The apothecary knew that Hawkwood had served as an officer in the Rifles and was, therefore, intimately familiar with the horrors of the battlefield.
“I was a soldier. It wasn’t my place to question the why. My duty was to take care of the how and the when.” Hawkwood smiled thinly at Locke’s bemused expression. “Forgive me; I had a similar conversation recently with the Coroner’s surgeon.”
Locke said nothing.
“With Hyde,” Hawkwood said, “I was sure we were dealing with a madman because he’d been locked up in this place, but you convinced me it wasn’t that simple. For a start, even though he was a patient here, Hyde did not consider himself to be mad.”
Locke spread his hands. “That is the nature of the sickness. I told you at the time, while other doctors consider madness to be a spiritual malaise, I believe it to be a physical disease, an organic disorder within the brain. It can affect anyone, from a soldier to a surgeon, from a kitchen maid to a—”
“King?” Hawkwood finished.
“Indeed.” Locke smiled faintly. “And while their behaviour may be unfathomable to others, within their own minds, they are being perfectly rational.”
“And Hyde didn’t think of himself as either sane or insane, because that was the nature of his delusion.”
“Correct.”
“When I asked you what made Hyde commit murder, you told me it was necessary to know how his delusion arose in the first place.”
“But of course. Without knowledge of a person’s history there is no way of determining what makes them commit irrational acts, which is why I’m unable to provide you with the information you require. You forget; Hyde was already known to us. We had both his medical and his army records, thus we were able to chart the course of his delusions. His crimes were not committed in isolation. They were part of a natural progression, stemming from his experiences during the war. There was a purpose to his actions; validity, if you will; at least in his mind. With regards to the individual you are now seeking, we have no point of reference, therefore I have nothing to chart.”
“We have caritas,” Hawkwood said, clutching at his remaining straw. “Does that tell us anything?”
Locke considered the question. “It implies the author is an educated man.”
“And?”
“His education may prompt him to believe he is of a superior intellect to those around him, which could mean he holds a position of authority. Alternatively, he could occupy a more modest position but believes he has been held back by those above him who, in his opinion, are his inferiors. Jealousy turns to resentment. Resentment turns to anger, anger to rage …”
“And rage to murder,” Hawkwood said softly.
“A simplistic rendering, but yes. Though, murder is not always born of anger. It is also an illustration of the control one person wields over another; a way of the killer showing that he has the power over life and death.”
“Like Hyde?”
The apothecary nodded. “Like Colonel Hyde. He decides who lives and who dies. In his own mind, he is the one before whom all others should bow down.”
“You’re not telling me he thinks he’s God?”
As Hawkwood absorbed that thought, Locke said, “Clearly, the word caritas holds a particular significance.”
“You mean why not ‘whore’ or ‘Jezebel’,” Hawkwood said.
Locke made a face. “Perhaps we should be thankful for small mercies. If I remember my scriptures, Jezebel was consumed by a pack of stray dogs. Had your murderer chosen that as his means of disposal, I doubt she’d have been found at all.”
Hawkwood was digesting that morbid titbit and wondering if it was the apothecary’s attempt at wit when Locke said, “From your description of the wounds, he is clearly prone to rage; yet methodical, too; capable of deliberation.”
“How can you tell that?”
The apothecary paused and then said, “Because it took thought to choose that particular word and it would have taken time to carve it into her flesh.”
Reaching for a pencil, Locke took a sheet of paper from the detritus on his desk and, employing a series of single strokes of the pencil, began to write. When he had finished, he held up the paper. Upon it was etched the word CARITAS.
“From your description of the wounds, he would have had to employ some eighteen separate cuts. Therefore he took his time. Ergo, he was not afraid of being interrupted.” Locke paused and then said, “As a matter of interest, were there any other similar cuts on the body, close to the same area?”
Hawkwood thought back. “One or two, yes, now you mention it.”
“More than likely they were practice cuts, to allow him to perfect his calligraphy.” The apothecary laid the paper on the desk and studied his penmanship. “One has to wonder who the message was for.”
“For?” Hawkwood said, still trying to come to terms with the fact that the killer had perfected his technique before committing himself to the final indignation.
“We must assume it was meant to be read. Otherwise, why take the trouble?” Locke looked up. “You are aware that caritas can have other meanings besides ‘charity’?”
“No,” Hawkwood said. “I wasn’t.”
“It can also mean ‘esteem’ or ‘virtue’. If she was a working girl, as you suspect, then the latter interpretation would be more apposite.”
“Because she’d be considered a woman without virtue? So this was what? Some kind of punishment?”
“Possibly, or a warning to those who would ply a similar trade. The killer is giving notice that this is the fate that will befall them if they do not change their immoral ways.”
“Well, if that’s his goal,” Hawkwood said, “he’ll have his work cut out, given the number of molls in this city.”
“So will you,” Locke observed. “Seeing as you’ll be the one trying to stop him.”
A faint, far-off scream made the apothecary cock his head. As he did so, a water droplet splashed on to his sleeve from the ceiling above. Cursing, he dabbed the offending spot with his handkerchief while a cacophony of hoarse cries began to spread through the building. It was as if the first scream had been a prompt. It sounded, Hawkwood thought, as though a pack of wolves had been loosed from a cage.
Taking the interruption as his cue, and struck by a sudden and overwhelming desire to escape the hospital’s oppressive atmosphere, Hawkwood got to his feet.
Locke rose with him. As he did so, the apothecary reached for the bell pull on the wall behind his desk and gave the cord a short tug. “I’m sorry I could not be of more help.”
Hawkwood shook his head. “On the contrary, you’ve confirmed what I’d already half suspected.”
Somewhere in the depths, he presumed a bell had rung and he wondered if the sound of it had been drowned by the noises that were beginning to echo through the corridors, among them the clatter of running feet.
At that moment, however, the door opened to admit the attendant who’d delivered him to Locke’s inner sanctum, causing Hawkwood to wonder if the man had been hovering outside throughout the entire course of his and Locke’s conversation.
“Second opinions are my speciality,” Locke said, smiling. “Should any further