red blood on his fingertips. Curiously, he hadn’t felt a thing when the blade made contact. He tried to recall the weapon. It had been a very slender blade, he remembered that much; as thin as a razor. And the skill with which the dark-robed priest had handled the knife had been completely unexpected.
But what had chilled Rafferty’s blood even more than the attack itself was the look on his assailant’s face. The parson’s expression had not been one of panic, as might have been expected from someone who was cornered and fearful of imminent arrest. During the brief moment their eyes met, Rafferty had seen a vision of Hell, a malevolence that went beyond anything he had seen before. Had the devil or any of his acolytes been able to take on human form, there was no doubt in Conductor Rafferty’s mind that he had been face to face, if not with Beelzebub, then certainly one of his minions.
The look on the woman’s face had been just as memorable. There had been no colour in her complexion, only the sickly pallor of abject terror. Rafferty had seen her eyes widen momentarily as she had been pulled through the door, probably in recognition of his police uniform and the hope, swiftly suppressed, that rescue was at hand. Rafferty barely had time to register her predicament before being forced to defend himself from attack. He had heard her scream as he had thrust himself aside, the high-pitched shriek dying in her throat as the priest’s hand clamped itself around her neck, dragging her ungainly, protesting body towards the church. Rafferty, lumbering to his knees, heart thumping, had watched helplessly as the heavy wooden door slammed behind them.
Which was when Hopkins and Dawes had arrived on the scene.
The three police officers had approached the church door apprehensively, Rafferty slightly behind his colleagues, and limping. Having just survived one nerve-shredding encounter, the Irishman was, understandably, proceeding with no small degree of caution.
To Rafferty’s relief, the church door was locked. It was Hopkins who hammered on the door, repeating the announcement that had been made earlier at the front door of the house; namely that they were there on orders from Bow Street, to initiate enquiries pertaining to a murder at Bethlem Hospital.
The response had been a scream that rooted the three men to the spot. It was a sound Edmund Rafferty had no wish to hear repeated. It had raised goose pimples along his arms and sent a cold tingle rippling down his spine. Beside him, the two constables were staring at the door like mesmerized rabbits.
The woman’s screams had continued for what seemed like minutes, though in truth it had probably been only a few seconds, before fading into an uneasy silence. Then had come the warning; an excited male voice calling out to them not to force an entry or the woman would die.
Rafferty had waited for the short hairs on his forearms to lie back down before pressing his ear to the door. The door was old and the wood was thick and he hadn’t been able to hear much. Mostly it had sounded like a woman sobbing. But there had been another sound too, a low murmuring noise, as if someone was praying. There had been an eeriness about the barely audible words and phrasing. It had sounded more like an incantation than a prayer.
“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