become my onerous duty to ensure that the reek is contained.”
Hawkwood knew it was going to be bad. He’d seen it in the pallor on Locke’s face, in the expression of dread in the young apothecary’s eyes, in the quickening of his breath and the faint yet distinct tremor in Leech’s hand as the keeper had unlocked the door.
The window shutters were open but, as the morning sky was overcast, the room was suffused in a spectral half-light. When he entered, Hawkwood felt as if all the warmth had been sucked from his body. He wondered whether that was due to the temperature or his growing feeling of unease. He’d seen death many times. He’d witnessed it taking place and had visited it upon his enemies, both on the battlefield and elsewhere, and yet, as soon as his eyes took in his surroundings, he knew this was going to be different to anything he had experienced.
He heard the apothecary murmur instructions to Attendant Leech, who began to move around the room lighting candle stubs. Gradually, the shadows started to retreat and the cell’s layout began to take form, as did its contents.
It was not one room, Hawkwood saw, but two, separated by a low archway, as if two adjoining cells had been turned into one by removing a section of the intervening wall. Even so, with its cold stone floor and dark, dripping walls, the cell resembled a castle dungeon more than a hospital room. Hawkwood recalled a recent investigation into a forgery case which had taken him to Newgate to interview an inmate. The gaol was a black-hearted, festering sore. The cells there had been dank hellholes. The design of this place, he realized, looked very similar, even down to the bars on the windows.
In the immediate area, there were a few sticks of rudimentary furniture: a table, two chairs, a stool, a slop pail in the corner, close to what looked to be the end of a sluice pipe, and a narrow wooden cot pushed against the wall. On top of the cot could be seen the vague shape of a human form covered by a threadbare woollen blanket.
The apothecary approached the cot. He straightened, as if to gather himself. “Bring the candle closer, Mr Leech, if you please.” He turned to Hawkwood. “I must warn you to prepare yourself.”
Hawkwood had already done so. The pervasive scent of death had transmitted its own warning. At the same time he wondered if the dampness in the cell was a permanent phenomenon or solely a consequence of the previous night’s deluge. He could hear a faint tapping sound coming from somewhere close by and concluded it was probably rainwater dripping through a hole in the ceiling.
Locke lifted the corner of the blanket and pulled it away. Even with Leech holding the candle above the cot, in the dim light it took a second or two for the ghastly vision to sink in.
Hawkwood had seen the injuries suffered by soldiers. He’d seen arms and legs slashed and sliced by sword and bayonet. He’d seen limbs shattered by musket balls and he’d seen men turned to gruel by canister. But nothing he had seen could be compared to this.
The corpse, dressed only in undergarments, lay on its back. The body appeared to be unmarked, except for one incontrovertible fact.
It had no face.
Hawkwood held out his hand. “Give me the light.”
Leech passed over the candle. Hawkwood crouched down. From what he could see, every square inch of the corpse’s facial skin from brow to chin had been removed. All that remained was an uneven oval of raw, suppurating flesh. The eyelids were still in place, as were the lips, though they were thin and bloodless and reminded Hawkwood of the body he’d examined first thing that morning. Unlike that corpse, however, this body still possessed its tongue and teeth.
Beside him, the apothecary was staring at the corpse as though mesmerized by the epic brutality of the scene. Reaching for his handkerchief, Locke polished his spectacles vigorously and perched them back on his nose. “From what I can tell, the first incision was probably made close to the ear. The blade was then drawn around the circumference of the face, with just sufficient pressure to break through the layers of the epidermis. The blade was then inserted under the skin to pare it away, separating it from the underlying muscle in stages.” The apothecary grimaced. “It would be rather similar to filleting a fish. Eventually, this would enable him to peel and lift the entire facial features off the skull, probably in one piece, like a mask …” Locke paused. “It was skilfully done, as you can see.”
“Where the devil would a parson pick up that sort of knowledge?” Hawkwood said.
The apothecary looked puzzled. “Parson?”
“Priest, then. Reverend Tombs – isn’t that his name?”
The apothecary stiffened. He turned and threw a glance at the keeper, his eyebrows raised in enquiry. The keeper reddened and shook his head. The apothecary’s jaw tightened. He turned back. “I fear there has been a misunderstanding.”
Hawkwood looked at him.
Locke hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.
“Doctor?” Hawkwood said.
The apothecary took a deep breath, then said, “It wasn’t the priest who perpetrated this barbaric act.”
Hawkwood looked back at him.
“Reverend Tombs was not the murderer, Officer Hawkwood. He was not the one who wielded the knife. He couldn’t have done.” Locke nodded towards the body on the cot. “Reverend Tombs was the victim.”
The apothecary looked down at the corpse and gave a brief shake of his head, as if to deny the bloody reality that lay before him.
“I confess, we took it to be the colonel’s body at first. It seemed the obvious conclusion in the light of Mr Grubb’s assurance that he’d escorted Reverend Tombs out of the building, or at least the person he assumed to be the reverend. It was only when I made a closer examination that I became aware of the deception. Unfortunately, we’d already sent word to Bow Street by then. I had thought, wrongly, that Mr Leech had informed you of the error upon your arrival.”
Locke lifted the corpse’s arm by the wrist and traced a path across the unmarked knuckles. “The colonel had a scar across the back of his right hand, just here. He told me it was the result of an accident during his army service. It was quite distinct and yet, as you can see, there is no scar.” The apothecary let the arm drop back on to the cot. “This is not Colonel Hyde.”
“But it is the Reverend Tombs? You’re sure of that?”
Locke nodded solemnly. “Quite sure.”
“Did he have scars too?”
Hawkwood couldn’t help injecting a note of sarcasm into his enquiry. To his surprise, Locke showed no adverse reaction to the retort but stated simply, “As a matter of fact, he did.” The apothecary met Hawkwood’s unspoken question by pointing to his own cheeks and jaw, the areas of the corpse’s face that had been excised. “The worst of them were on his face. Here and here. The minor ones are still visible there behind his left ear, if you look closely.”
Hawkwood turned to Leech. “You escorted Reverend Tombs to the room? What time was this?”
“It’d be about ten o’clock,” Leech said. “It were still rainin’ cats and dogs.”
“After you left him, what did you do?”
Leech shrugged. “Finished me rounds, went back upstairs.”
“And the key?”
“Left it on the ’ook in the keepers’ room with the rest of ’em.”
“And this … Grubb, he’d have taken the key to let the priest out?”
Leech nodded. “That’s right.” The attendant pointed to a bell cord hanging in the corner of the room. “Soon as he ’eard the bell ring, he’d have been on ’is way.”
“And