Hawkwood turned away. Climbing the steps, he entered the courtyard and made his way across to the hospital’s main entrance. There were niches either side of the door. In each one there stood a painted wooden alms box. One was in the shape of a male youth. The other was a bare-breasted female figure. Above them was an inscription encouraging the visitor to make a contribution to the hospital funds. Ignoring the carved inducement, Hawkwood pulled on the bell, and waited.
A small hatchway was set in the door. The hatch cover slid back and a pair of hooded eyes appeared in the opening.
“Officer Hawkwood. Bow Street. Here to see Apothecary Locke.”
The face disappeared from view and the hatch slammed shut. There was the sound of a bolt being released and the door swung open.
Inside, the building was pungent with the smell of piss and shit and damp straw. Hawkwood had skirted Smithfield on his way to the hospital and the reek from the piles of horse, cattle and sheep dung left behind from the previous day’s market hung in the air, strong enough to make the eyes water. For a moment he thought he might have tracked something in on the sole of his boot and he lifted his foot to check. Nothing; the fetid odour must be part of the building’s fabric.
The door closed heavily behind him.
A cleaning operation was in full spate. Mops and pails were in liberal use in a bid to restore some semblance of order after the night’s storm. Judging by the amount of dark seepage still trickling down the walls and across the uneven floor, it looked like a losing battle. Despite the activity, the atmosphere appeared subdued. Most of the workers were toiling in silence. Present among the cleaning gang were several unsmiling men in blue coats. Hospital staff, Hawkwood supposed.
The porter who had let him in, a thin man with a long nose and lugubrious expression, stepped away from the door. “Apothecary’s in ’is office. I’ll have someone take you up.” The porter caught the eye of one of the blue-coated men and beckoned. “Mr Leech? Officer Hawkwood. He’s from Bow Street.”
The blue-coated attendant nodded. “Been expectin’ you. Follow me.”
Hawkwood fell in behind his guide as he climbed the stairway to the first-floor landing. Conditions here didn’t look to be any better than those at ground level.
The upstairs gallery ran the full length of the building, divided at intervals by floor-to-ceiling openwork grilles. The left-hand side of the gallery was occupied by cells, so the grey morning light could only enter by the windows along the opposite north wall. It barely supplemented the inadequate candle glow.
The smell was worse than down below and when he passed one of the open cell doors and saw what lay in the cramped room beyond, Hawkwood understood why.
There was a low wooden cot with a straw-filled mattress. Seated upon the mattress was a man, or at least what appeared to be a man. He was desperately thin. His face was as pale and as pointed as a shrew’s. A soiled woollen blanket covered the lower half of his body except for his feet, which protruded from beneath the filthy material like two pale white slugs. It was clear that beneath the covering the patient was naked from the waist down. He was wearing a grey shirt and yellow handkerchief around his neck but it was his headwear that caught Hawkwood’s attention: a red skullcap, beneath which was wrapped a loose, once-white bandage. Hawkwood found himself transfixed, not just by the man’s expression, which was one of abject misery, but by the iron harness fastened around his chest and upper arms and the iron ring around his throat. The ring was attached by a chain to a wooden pole that ran vertically from the corner of the cot to a bracket in the ceiling. As the blanket slipped off one scabby leg Hawkwood saw that there was another strap around the man’s ankle, attached by a second chain secured to the edge of the cot. It was clear from the state of him that the man was sitting in his own waste.
The attendant spotted the revulsion on Hawkwood’s face and followed the Runner’s gaze. A sneer creased his lip. “What you lookin’ at, Norris?”
Hawkwood watched as a single tear trickled slowly down the shackled man’s emaciated cheek.
The attendant seemed not to notice but turned abruptly and continued along the gallery. Hawkwood tore his eyes away from the open door and followed his guide.
Most of the cells they passed were occupied, with the majority housing more than one patient. It was clear that Norris wasn’t the only one who was chained up. Even in the darkened interiors Hawkwood could see that a number of patients, both male and female, were similarly restrained. Several more blue-coated keepers were in attendance, some supervising patients or else engaged in cleaning duties.
The attendant led Hawkwood along the wing, finally stopping outside a door with a brass plate upon which was etched Apothecary. Leech knocked on the door and awaited the summons from within. When it came, he opened the door, spoke briefly to the occupant then indicated for Hawkwood to enter.
It was an austere room, darkly furnished and, like the rest of the building, 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.