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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 wife 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.
“O Lord, let my cry come unto thee!”
There was a moment of stunned silence, suddenly broken by a lone male voice, slurred with drink. “It ain’t Sunday, Vicar! Bit early for the sermon, ain’t it?”
“Shut it, Marley, you ignorant sod!” The sharp warning was accompanied by a muffled grunt of pain and the sound of a bottle shattering on the cobbles.
Ignoring the altercation below, the figure at the window, face still raised, opened his arms in supplication.
“I stand before you, Lord, a miserable sinner!”
As the words rang out, a stick-thin figure, seated at the foot of a nearby gravestone, slowly raised its head.
Hawkwood was suddenly conscious of movement to his right as a small body thrust itself to the front of the onlookers.
“You murdering bastard!”
Heads swivelled to stare at the accuser.
“You killed my Annie!” The sexton, his face contorted with rage, jabbed an accusing finger towards the smoke-framed silhouette.
Hearing the outburst, a murmur began to spread through the crowd. All eyes turned heavenwards once more.
“Mother of God,” Rafferty said hoarsely.
The onlookers, Hawkwood realized, were not close enough to see that the robed man was not the person they took him to be. All the crowd could make out with any certainty was the black attire. They saw only what they were meant to see. Colonel Hyde was continuing with his deception and distance was lending credibility to his ruse. His appearance had even fooled the sexton.
The black-clad figure called out once more. It was the anguished, beseeching wail of a soul in torment.
“I heard Satan call my name! In my foolishness I answered! And by the Devil’s tongue I was corrupted into darkness!”
“That’s the spirit, Vicar!” The drunken heckler was back and in fuller voice. “You bloody tell ’em!”
“Chris’sakes, Marley, will you bleedin’ shut your mouth, or so help me –”
The strident voice rose once more to the heavens. “I beheld that pale horse, Lord, and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell did follow with him!”
“Horse?” Rafferty said, brow puckering. “What bleedin’ horse? What in the name of all that’s holy is the beggar on about?”
There was a nervous cough from behind. “Er … I know,” Hopkins said. A blush had formed across the young constable’s earnest face. Whether it was from the heat coming off the burning building, or from embarrassment at suddenly being the focus of attention, it was difficult to tell. “It’s from the scriptures.”
Hawkwood turned and stared at him.
“Book of Revelation; chapter six, verse eight …” Hopkins hesitated, and then added, somewhat sheepishly, “My pa’s a vicar.”
The young constable’s gaze suddenly shifted and his eyes widened. Hawkwood turned. Above him, the figure in the tower, hands clasped together in prayer, was sinking to his knees, head bowed. The voice boomed out once more.
“But in the guiding light of thy glory, o Lord, I have seen the error of my ways and I do earnestly repent my sins!”
“Uh, oh,” Rafferty murmured. “He’s off again.”
Hawkwood stared up at the tower. Smoke was continuing to vent from the opening. It was as if the priestly figure was kneeling at the entrance to the pit of Hell. Bathed now in the glow of the flames, the black robe shimmered like velvet.
Abruptly the figure lifted its head.
“I hear you, Lord! Blessed are they who have seen the way of righteousness! I deliver my soul to your bosom in the knowledge that I may be cleansed of all my transgressions!”
Above them, the dark silhouette rose unsteadily to its feet, bowed its head and slowly lowered its arms, palms outwards. Then, as if reciting a benediction, it spoke. The words rang out loud and clear.
“All that are with me, salute thee! Greet them that love us in the faith! Grace be with you all …”
Raising his right hand to shoulder height, the figure made the sign of the cross.
“Amen.”
Then, in a move that was as swift as it was shocking, the robed figure turned, spread its arms wide and pitched forward into the rising flames.
Shrieks of horror erupted from the women in the crowd. There were loud gasps and exclamations of astonishment from the men.
As the body disappeared from view, a single mournful clang echoed around the churchyard. Several people jumped. The body must have hit or become entangled with the bell rope on the way down, Hawkwood guessed. Either that or some unearthly force had used the bell as a means to summon the dead man’s soul into the afterlife.
Beside him, Hawkwood heard a groan of dismay. He turned. The constable’s face was ashen. “Why?” Hopkins whispered, staring at the church tower, now wreathed in smoke. “Why did he do it?”
“He was mad,” Hawkwood said bluntly.
The constable removed his hat. His lips began to move in silent prayer. Hawkwood could see that others in the crowd were similarly engaged. A number of the more devout had fallen to their knees. Hawkwood didn’t think it was the time or place to tell them that their prayers for Reverend Tombs were both misplaced and many hours too late.
Hawkwood’s eyes were locked on the tower and the empty window. The frames and shutters had caught alight and were burning fiercely. At the foot of the building, the fire fighters had been forced to admit defeat. Along with everyone else, they were standing in a state of disbelief, watching the church’s disintegration. Bathed in the glare, their faces glowed bright crimson. The heat was intense.
“What?” Hawkwood said absently, vaguely aware that the constable had spoken.
Hopkins blinked. “The Reverend’s last words. They were what my pa used to say.”
“Is that so?” Hawkwood said, not particularly interested.
Hopkins nodded, mistaking Hawkwood’s response for polite enquiry.
“Know them off by heart. Drummed into me, they were. It was the blessing my dad used to give at the end of every Sunday service. St Paul’s Epist—”
A crash from inside the burning tower drowned out the rest of the constable’s words, all except one. Upon hearing it, Hawkwood felt as if the rest of the world had suddenly stopped moving. He turned slowly. “What did you say?”
Hopkins looked embarrassed, intimidated by Hawkwood’s tone. “I was saying that I knew the reverend’s last words too.”
“I heard that part,” Hawkwood snapped. “What did you say after that?”
The constable hesitated, awed by the look on Hawkwood’s face.
“Um … that it was the last verse?”
“No,” Hawkwood said softly. “You said a name.”
The constable swallowed nervously. He realized his mouth had gone completely dry, as if his tongue had been dipped in ash.
As a child, Constable George Hopkins, like many young boys of an enquiring mind, had been an avid collector of butterflies and beetles, impaling their tiny thoraxes with pins and preserving them for posterity in small glass cases for the amusement of family and friends. When he felt those blue-grey eyes upon him, the constable had the distinct impression that this was how the beetles must have felt. He took a deep breath, found his voice.
“It’s from St Paul’s Epistle, the Book of …”
The constable paused, intimidated by the look on Hawkwood’s face.
“… Titus.”
Over the constable’s shoulder the church of St Mary continued to burn as brightly as a wrecker’s torch.
Apothecary Robert Locke stood at his window and stared out across the city’s rooftops. The clouds were the colour of gunmetal and it was difficult to see where the slates ended and the sky began.
Locke’s mind took him back to the horror that had been the colonel’s cell. He closed his eyes. A vision of the Reverend Tombs’s corpse swam into view. He saw again the shabby undergarments, the pale limbs protruding from them, and the bloody atrocity that had once been the parson’s face. He shuddered. It was a vision, he suspected, that would haunt his dreams for some time to come.
His thoughts turned to his recent visitor. Not your usual law officer. Well dressed – Locke knew good tailoring when he saw it – though the long dark hair tied at the back with a ribbon had been an interesting affectation, and there had been an arrogance and perceptiveness that Locke had found vaguely unsettling. Indeed, there had been times when Locke had found it hard to meet the man’s penetrating gaze. Brains as well as brawn. But then he had been a fighting man, an officer in the Rifle Brigade, no less; one of the most respected regiments in the British Army. Locke congratulated himself on his intuition at picking up on that aspect of Hawkwood’s background and wondered what had turned such a man from soldier to police officer.
Soldier. His thoughts drifted again.
From the violence of the American, Norris, to James Tilly Matthews’s bizarre conspiracy theories, Locke had seen many forms of madness. Now he was witness to another.
Colonel Titus Hyde: soldier, surgeon, priest killer.
His eyes dropped to his desk and Matthews’s representation of his Air Loom. Gazing at the illustration, Locke’s thoughts returned to the anatomical drawings in the colonel’s quarters. That the colonel should have such items on display was not unusual, given his medical background. Similar charts and diagrams could be found in any physician’s consulting room or any one of the city’s dozen or so anatomy schools. For centuries drawings of this nature had been the standard reference for physicians and surgeons. What Locke had found unusual – although it wasn’t an observation that he had thought to share with Hawkwood – was the one salient feature all Hyde’s selection of illustrations had in common. It had both intrigued and disturbed the apothecary, though he didn’t quite know why.
