the hospital, a patient is diagnosed as either raving, mischievous, or melancholic. We did not consider Colonel Hyde to be raving. It was clear he was suffering from a severe form of distraction, an aberration, but he was certainly not violent. As for mischievous; you and I may view the colonel’s actions as horrific and by our own standards wholly unacceptable, but from my conversations with him, I think he believed, bizarrely, that he was engaged in legitimate surgery. Once he was removed from that world, there was no reason to suppose he’d be a risk, either to the staff or his fellow patients. He was calm and coherent at all times. We didn’t think him a threat to anyone.
“Also, we were rather anxious to keep the full details of the colonel’s activities in the shadows. The trust between the public and the medical establishment is uneasy at the best of times. The line between enlightenment and ethical considerations is a thin one. In many respects, the colonel was right when he said that people do not understand. Sometimes, and I speak bluntly, it pays to keep them in the dark.”
Hawkwood looked at Ryder. “If you didn’t think he was a threat, why did you write a personal letter to the governors, stating that he was to remain detained?”
Ryder stiffened. “We made an agreement with the French that the colonel would remain incarcerated for an indefinite period. The intention was to observe his condition on a regular basis. It was possible we could look forward to his eventual discharge and convalescence. The war was unlikely to last for ever, once we had Bonaparte on the run.”
“Pity the Reverend Tombs happened along then, wasn’t it?” Hawkwood said grimly. “Not to mention the sexton’s wife.”
“Indeed,” Ryder nodded, missing the irony. “A most regrettable situation. Had we any idea at the time, of course –”
“You should have handed the bastard over to the French,” Hawkwood growled. “If you had, we wouldn’t be in this bloody mess. And I wouldn’t have to clean it up.”
McGrigor’s eyes widened.
Ryder’s face went rigid.
McGrigor, sensing a possible explosion, hastily rearranged his expression into one of curiosity. “These latest mutilations – the women’s bodies – what makes you think that the colonel is responsible?”
“The way the skins were removed. Surgeon Quill told me the mutilations and removal of the organs were almost certainly performed by someone with medical knowledge. It struck me as too much of a coincidence when I saw that parts of the women’s faces had been taken.”
“I see …” McGrigor looked thoughtful.
“But do you want to know what really convinced me?” Hawkwood said.
McGrigor tilted his head.
“It was you. It was everything you’ve just told us about him. There’s an old military saying: ‘Once is misfortune. Twice is coincidence. But three times? That’s enemy action.’ And that’s what Hyde is – the enemy.”
The room went quiet.
“Thank you, Hawkwood,” James Read said quickly into the tense silence. “That will be all. Perhaps you should wait outside.” The Chief Magistrate’s warning look made it clear this was not a suggestion.
The Home Secretary waited until Hawkwood had left the room before casting his glare at the Chief Magistrate. “You’d do well to keep your man muzzled, Read. I don’t care whose damned ear you’re close to, I’ll not have anyone talk to me that way, especially a constable. I’m a minister of the Crown, for God’s sake!”
McGrigor coughed. “Perhaps Hawkwood is right. Perhaps we should have handed Hyde to the French when we had the chance.”
Ryder swung around. “Well, I rather think the consequences of that decision rest on your shoulders, McGrigor, not mine.”
“I’ll not disagree with you, Home Secretary,” McGrigor said calmly, the lilt in his voice sounding even more pronounced. “Though it’s a decision we’ll all have to live with. I’d say we share a collective responsibility, wouldn’t you?”
Ryder stared at the Surgeon-General for several seconds before giving a noncommittal grunt and shifting his gaze to James Read. “Can your man hunt him down?”
“I believe so. He’s very resourceful. Though from what we have seen so far, Colonel Hyde may prove to be an elusive quarry.”
“Then we must pray that he picks up Hyde’s scent soon, eh? You’ll keep me informed on his progress?”
Read nodded. “Of course.”
Ryder moved away from the window, towards the door. It was a clear signal that he considered the meeting to be drawing to a close.
“You expect him to kill again, don’t you?” McGrigor said from his chair.
Ryder frowned at the interjection.
Read hesitated. “Officer Hawkwood is of the opinion that Colonel Hyde has some sort of agenda. It’s possible he could kill again if he feels that agenda to be either threatened or stymied. Our difficulty lies in not knowing the nature of the agenda.” Read looked at McGrigor. “You have greater knowledge of the man. Do you have any thoughts that could assist us? Why he might be obtaining bodies. Why he’s doing what he’s doing?”
McGrigor lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I wish I did. I’m truly sorry, I’ve told you all I know.”
“Then perhaps an educated guess?” Read said.
McGrigor pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “It is possible, if it is Colonel Hyde, that he’s doing it because he believes his work is incomplete.”
Read frowned. “How so?”
“The colonel was removed from his surgical duties against what he thinks of as his better judgement. It could be that he believes there are still lives to be saved, bodies to be mended.”
“You mean he’s obtaining body parts in order to use them?” Read looked taken aback. “On whom?”
“There you have me. I’ve no idea. You asked for an educated guess. It’s the only one I can come up with.” McGrigor gave a helpless shrug. “Frankly, any guess you made would be as valid
as anything I might propose. I’m not a mad-doctor, Read. Whatever’s going on in Colonel Hyde’s brain is outside my sphere of knowledge. That’s why we signed him over to the Bethlem authorities.”
And look what good that did, Read thought.
“Dear God, the man’s insane! One might as well try and fly to the moon on a broomstick as attempt to make sense of anything he does.” Ryder stared at them both.
Read suspected the Home Secretary’s outburst derived from concern for his own office rather than the colonel’s state of mind or the danger the latter might present to an unknowing populace. The last thing Ryder would want was for his deal with the French and the machinations behind the colonel’s incarceration in Bedlam – and by association the control his department was exercising over the country’s system of asylums – to be brought before the public gaze.
Ryder glared. “Forget the whys and wherefores, Read. That isn’t your function. Your job isn’t to come up with a cure, it’s to catch him! Set your dogs loose and catch him!”
Read looked at McGrigor, who said nothing but lifted an eyebrow in silent communication of a common understanding.
Read allowed himself to look thoughtful, then nodded. “In that case, Home Secretary, I will take my leave. Your servant, Surgeon McGrigor. Thank you for your time. Good day to you both.”
“My secretary will see you out,” Ryder said stiffly, moving towards the bell-pull.
“There’s no need,” Read said, picking up his hat and cane. “I know the way.”
James Read winced as the carriage lurched over a pothole. From above them came the crack of a whip and a sharp curse from the coachman, Caleb, as they turned into the Strand. They were heading back to Bow Street.
“So our colonel’s a bloody maniac,” Hawkwood said. “No wonder they wanted it hushed up. They even kept Eden Carslow in the dark.”
“McGrigor thinks Colonel Hyde may be obtaining the bodies in order to carry out surgical procedures,” Read said.