it carried an overwhelming air of dampness and decay. There were a great number of books. On the wall immediately behind the desk were tier upon tier of shelves, filled with rolled documents. Patients’ records, Hawkwood assumed.
Apothecary Robert Locke was not the authoritative figure Hawkwood had been expecting. He had envisioned someone middle-aged, with an academic air. Locke, on the other hand, looked to be in his mid thirties, stocky, with a studious countenance and a slight paunch. His youthful face, framed by a pair of small, round spectacles, looked pale and drawn. He turned from the window where he had been standing in thoughtful pose and greeted Hawkwood with a formal, yet hesitant nod.
“Your servant, Officer Hawkwood. Thank you for coming. I’ve asked Mr Leech to remain, by the way, as it was he who admitted the Reverend Tombs into the hospital last night.”
Hawkwood said nothing. He looked from the keeper to the apothecary. Both eyed him expectantly.
“Forgive me,” Hawkwood said. “I was wondering why I was instructed to ask for the apothecary. Why am I not seeing the physician in charge, Dr Monro?”
A look passed between the two men. Apothecary Locke pursed his lips. “I’m afraid Dr Monro is unavailable. His responsibilities cover a rather broad – how shall I put it? – canvas. He has other duties that also demand his attention.”
What might have been a smirk flickered across Attendant Leech’s face.
“And yet he’s in charge of the hospital, and therefore of the patients’ welfare, is he not?”
Locke nodded. “That is so. However, he is by title only the visiting physician and thus is not required to attend the premises on a daily basis. He oversees prescriptions to patients two days a week and attends the governors’ sub-committee meeting on Saturday mornings.”
“And the rest of the time?”
There was just the slightest hesitation, barely noticeable, but it was there nevertheless.
“I understand the majority of his time is spent at his academy, commissioning and, er … setting up his exhibits.”
“His what?” Hawkwood wondered if he’d heard correctly.
“His paintings, Officer Hawkwood. Dr Monro is a respected patron of the arts. I understand Mr Turner used to be one of his many protégés.”
“Turner?”
“The artist. He has received many plaudits for his works. His forte is landscapes, I believe.”
“I know who Turner is,” Hawkwood snapped.
The apothecary stiffened and blinked. The look that flickered across the bespectacled face suggested that Locke’s expectation of a Bow Street emissary had probably run to a ponderous, black-capped, blue-waistcoated conductor of the watch with an ingratiating manner and a pot-belly. Patently what the apothecary had not made provision for was an arrogant, long-haired, scar-faced, well-dressed ruffian with a passing knowledge of the arts.
For his part, Hawkwood recalled Locke’s initial response to his question. The apothecary’s turn of phrase had seemed a little odd at the time, as had the emphasis on the word “canvas”. All was now becoming clear. He hadn’t imagined Attendant Leech’s smirk. The unmistakable whiff of resentment hung in the air. There might be more to this timid-faced apothecary than he had first thought. And that was certainly an avenue worth exploring.
“Forgive me, Doctor, it just seemed curious to me that the hospital’s chief physician would appear to spend rather more time with his paintings than his patients. However, there’s another doctor on the staff, I believe: Surgeon Crowther? Or have his duties taken him elsewhere, too?”
Hawkwood allowed just the right amount of sarcasm to creep into his voice. His tactic was rewarded. This time, the apothecary’s reaction was less restrained. He flushed and coughed nervously.
Over his shoulder, Hawkwood heard Attendant Leech shift his feet.
Locke’s eyes flickered towards the sound. “I’d be obliged, Mr Leech, if you would be so good as to wait outside.”
The attendant hesitated then nodded. Locke waited until the door had closed. He turned back to Hawkwood. Removing his spectacles, he extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish each lens. “I regret that Surgeon Crowther is …” the apothecary pursed his lips “… indisposed.”
“Really? How so?”
Locke placed his spectacles back on his nose and tucked away his handkerchief.
“The man’s a drunkard. I haven’t seen him for three days. I suspect he’s either at home soaking up the grape or lying in a stupor in some Gin Lane grog shop.”
This time there was no mistaking the edge in the apothecary’s voice. It was sharp enough to cut glass. “Which is why you are talking to the apothecary, Officer Hawkwood. Does that answer your question? Now, perhaps you would care to see the body?”
Attendant Leech led the way.
As they were going down the stairs, the apothecary paused as if to collect his thoughts. Allowing Leech to get a few steps ahead of them, he took a deep breath. “My apologies, Officer Hawkwood. You must think me indiscreet. I fear I rather let my tongue run away with me, but it has been somewhat difficult of late, what with the surveyors’ final report and the notice and so forth.”
“Notice?” Hawkwood said.
“The building’s been condemned. Hadn’t you heard?” The apothecary made a face. “Some would say not before time. You saw that the east wing’s already gone? That used to house the male patients. Since its destruction we’ve had to move the men into the same gallery as the women; not the most suitable arrangement, as you may imagine. It’s fortunate we’re not operating at full capacity. When I started there were double the number of patients there are now. Hopefully we’ll have more room when we move to our new quarters, though goodness knows when that will be.”
They descended a few more steps, then Locke said, “A site has been procured, at St George’s Field. Plans have been agreed, though there’s been some doubt about the funding. You may have seen the subscription campaign for donations in The Times? Ah, well, no matter. Unfortunately, attention has been diverted to the New Bethlem very much at the expense of the old one. We have been abandoned, Officer Hawkwood. Some might even say betrayed. Which accounts for the deplorable state of repairs you see before you.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs. A few of the keepers nodded as the apothecary passed. Most of them ignored him and continued to swab the floor.
“I’ve a hundred and twenty patients in my care, male and female, and less than thirty unskilled staff to tend them. That includes attendants, maidservants, cooks, washerwomen and gardeners – though God knows there’s scant need for their services. I’m required to sleep on the premises and to make rounds every morning, dispense advice and medicines and direct the keepers in the management of the patients. Note that I said ‘direct’, Officer Hawkwood. I have no authority over them, save in the supervision of their daily schedule. I’m not permitted to dismiss or even discipline the keepers, despite the fact that many of them are frequently the worse for drink. My complaints continue to fall on deaf ears. Wait, did I say ‘deaf’? Absent would be a better word.”
They had left the rattle of mops and pails behind them. The damp smell, however, seemed to follow them along the corridor.
The apothecary’s nose twitched. “Is this your first visit, Officer Hawkwood?”
Admitting that it was, Hawkwood wondered where the question was leading.
“And what was the first thing that struck you when you walked through the door? I beg you to be truthful.” As he spoke, the apothecary sidestepped nimbly around a puddle.
“The smell,” Hawkwood said, without hesitation.
The apothecary stopped and turned to face