The grave had been dug close to the wall, in the lee of a pointed stone obelisk, one of many memorials that had been erected among the trees. An inscription, weathered by rain and frost, was barely legible, save for the surname of the deceased Falconer but even those letters had begun to fade, a state which mirrored the burying grounds general air of decay.
The overcast sky did little to enhance the wintry setting. It had been raining hard all morning and while the rain had eased to a thin, misty drizzle, leaving the grass and what remained of the winter foliage to shine and glisten; the same could not be said for the pathways and the rectangular patches of earth which showed where fresh plots had been excavated and the soil recently filled in. They had all turned to cloying mud, though, if it hadnt been for the rain, it was doubtful the body would have been discovered.
The grave was the intended resting place of one Isaiah Ballard, a local drayman whod had the misfortune to have been trampled to death by one of his own mules. The funeral service had been scheduled for late morning, after which the body was to be transported in dignified procession from church to burial plot, making use, somewhat ironically, of his soon-to-be equally redundant wagon.
It was a sextons responsibility to supervise the maintenance of the burying ground, including the digging of the graves; this particular one having been prepared the previous afternoon. The sexton, whose small stone cottage was tucked into the corner of the graveyard, had risen earlier and, in the company of two gravediggers, been making his final inspection to ensure that the interment ran smoothly.
The three men had arrived at the site to find that the mound of excavated soil by the side of the pit had been transformed into a heavy sludge. The deluge had also eaten away the edge of the grave and formed runnels in the sod down which small rivulets of rainwater were still dribbling like miniature cataracts.
On the point of directing the gravediggers to shore up the sides of the hole, the sextons eyes had been drawn to the bottom of the pit and a disturbance in the soil caused by the run-off. It had taken several seconds for him to realize what he was looking at. When the truth dawned, hed raised the alarm.
When Hawkwood arrived, his first thought had been to wonder why the sexton had gone to all the bother. This was not because he viewed the examination of an unexpected dead body in a graveyard as an inconvenience, but because Londons burying grounds were notoriously overcrowded and, in the normal course of events, it wasnt unheard of for the dead to be piled atop one another like stacks of kindling. Indeed, where the poor of the parish were concerned to whom coffins were considered a luxury the practice had become commonplace, which said a lot for the sextons integrity. It would have been easy for the gravediggers to have shovelled mud back over the body to hide it. No one would have been any the wiser.
Judging by the expression on the face of the constable standing alongside him, whod been the first functionary called to the scene, Hawkwood wasnt the only one harbouring reservations as to whether this was really the sort of incident that demanded the attention of a Principal Officer.
A constables duties rarely ventured beyond those carried out by the average nightwatchman, which in most cases involved patrolling a regular beat and discouraging the activities of petty thieves and prostitutes. So it wasnt hard to imagine what was going through this particular constables mind. Uppermost, Hawkwood suspected, was likely to be the question: Why me? Followed closely by the thought: Oh, God, please not again.
The constables name was Hopkins. A year ago, the young recruits probationary period had come to an abrupt end on the night hed accompanied Hawkwood and Nathaniel Jago in their pursuit of a crew of body-snatchers whod turned to murder in order to top up their earnings. The chase had ended in a ferocious close-quarter gunfight. Throughout the confrontation the constable had proved brave and capable. Hed also displayed a commendable ability to look the other way when it came to interpreting how best to dispense summary justice to a gang of cold-blooded killers.
Hed filled out his uniform since Hawkwood had last seen him, though the shock of red hair was still there, poking defiantly from beneath the brim of the black felt hat, as was the pair of jug ears which would have put the handles of a milk churn to shame.
When Hawkwood arrived on the scene, the constables face had brightened in recognition. It was a light soon extinguished, however, for while he could be considered as still being relatively damp behind the ears, Hopkins was wise enough to know that in this situation, to smile at being greeted by name by a senior officer without the need for prompting would have been viewed as singularly inappropriate.
Squatting at the side of the trench, Hawkwood stared bleakly into its sodden depths. One good thing about the rain: it did help to dampen the smells; or at least some of them. Hawkwood didnt know the burial practices followed in St George the Martyrs parish. If it was like most others within the city, there would be a section reserved for poor holes: pits which were deep enough to hold up to seven tiers of burial sacks. Left open until they were filled to the brim, they allowed the stench of putrefaction to permeate the surrounding air. Nearby buildings were not immune and it wasnt unknown for churches to be abandoned due to the smells rising from the decaying corpses stored in the crypts below them and for clergy to conduct funeral services from a comfortable distance. Hawkwood wondered if that was the reason for the burying grounds estranged location. At the moment, the odours rising to meet him were of mud, loam, leaf mould and, curiously, fermenting apples. It could have been a lot worse.
The mud and the layer of dead leaves made it hard to distinguish details but then, gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to the lumpy contours at the bottom of the trench he saw what had captured the sextons and, as a consequence, the constables attention. Sticking out of the ooze was the torn edge of a piece of sacking. Poking out from beneath the sacking was not a stone, as he had first thought, but the back of a human hand. Close to it was what appeared to be a scrap of folded parchment. Concentrating his gaze further, he saw that it wasnt parchment at all, but the edge of a cheekbone which had been washed by the rain. Following the line of the bone, the ridge of an eye socket came into view.
A child, he thought, straightening. Someone had placed a childs body in a sack and tossed it into the trench. He gazed up at the Foundling Hospitals wall and considered the permutations offered by its proximity. He turned back to the pit. Suddenly, the sack and the shape of the contents contained within it became more pronounced. Clumps of what he had thought were clotted leaves had materialized into what were clearly thick strands of long matted hair.
A female.
He addressed the sexton. Youre sure its recent?
The sexton, whose name was Stubbs, nodded grimly. Twerent there yesterday.
A spare, slim-built man and not that old, despite a receding hairline, the sexton was using a stick to support his left leg. The stick probably explained the gravediggers presence. Traditionally, the sexton was the one who more often than not did the digging.
And they would have noticed a body in a sack, Hawkwood thought. Otherwise theyd have trodden all over it.
A spare, slim-built man and not that old, despite a receding hairline, the sexton was using a stick to support his left leg. The stick probably explained the gravediggers presence. Traditionally, the sexton was the one who more often than not did the digging.
And they would have noticed a body in a sack, Hawkwood thought. Otherwise theyd have trodden all over it.
He turned to the two gravediggers, who confirmed the sextons words with one sullen and one nervous nod. Their names, Hawkwood had learned, were Gulley and Dobbs. Gulley, round-shouldered with a moody cast to his features, was the older of the two. Dobbs, his apprentice, looked sixteen going on sixty. Hawkwood assumed the premature ageing was due to him having seen the contents of the trench.
Not the most promising start to a career, Hawkwood mused. Then again, it was one way of preparing the lad for what the job was likely to entail, assuming he managed to see out the rest of the day. Not that he was the only one present whod lost colour. Constable Hopkins was looking a bit pale about the gills, too.
Why? Hawkwood asked.
The sexton, realizing he was the one being addressed, frowned.
You could have got them to cover it up, Hawkwood said. No one would have known.
Id know. Seen enough poor beggars tossed in pits without it appenin on my own bloody doorstep. It aint right. It aint bloody Christian.
Eyeing the cane, Hawkwood took an educated guess. What regiment?
The sextons chin lifted. Thirty-sixth. The reply came quickly, proudly.
You served under Burne? Hawkwood said.
The sexton looked surprised and drew himself up further. That I did. He threw Hawkwood a speculative glance, as if taking in the greatcoat for the first time. Though it had a military cut, it was American, not British made. You?
The ninety-fifth.
A new understanding showed in the sextons eyes. He studied Hawkwoods face and the scars that were upon it. Then you know what it was like. Youll have seen it, too.
Hawkwood nodded. I have.
The sexton brandished his stick. Got this at Corunna. So, like I said, seen a lot of folk die before their time. He stared down into the trench. That aint how its supposed to be. She didnt deserve this.
No, Hawkwood said heavily. She didnt.
The sexton fell silent. Then he enquired softly, So?
Hawkwood studied the lay of the body and took a calming breath.
Dont think about it; just do it.
As if reading his mind, Constable Hopkins took a tentative pace forward.
Hawkwood stopped him with a look. Any idea what you plan to do when youre down there?
Hopkins flushed and shook his head. Er, no, s, er, Captain, the constable amended hurriedly, clearly remembering their previous association when hed been warned by Hawkwood not to address him as sir.
Me neither. So theres no need for us both to get our boots wet, is there? Were officers of the law. One of us should still look presentable. As he spoke, Hawkwood removed his coat and held it out.
Managing to look chastened and yet relieved at the same time, the constable took the garment and stepped back.
The trench was around eight feet in length and wasnt that deep, as Hawkwood found out when he landed at the bottom and felt the surface give slightly beneath him. The height of the trench should have been the giveaway. Most graves were close to six or seven feet deep. This one was shallower than that, which meant there was, in all probability, an earlier burial in the plot. And if there was one, the chances were there had been others before that.
The burial ground had been in use for at least a century and there wasnt much acreage. That meant a lot of bodies had been buried in an ever-diminishing space. A vision of putting his boot through a rotting coffin lid or, worse, long-fermented remains, flashed through his mind, dispelled when he reasoned that Gulley or more likely his apprentice wouldnt have been able to dig the later grave as the ground wouldnt have supported his weight while he worked. Even so, it was a precarious sensation. As it was, the mud was already pulling at his boots as if it wanted to drag him under.
Planting his feet close to the corners of the trench, still not entirely sure what he expected to find, he bent down. The smell was worse at the bottom, a lot worse. He could feel the sickly-sweet scent clogging his nostrils and reaching into the back of his throat. Trapped by the earthen walls, the smell was impossible to ignore and would have been impossible to describe. Holding his breath wasnt a viable option. Instead, he tried not to swallow. He looked up and saw four faces staring back at him. Bowing his head and adjusting his feet for balance, he eased the edge of the sacking away from the skull and used his fingers to scrape mud from the face. As more waxen flesh came to light the gender of the corpse was confirmed.
And it was a woman, not a child.
Plastered to the face, the original hair colour was hard to determine. Lifting it away from the cold, damp flesh was like trying to remove seaweed from a stone. The smell around him was growing more rank. He tried not to think of the fluids and other substances which, over the years, must have been leaching into the soil from the surrounding graves.
Lying on her left side, mouth partly open, it was as if she were asleep. The position of the hand added to the illusion. Unsettlingly, as he brushed another strand of hair from her brow, he saw that her right eye was staring blankly back at him. It reminded Hawkwood of a fish on a slab, though fish eyes were usually brighter. Removing the mud from her face had left dark streaks, like greasy tear tracks. There was a tight look to the skin but as his fingers wiped more slime away from the exposed flesh he felt it give beneath his fingertips.
Hawkwood was familiar with the effect of death on the human body. Hed seen it often enough on battlefields and in hospital tents and mortuary rooms. There was a period, he knew, beginning shortly after life had been extinguished, during which a corpse went through a transformation. It began with the contraction of the smaller muscles, around the eyes and the mouth, before spreading through the rest of the body, into the neck and shoulders and through into the extremities. Thereafter, as the body stiffened, feet started to curl inwards and fingers formed into talons. With time, however, the stiffness left the body, returning it to a relaxed state. From the texture of the skin, Hawkwood had the feeling that latter process was already well advanced. She had been dead for a while.
Using the edge of his hand, he continued to heel the mud away gently, gradually revealing the rest of the features. The dark blotches were instantly apparent, as were the indentations in the cheekbone, which beneath the mottled skin looked misshapen and, when he ran the ends of his fingers across them, felt uneven to the touch. Tiny specks in the corners of the eye were either tiny grains of dirt or a sign that the first flies had laid their eggs.
Hawkwood let go a quiet curse. There had always been the chance that the body had been left in the grave out of desperation and the worry probably by a relative of not being able to afford even the most meagre of funeral expenses. Had that been the likely scenario, Hawkwood would have been willing, if there had been no visible signs of hurt, to have left the corpse in the sextons charge with an instruction to place the body in the most convenient poor hole. But the bruising and the obvious fracture of the facial bones prevented him from pursuing that charitable, if unethical, course of action.