Resurrectionist. James McGee

       PROLOGUE

      When he heard the sobbing, Attendant Mordecai Leech’s first thought was that it was probably the wind trying to burrow its way under the eaves. On a night such as this, with rain lashing the windows like grapeshot, it was not an unusual occurrence; the vast building was old and draughty and had been condemned years ago. Only as Leech turned the corner at the foot of the broad stairway leading to the first floor, candle held aloft, did he realize that the weeping was not emanating from outside the building but from one of the galleries on the landing above him.

      The galleries were long with high, arched ceilings and sound had a tendency to travel, so it was hard to tell the exact source of the distress, or even whether the sufferer was male or female.

      Probably the bloody American, Norris, Leech thought, as another low moan drifted down the stairwell. It was followed by a long-drawn-out howl, like that made by a small dog. Judging from the intensity of the ululation, it sounded as if the poor bastard was in mortal torment, in the throes of another of his regular nightmares. But then, Leech reflected in a rare moment of compassion, if I were chained to the bloody wall by my neck and ankles, I’d probably be suffering bad dreams too.

      The howl gave way to a keening wail and Leech cursed under his breath. The ruckus was liable to disturb the wing’s other inhabitants, and once they’d picked up the din and joined in it would sound like feeding time at the Tower menagerie, which was a guarantee that no one would get a wink of sleep. God rot the mad bastard!

      Reluctantly, Leech prepared to mount the stairs, only to be startled by the harsh jangle of a bell. Suddenly he remembered that was why he’d come downstairs in the first place – in answer to a summons from someone outside, requesting admittance. Leech reached into his jacket pocket and consulted his watch. It was a little after ten o’clock. He didn’t need to look through the inspection hatch to see who it was.

      As he was reaching for the bolts on the inside of the door, Leech noticed that the wailing had stopped. It was as if the sound of the bell had triggered the silence. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it would be a quiet night after all.

      The door swung inwards to reveal a slender figure dressed in a black, rain-sodden cloak and wide-brimmed hat, dripping with water. A woollen scarf, wrapped round the visitor’s neck and lower face as a protection against the inclement weather, hid his features.

      Leech stood aside to let the man enter. “Ev’ning, Reverend,” he whispered. “I was wondering if the bloody rain would keep you away. Beggin’ your pardon,” Leech added hurriedly. His voice remained low, as if he was afraid he might be overheard. Members of the clergy were not welcome here. That was the rule, by order of the governors.

      The clergyman untied his scarf, revealing his clerical collar, and lifted his head. “I was detained; a burial service for one of my parishioners and a host of other duties, I’m afraid.”

      In raising his head and thus elevating the brim of his hat, the clergyman’s countenance was revealed. It was neither a young nor an old face. But there was wisdom there, in the eyes and the crow’s feet and the deep furrows etched into the cheeks and forehead. There were several scars, too, along the jawline: small and round, hinting at a brush with some variation of the pox. High along the priest’s right cheekbone what looked suspiciously like a wound from a blade had created a shallow runnel.

      Leech had often wondered about the scar and the priest’s background, but he had been too wary to ask the man directly and no one he had mentioned it to knew the circumstances of the disfigurement; or, if they did know, they chose not to impart information on the subject. So

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