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“You really do end up with the most interesting ones, don’t you?” Quill murmured.
“It’s a curse,” Hawkwood said as he turned to go.
Quill smiled grimly. “You should have my job.”
“I’m sorry, but can you explain to me again why this is Bow Street’s case,” Hawkwood said, “and not the Garden’s?”
The “Garden” was Hatton Garden. St George the Martyr’s burying ground fell within the Hatton Garden Public Office’s area of jurisdiction, though only by the width of a few streets.
Chief Magistrate James Read turned away from the rain-spattered window, clasped his hands behind his back and raised his coat-tails to the fire. Late middle-aged and trimly built, with aquiline features and swept-back silver hair, the magistrate’s fastidious appearance exuded quiet authority. If he was irritated by the lack of grace in Hawkwood’s enquiry, he gave no outward sign.
“It was at Hatton Garden’s request.”
“Request?” Hawkwood said cautiously.
“For assistance; from Magistrate Turton.”
“Magistrate Turton has his own Principal Officers,” Hawkwood said, still unconvinced. “Why does he need us?”
“It would appear he has a shortage.”
“Of Principal Officers.”
“Correct,” Read said patiently. “He has six at his disposal. Four are engaged in investigations of their own and thus cannot be spared. The other two are confined to their beds because of illness; hence the request. And before you say anything, I confess that I, too, was somewhat surprised. However, as we are on Magistrate Turton’s doorstep, I saw no reason why we could not offer him assistance, on this occasion.”
Excluding Bow Street, there were seven other Public Offices located across the metropolis. Autonomous save in matters of staffing and the setting of annual budgets – for which the Home Department was responsible – each one operated independently from its neighbours. So much so, that it was almost a point of honour for offices not to exchange information. Requests for help, therefore, were rare. Requests for help from Bow Street were exceedingly rare.
“Besides,” Read continued, “an initiative has been issued; from the Home Department, from Mr Callum Day, the official conduit between this office and Whitehall.”
Hawkwood groaned inwardly. He’d never met Day, but the last time the Home Department had used its initiative, he’d ended up in France and, as a consequence, the other side of the Atlantic, an endeavour from which he was still smarting.
Leaving the fire and returning to his desk, the Chief Magistrate took his seat. “It has long been felt among certain circles that the fight against the criminal element would be better served if there was more cooperation between the Public Offices.”
James Read smiled thinly at Hawkwood’s less than overjoyed expression. “I can tell what you’re thinking. Nevertheless, I’m inclined to agree that there is merit in the idea and, in times of adversity, I see no reason why the parishes should not combine their resources. We are, in case you’ve forgotten, supposed to be on the same side.”
Read’s eyes flickered to the paperwork on his desk. One of the communiqués, Hawkwood saw, was affixed with a broken wax seal, upon which the indentation of the Home Minister’s office was plainly visible.
“Also …” Read said, “… it will give you something to do after your adventures abroad.”
Placing the Home Department correspondence to one side, the Chief Magistrate looked up. “And now that your curiosity has been satisfied, what can you tell me – besides the fact that we have a body … in a grave?”
Ignoring the Chief Magistrate’s mordant comment, Hawkwood nodded. “The burial plot was adjacent to the Foundling Hospital. I thought it might be a child, a cast-off.”
“But it wasn’t and you have another theory?”
“In as much as it’s not a child but a woman. Surgeon Quill and I think she may have been a working girl.”
Read frowned and listened as Hawkwood described the tattoo.
“You’re suggesting that if we can identify the victim through the ink-work, we may have a lead to her killer?”
“Yes.”
Lowering his forearms on to his desk, his fingers still laced, Read appeared sceptical. “If she is a working girl, I put it to you that you’ll have more than a lead, you’ll likely have scores of them.”
“There is that,” Hawkwood admitted.
“You have a means of establishing her identity?”
“I’m working on it.”
Read looked thoughtful.
Hawkwood recognized the look. “Sir?”
Read let out a sigh. “Murder’s a foul business, though, sadly, a far from uncommon occurrence, especially among the more – how shall I put it? – socially disadvantaged. And our resources are not infinite. Truth be told, they are anything but. So, given what we know, this could be a fruitless exercise. While the young woman’s death is undoubtedly a heinous crime, if I were to assign an officer of your experience to the case for a significant length of time it would seriously deplete our own resources. In short, therefore, while I’m willing for this office to render assistance to Magistrate Turton, I do not intend it to become our life’s work. It will be for a few days at the most. So use them well. I take it your strategy is to cultivate your informers who have access to the more shadowy areas of our city?”
He means Jago.
“It is.”
“Very well. But if nothing is forthcoming after what I consider to be an appropriate period, know that I will reassign you to more pressing duties and a lower-ranked officer will be delegated to continue the enquiry; that is, if Magistrate Turton remains short-staffed. Young Hopkins is proving to be a most capable individual and has, in fact, expressed a desire to become a Principal Officer. It would be a shame to discourage him from pursuing that ambition.”
“Indeed it would, sir.”
Hawkwood was rewarded with a sharp look. Then the Chief Magistrate nodded. “Keep me informed and do try not to tread on too many toes.”
“I’ll do my best.”
But if all else fails …
Reaching the door, he was about to let himself out when Read’s voice sounded again.
“Officer Hawkwood.”
Hawkwood turned.
“Regarding Surgeon Quill; I assume it was on your authority that the body was delivered to his dead house?”
“It was.”
“Rather presumptuous, was it not? You do know there are coroners and rules governing investigations into wrongful deaths?”
“I’ve always thought of them more as a set of recommendations than hard rules.”
The Chief Magistrate fixed Hawkwood with a flinty gaze. “Only when they suit you, you mean.”
“I used my judgement. If we’d gone by the book, by the time we’d found a coroner willing to drag himself from his bed, there would have been two bodies in the pit. There’s nothing worse than a confused coroner, sir. Take it from me.”
“By two, you are referring to the plot’s intended occupant.”
“The funeral party was already on its way. It would have been a bit crowded down there.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Chief Magistrate closed his eyes. Then, after letting go a sigh, he re-opened them and nodded in weary acceptance.
A knock sounded. Before Read could respond and Hawkwood move aside, the door opened and Bow Street’s Chief Clerk, Ezra Twigg, entered, bearing a note.
“My apologies, sir.” Twigg blinked owlishly. “I’ve a message for Officer Hawkwood, from Surgeon Quill. It’s marked ‘urgent’.”
“Speak of the devil,” Read murmured. He nodded at Twigg. “Very well.”
Twigg handed Hawkwood the note. Hawkwood opened it. The message was concise.
There is more,
Quill
Hawkwood folded the paper without speaking.
“Will there be a reply?” Twigg enquired.
“No,” Hawkwood said.
Read frowned.
“Quill’s completed his examination,” Hawkwood said. “I should go.”
“Oh, by all means,” Read said drily. “Don’t let us detain you.”
Ezra Twigg glanced towards the Chief Magistrate; when no further directive was forthcoming, he turned for the door. Hawkwood followed.
“Officer Hawkwood,” Read called again.
Curbing his irritation, Hawkwood turned and saw that the Chief Magistrate had left the sanctuary of his desk and resumed his pose in front of the fire.
The magistrate raised his chin. “There is one thing I neglected to mention.”
“Sir?”
James Read held Hawkwood’s gaze for perhaps three or four seconds. Then the corner of his mouth twisted to form an oblique smile.
“Welcome back.”
5 (#u9bc2c893-a59f-50c2-9ea5-dc6435b02e3e)
When Hawkwood re-entered the dead room, there was no shouted order to close the door and this time, when Quill turned to greet him, there was no humour in the surgeon’s expression, either. Instead, Quill’s face looked as if it had been carved from stone. The cellar appeared darker than it had before; colder, too, perhaps because of Quill’s less than welcoming disposition. The smell, though, was as bad as ever.
Taking his cue from the room’s chilly atmosphere, Hawkwood did not speak as he took the note from his pocket and held it up. Quill crooked a finger and, with a rising sense of dread, Hawkwood followed him across to the examination table.
The body was there, covered by the sheet. Wordlessly, Quill drew the material aside.
The corpse now lay on its back in the prone position, hands by its sides. This time the eyes were fully closed but it was not to her eyes that Hawkwood’s attention was drawn. It was to the dead woman’s abdomen and the trauma that had been inflicted upon it.
“They’re not stab wounds,” Hawkwood said cautiously. “They don’t look deep enough.”
“No,” Quill said. “I was mistaken. She was not stabbed.”
“Scratched, then.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I’m not with you.”
Quill reached for a candle. “Take this.”
Hawkwood took the light and held it above the body. Caught in a sudden draught, the candle flame fluttered and then steadied. He stared down at the wounds, which still looked nothing more than a series of random score marks angled across the surface of the skin. While they were not deep, they were not that shallow, either. They were the sort of cuts which, suffered singly, might have been caused by catching the skin on a rusty nail; quick to bleed but, by the same token, quick to close and form a scab. Lowering the flame, Hawkwood allowed his eyes to follow the progression of the wounds across the width of the body. Only then was he able to take in what Quill had seen.
The first letter that had been carved into the flesh was a sharp-angled
. It had been made by two distinct strokes of a blade, as if the perpetrator had been trying to form a triangle and given up. The second letter had been made using the same principle, with the addition of a horizontal incision linking the two cuts to form an
. The next was an
, followed by a single vertical slash to represent an
. There were three more letters, all rendered using a minimal number of strokes.
“C-A-R-I-T-A-S,” Quill said, “in case you were wondering.”
“I can spell, damn it!” Hawkwood stared at the cuts. “What I don’t know is what the hell it’s doing there. Is it even a word?”
Quill said calmly, “I believe it’s Latin.”
“Latin?”
“It means charity.”
Hawkwood turned.
Quill gave what could have been interpreted as an apologetic shrug. “Latin studies; one of the consequences of a classical education, though a necessity when considering a career in medicine.”
Hawkwood returned his attention to the body.
“This is not something I’ve come across before,” Quill said. “You?”
Hawkwood found his voice. “Not like this.”
“Like this?” Quill countered sharply.
