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.”
3
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 Grubb noticed nothing untoward?”
Leech shook his head. “’E never said. I saw ’im when I came on again this morning, before Adkins told ’im about the colonel’s tray not bein’ touched. Asked him how things had gone and ’e said there’d been no problems. The parson rang the bell. Grubb collected him and escorted him out.”
“I’ll need to speak with Attendant Grubb,” Hawkwood said.
Locke nodded. “Of course, though he is still convalescing.”
“Convalescing?”
“He suffered a seizure when he discovered the body. Fortunately it was not as serious as we first feared. He is feeling rather frail, however, and has not yet returned to his duties. I can take you to him.”
Hawkwood nodded and looked around the room. “Has anything been moved, Doctor?”
“Moved?” Locke frowned.
“Put back in its place. Is this how it was when Grubb found the body?”
“I believe so, yes.”
Hawkwood stared at the iron rings set into the wall above the bed. He had a sudden vision of Norris, the patient chained to the wall by his neck and ankles. He walked towards the table. In the centre of it lay a chessboard. From the position of the pieces, the game was unfinished. Hawkwood picked up one of the figures – a white knight. It was made of bone. Hawkwood had seen similar sets before, carved by French prisoners of war imprisoned on the hulks. It wasn’t uncommon for such items to appear in private homes. There were agents, philanthropists who acted on behalf of some of the more skilful artists, offering to sell their carvings on the open market for a modest, or in some cases not so modest, commission. He wondered about the provenance of this particular set as he took in the rest of the items on the table: two mugs and an empty cordial bottle. He picked up the bottle. “Curious there’s no sign of a struggle.”
Locke blinked.
“Look around, Doctor. Not a chair overturned, not so much as a bishop upended or a pawn knocked out of its square. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? You think the man just stretched out and allowed himself to be butchered? He was already dead before that was done to him. He had to be.”
Locke looked pensive. “I found no obvious signs of injury to the body – other than the trauma … damage … to the face, of course – which suggests the cause of death could have been suffocation. A sharp, swift blow to the stomach, perhaps, to incapacitate, followed by a pillow over the face. Death would occur in a matter of minutes; less, probably, if the victim was already gasping for air.”