Resurrectionist

by James McGee

  “And this?” Hawkwood asked.

  “The same, though I believe it represents a more advanced device.”

  Hawkwood pointed to the column of discs. “All right, so what are these?”

  Locke adjusted his glasses. Behind the lenses his face was quite animated. “See, there’s a key at the bottom of the page. The A represents silver; the Z is zinc. I believe it’s also possible to use copper discs instead of silver.”

  “All right, Doctor, I’ll admit this is all very fascinating, but what would Colonel Hyde want with electrical machines?”

  “Perhaps we should ask the man who drew them.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Look at them closely. Regard the style of the illustrations and the attendant lettering. Would you say they look familiar?”

  Hawkwood looked. He shook his head. “You’ve lost me, Doctor.”

  Locke lifted the papers and placed them to one side. “Perhaps I can refresh your memory.”

  Locke moved around the desk, opened a drawer, and took out another sheet of paper. He opened it out. “Do you remember this?”

  Hawkwood recognized it. It was the drawing that Locke had shown him on his first visit: the Air Loom.

  “Compare the style of the illustrations and the lettering,” Locke said. He moved aside.

  Hawkwood stared at the drawings, his gaze moving from one to another, and back again. The similarity between the two was striking.

  “Note the lettering in particular,” Locke said. “The bottom curlicue in the letter A, for example.”

  Hawkwood followed the apothecary’s fingertip. It was undeniably the same small, neat hand.

  “Matthews?” Hawkwood said. “They knew each other? But they had their own rooms. I thought you kept patients like them separated?”

  Locke shrugged. “By their nature, hospitals are enclosed communities. Bethlem’s no different. Despite the popular assertion that we are England’s Bastille, we are not a prison. We do allow some patients a certain amount of fraternization. Indeed, where we feel the experience will be of benefit to the patients, we actively encourage it. We have common rooms where they can meet – under supervision, of course. James Tilly Matthews is one of our best-known residents. I remember the colonel expressing great interest in Matthews’ designs for the new hospital, and I recall seeing them in conversation on a number of occasions.”

  Hawkwood looked down at the papers. He’d assumed that Hyde had spent all his time in isolation in his rooms, his only contact being the keepers and the medical staff and, latterly, the late Reverend Tombs. He hadn’t expected this.

  “I want to see Matthews. Now.”

  Locke nodded and picked up the drawings. “Come with me.”

  The apothecary led the way along the first-floor corridor. Most of the cell doors were open. Patients were mingling freely with the blue-coated attendants.

  They stopped outside a closed door and Locke murmured softly, “He does not have a very high opinion of the judiciary. It would be best, there-fore, if you do not tell him you are a police officer.”

  Before Hawkwood could respond, Locke knocked twice on the door and pushed it open. “James, my dear fellow,” he announced amiably. “How are we today? May we come in?”

  The room was considerably smaller than the colonel’s quarters; probably no more than twelve feet by nine. There were the same basic items of furniture, however: bed, chair, small table, and a chest. There was a sluice pipe in the corner for waste. To add to the claustrophobia, there were several shelves full of books and the walls were covered in drawings. They were all architectural plans. Hawkwood recognized a copy of the design for the new hospital. It was less detailed than the one Locke had shown him and he assumed it was an early draft. Nevertheless, the attention to detail was exceptional.

  A short, compact, dark-haired man was leaning over the table. He had a pencil in one hand and a rule in the other. He did not look up, but continued to fuss over the drawing laid out before him. His pale face was fused in rapt concentration as he tapped the pencil against his right leg.

  “James?” Locke said again.

  The man started and turned around. “Dr Locke! Come in! Come in!”

  “James, allow me to present a colleague of mine, Mr Hawkwood.”

  Hawkwood found himself perused from head to toe by a pair of eyes that were as bright as buttons. “A pleasure, Mr Hawkwood!”

  Locke approached the table. “James has taken up engraving. He’s working on some new architectural illustrations. Come and see.”

  Hawkwood walked forward.

  The drawing was of a town house; a rather grand one, with steps and a portico and an honour guard of tall trees. A ground-floor plan of the house was laid alongside. As with the sketches on the wall, the quality was exceptional.

  Locke patted the patient on the shoulder. “James has plans for a magazine of architectural illustrations. What’s it to be called again? I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind. Do tell Mr Hawkwood.”

  Matthews’ face lit up. “I will indeed! It’s to be called Useful Architecture. It will explain the basics of architecture for the common man. It is also my intention to provide designs, so that each reader can make use of them for his own purpose,” he added grandly.

  “Doesn’t that sound like a splendid idea?” Locke said, blinking behind his spectacles.

  “Splendid,” Hawkwood agreed warily.

  “There’ll be hothouses for cabbages,” Matthews said suddenly. He took Hawkwood’s arm. “You do know the efficacious benefit of a good hothouse, don’t you, Mr Hawkwood? I explained it to the French but the damned fools took not a jot of notice. And look what’s happened to them,” he added darkly.

  Hawkwood looked blankly at Locke, who shook his head imperceptibly, but Matthews hadn’t finished. Hanging on to Hawkwood’s arm, he drew himself up. “Each home will have its own hothouse. I shall then petition the government to commandeer the great army of the unemployed to gather up all the filth in the city. This will be transported by cart and barrow and barge to every hothouse, where it will be used as fertilizer upon the cabbages, which will grow in abundance, thus providing a nourishing supply of vegetables for the nation. Now,” he concluded triumphantly, hand on hip, “what do you think of that, sir?”

  Hawkwood wondered whether the patient was waiting for applause. He rescued his sleeve. He could see that Locke was sending him warning signs across the table. Behind his spectacles, the apothecary’s eyebrows were going up and down like signal flags.

  Hawkwood nodded. “That’s the thing about the French. They wouldn’t recognize a good idea if it bit them on the arse.”

  There was a pause. He saw Locke’s eyebrows lift almost to his hairline. Then, beside him, James Matthews jabbed the air with his pencil. “Ha! Exactly, sir! Exactly! I couldn’t have put it better myself!” He looked down at his drawing and began to take measurements with the rule. His movements were brisk and precise.

  Locke stepped forward quickly. “Well, James, we mustn’t keep you from your work. We’ll leave you to get on.”

  Matthews nodded distractedly. “So much to prepare, and so little time.” He glanced up, a determined expression on his face. “One must stay busy, what?”

  “Oh, absolutely, James! Indeed one must.” Locke nodded enthusiastically and then paused. “Though, before we go, I wonder if we might ask your advice. Mr Hawkwood and I are not, alas, of a technical persuasion and we were hoping you could assist us with an explanation of these –” Locke held up the papers he’d taken from the colonel’s cell. “They are quite beyond our comprehension, I’m afraid. I thought a draughtsman with your expertise could shed some light … What say you?”

  Hawkwood was wondering if Locke wasn’t laying it on a bit thick, but then he saw the patient’s eyes flicker towards the papers and he remembered Locke saying that some patients thrived on companionship. On flattery and curiosity, too, it seemed. Locke was playing his patient well, like a fish on a line.

/>   “But of course, Doctor. It would be my pleasure. What do you have there?”

  Locke spread the drawings across the table.

  Matthews smiled broadly when he saw the top sheet. He reached for it. “Ah, yes! Galvani!”

  “Is that so?” Locke said, without a hint of guile.

  “It’s his frog experiment. He dissected a frog and placed one of its legs on an iron plate. When he touched the nerve with a metal scalpel, the leg twitched violently. He reasoned, therefore, that there must be electricity in the frog. Fascinating conclusion. He was quite wrong, of course. Volta proved that.”

  Another bloody name I don’t know, Hawkwood thought.

  Locke lifted the paper to reveal the second drawing.

  Matthews gave an exclamation of amusement. “Why, it’s one of mine!”

  “We thought it might be,” Locke said, with a sideways glance towards Hawkwood. “We were wondering what it was.”

  Matthews smiled indulgently. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize them, Doctor. It’s a battery of Leyden jars. They’re for storing an electrical charge. One can either fill them with water or line them with metal foil. The rods you see are made of brass. The more jars there are in the battery, the greater the charge. An electrical discharge can only be performed once, however, after which the storage process must begin again and a new charge built up. Crude, but remarkably effective,” he added breathlessly.

  “How is the charge created in the first place?” Hawkwood asked, remembering the theatre audience tumbling like ninepins.

  “Friction machines. The charge is collected by rubbing together different materials, such as glass globes and leather.” Matthews held up a finger. “Wait, I do believe I have an illustration.” He left the table and looked along his bookshelves. “Now then,” he muttered to himself. “Adams, Adams, Ad— ah, yes.” He took a book down, opened the cover, wet his finger and began to flick through the pages. His finger stopped moving. “Yes, here we are.” He held the page open for them to see.

  “There, a child is being attended by a doctor, possibly for pain or paralysis of the forearm. The friction machine is on the table next to them.”

  It was a peculiar-looking contraption, composed of a winding handle, a pulley, and several cylindrical objects with curious, curved attachments.

  “You see, the cylinder generator is to the right. That would be made of glass. The main receptor, or terminal as it is sometimes called, is that object in the centre. You see the Leyden jar hanging from the rod at the end of the metal globe? A metal loop goes from the jar to a treatment fork – which, as you see, is touching the child’s forearm. When the handle is turned, the glass generator revolves, building up the charge, which is transferred to the receptor where it is stored. When a sufficient amount of charge is accumulated, the doctor discharges the electricity down the wire to the treatment fork. The result would be a sudden jolt, a stimulation of the senses, activating the nerves and muscles in the child’s arm. It can be most beneficial, I’m told. You know, Cavendish used a battery of Leyden jars to replicate the properties of the torpedo fish.”

  Hawkwood realized the shock must have shown on his face, because both Matthews and Locke were throwing him odd looks.

  “You’ve heard of the torpedo fish, Mr Hawkwood?” Matthews asked hesitantly.

  Hawkwood found he was massaging his left shoulder. Self-consciously, he lowered his hand. “Oh, yes, I know all about bloody torpedoes.”

  Matthews’ eyebrows lifted. “Do you now? How interesting. Most people don’t, you know. Poor Cavendish. They accused him of sacrilege for suggesting that a man-made machine could perform in the same way as a creature created by God. The fellow was right about the principle, though.”

  Despite the illustration in the book and Matthews’ enthusiastic commentary, Hawkwood wasn’t sure he understood the principle any more than he had before. He wondered if Matthews’ explanation of the last drawing would be any easier to keep up with.

  “Another of your illustrations, I believe, James,” Locke said affably, revealing the last sheet.

  “So it is!” Matthews exclaimed excitedly. “Ah, now, this is the most sophisticated device of them all. You recall I mentioned Volta when we were looking at the first illustration of Galvani’s frog experiments? It was Volta who concluded there was no such thing as animal electricity, that it was, in fact, the interaction between the two dissimilar metals of the scalpel and tabletop and the salt water in the frog that created the electrical charge. He proved it by constructing what he called his pile. We call it a battery now, as it performs the same function as the friction machines and the jars. The difference with this, however, is that one does not have to store up the electricity in order to discharge it. With this, the electricity remains constant, like the current flowing in a river. There’s no need for winding handles or glass cylinders or jars. It’s all down to a chemical reaction.”

  The apothecary tapped the paper. “Using zinc and silver?”

  “Yes, well done! Though zinc and copper work equally well. The smaller discs separating the pairs are the equivalent of the frog. Card paper dipped in brine. If you then run one wire from the top disc and one from the bottom disc and close the circuit, the electrical current begins to flow. It’s so simple!”

  “And the more discs there are, the greater the charge?” Hawkwood said.

  “That’s it!” Matthews frowned and indicated the illustrations. “But how did you come by these?”

  “They were left by Colonel Hyde.” Locke dropped his voice. “You know Colonel Hyde is no longer with us, James? Well, Mr Hawkwood and I were putting his things in order and we came across these among his belongings and thought you might like to have them back.”

  “Why, Doctor, that’s most thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

  “So, did you know Colonel Hyde well, Mr Matthews?” Hawkwood asked.

  “Oh, yes. We became good friends. He promised that in exchange for my drawings he would do all he could to pursue my case with the Home Secretary. I expect to hear from him any day now.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Hawkwood said. He saw Locke was looking at him. “So the colonel asked you to draw these for him, did he? And did he say why he was interested in the machines?”

  “Colonel Hyde believed electricity had the power to change the world. He said one day it would be able to move mountains.”

  “Did he now? And how did he think it was going to do that?”

  Matthews screwed up his face and had a think, but then shook his head. “He didn’t say.”

  Hawkwood stared down at the drawings. So far, everything Hyde had done, he’d done for a reason. So why had he asked Matthews to draw him these? And then Matthews said, “Do you have the other one?”

  “Other one?” Locke asked blankly.

  “There were three.”

  “You gave the colonel three drawings?”

  “Yes. Where’s the last one I did for him? He said it was the most important one of all.”

  “What was it?”

  “He wanted me to design a larger battery.”

  “More jars?” Hawkwood said.

  “Oh, no, it was the Volta battery he was referring to. He asked me if it was possible to design a more powerful device, using the same principles. I told him it was and showed him how it was done.”

  “Did he say why he wanted it?”

  “Yes, though I did not understand his meaning.”

  Hawkwood waited.

  Matthews glanced over to Locke, as if seeking permission for what he was about to say.

  “What did he tell you, James?” the apothecary asked.

  “He said it would bring him closer to God.”

  “All right, Doctor. Suppose you tell me what’s going on here. What do you know that I don’t?”

  They were back in Locke’s office. The apothecary was looking pensive.

  “How much do you know about the colonel’s background, his education, his medical studies, for e
xample?”

  “I spoke with Eden Carslow. They were students together, went to the same lectures. They’d remained friends. That’s why he signed the bond. When he left London, Hyde went to study anatomy in Italy. His studies complete, he joined the army, working in field hospitals in the West Indies, South America, Ireland and Spain. That’s where it started.”

  “It?” Locke frowned. “You mean his melancholy?”

  “He might have been melancholic by the time he got here, but that wasn’t why they shipped him home, whatever it may say on your admission sheet.”

  The apothecary paused in mid stride. “I don’t follow.”

  “Colonel Hyde wasn’t returned to England because he was melancholic. It was because he was murdering French prisoners of war and using them for butchery practice. He was placed here because he was a friend of Carslow’s, and Carslow has influence with the governors.”

  “What do you mean by ‘butchery practice’?”

  “He was trying to rebuild them.”

  “Rebuild?”

  “Mend them. Or at least that’s what McGrigor, the Surgeon-General, thinks. His is the second signature on the bond. The one we couldn’t read. He said Hyde had grand ideas about the future of surgery and how one day it would be possible to mend the wounded by taking working parts from dead men’s bodies.”

  Locke closed his eyes. “He got that from John Hunter.”

  “He was Hyde’s anatomy teacher, his mentor. Wait – you knew of the connection?”

  “I knew a little of his medical studies. He would talk about them sometimes. He was one of the few students who were fortunate to have lived under Hunter’s roof at his school in Castle Street.”

  “It was Hunter who helped get Hyde his commission. Twenty years ago, it was Hunter who was Surgeon-General.”

  Locke said nothing.

  “That’s it, Doctor. You now know as much as I do.” Hawkwood walked to the window and looked out over Moor Fields. “Somewhere out there is a lunatic who thinks he’s God and who’s taken to cutting up the bodies of dead women, and who’s persuaded another lunatic to draw him pictures of electrical machines. I tell you now, Apothecary, I need all the help I can get, and I’m open to suggestions.”