by James McGee
It was hard to make out specific features in the shadows. Both men wore cloth caps, pulled low, and short jackets, collars turned up, with neckerchiefs round the lower halves of their faces. The one to Hawkwood’s right was the closer of the two. Hawkwood had an impression of muscle and agility. It occurred to him that he should identify himself as a police officer, but in the darkness and the downpour and with the hook scything towards him, his first thought was purely of self-preservation.
Hawkwood turned aside, his right hand slamming the tipstaff against the side of the attacker’s wrist. The crack of ebony on bone seemed unnaturally loud even with the noise of the rain coming down. It was accompanied by a sharp exclamation of pain. He swung the baton again, a reverse strike against the attacker’s elbow, his full weight in the blow. There was another yell, followed by a ringing clatter as the metal hook struck the cobblestones and skidded across the alley floor. Without pause, Hawkwood pivoted on his left heel, his open coat swirling around him. Keeping his arm rigid, he drove the side of the tipstaff up against the base of his attacker’s nose. He felt the cartilage give way as the strike followed through, crushing the nasal bones, driving the splinters up and into the brain. It had been meant as a killing blow and the effect was devastating. It was as if the attacker had run into a brick wall. He simply stopped all forward momentum, fell to his knees and collapsed face down on to the cobbles.
Without pausing even to draw breath, Hawkwood spun. The second man had come closer but there was a noticeable hesitation in his step. Clearly, the speed of Hawkwood’s retaliation and the brutal force of his counter-attack had given this one pause for thought. He stared down at the figure sprawled motionless on the cobblestones.
“Don’t be a fool,” Hawkwood warned. “I’m a police officer.”
The attacker’s head lifted. Above the scarf, his eyes widened.
“Not what you expected, was it, cully?” Hawkwood said. Without diverting his gaze from the masked figure, Hawkwood tossed the tipstaff into his left hand. The attacker’s eyes followed the flight of the baton. Then his attention flicked back to Hawkwood. Rain dripped from the peak of his cap and ran down the blade held low in his fist. The moonlight reflected the doubt in his eyes.
“Your choice, cully,” Hawkwood said calmly, and waited.
And then he saw the subtle shift in stance, the transference of weight from one foot to the other, and with it the unmistakable tightening across the knuckles of the hand that gripped the cleaver. He saw the white crescents in the attacker’s eyes shrivel and darken, and thought wearily, Oh, Christ.
But the attack, when it came, was clumsy. The new man was not as light on his feet as his companion and not as limber and in order to deliver a blow he first had to draw back the cleaver.
In that second of indecision, Hawkwood, unlike his opponent, did not hesitate. He feinted the baton towards the hand holding the blade. Instinctively the attacker lifted his arm to ward off the threat, realizing his mistake as soon as he had done so. Hawkwood saw his opening and launched his boot towards the exposed belly. His kick drove the air from the attacker’s lungs, slamming the man backwards.
In the drenching darkness, Hawkwood’s attacker had failed to see how close he was to the waist-high wooden fence at the edge of the bridge. Had it not been for the rain it was possible he might have recovered his footing, but in places the uneven cobblestones had become as slippery as winter ice.
Almost lifted off his feet by the force of Hawkwood’s kick, the attacker staggered back against the wooden slats, heels scrabbling for traction. Arms flailing, he made a desperate attempt to stay upright. Gravity, however, had the upper hand. The rotten staves splintered under his weight and the blade wielder toppled over the side of the bridge, the cry of terror rising from his throat as he tumbled into the void.
Hawkwood approached the shattered railing. Returning the tipstaff to the pocket of his coat, he peered cautiously over the edge. The smell that rose to meet him was foul beyond belief. He drew back sharply, fighting the urge to retch. Forcing himself to take a deep breath – a difficult feat given that the appalling stench seemed to be devouring the air around him – he peered once more into the abyss. Even in the shadows cast by the surrounding hovels, he could tell that the water in the Ditch, swollen by the rain, had risen considerably. It was only a few feet below the curved underside of the bridge and was almost solid with filth. It was like looking down into a trough of black treacle. He could hear the rain striking the surface. It sounded like musket balls tearing into flesh.
There was no sign of his attacker. A bundle of what looked like matted fur close to the opposite bank drew his attention; the carcass of some long-dead animal, a dog, he guessed. Within the grey tangle he could make out a pale curve of bone, part of a ribcage. He caught a glimpse of a small, sleek black pelt scampering along a piece of driftwood, followed by the ripple of a long hairless tail, but it was gone in an instant.
He heard it then, a faint snuffling grunt, the sort a pig might make grubbing for roots. He realized it was coming from directly below him, close in to the bridge’s brick supports. Mindful of the precarious state of the rail and trying not to inhale too deeply, he leaned over and searched for the source of the sound.
He spotted movement down in the filth; a pale, spider-like shape clawing desperately for purchase against the worn brickwork. It took Hawkwood a second to realize he was looking at a human hand and that the area of shadow surrounding it was the partially submerged body of his attacker.
As Hawkwood watched, the attacker made another vain grab for freedom. The oily black crust broke apart, releasing the man’s upper arm, enabling him to turn his head. But the release was temporary. His neckerchief had become dislodged, but the attacker’s face was unrecognizable beneath the mask of shit and mud. Only his eyes, white and wide with fear, were visible. His mouth was open but no sound emerged. Then, as quickly as it had relaxed its hold, the sticky effluence began to drag him under. In the blink of an eye he was gone, drawn into the black maw beneath the bridge as if the ground had opened and swallowed him whole.
Hawkwood straightened. He turned and walked over to where the first attacker was lying on the ground. Heedless of the wet, he gazed down at the dead man without sympathy. He looked around. There were no signs of life; no flicker of candlelight to indicate a curtain had been pulled aside, no cries of alarm, no running footsteps that might have suggested witnesses running to summon help. Nothing moved other than the rain, which continued its relentless fusillade against windowpane and tile. Ignoring the widening puddles, Hawkwood knelt and turned the body over. The lifeless eyes were dull and staring. The thin scarf that had concealed the attacker’s lower features had slipped. It was soaked with rain and stained black with blood. The face was not one that Hawkwood recognized. He switched his attention to the dead man’s clothing, moving through the pockets. No help there either; they were empty. He rose to his feet, his eyes quartering the cobblestones. His gaze caught the gleam of steel. He walked over to the wall and picked up the hook, turning it in his hands, pondering its significance.
It was weighty and there was a simple beauty in its smooth curves. The handle ended in a T-shape, allowing the holder to grip the bar of the T in his palm so that the shaft of the hook emerged from the gap between his middle fingers. It was a remarkably effective tool as well as a fearsome weapon, and one he’d seen many times in the markets and slaughter yards of Smithfield, used by butchers and meat porters to drag animal carcasses on and off cutting slabs.
Hawkwood considered the implications. That there was a connection between his attackers and his visit to the Dog seemed glaringly obvious.
It was possible, he supposed, that they’d been no more than a couple of opportunists who’d spotted him in the taproom, seen him pay for his drink rather than receive it on credit, viewed him as an easy mark and, acting on impulse, followed him into the alley.
An alternative explanation was that they’d been villains he’d come up
against before; men out for revenge. But that seemed doubtful, given that he hadn’t recognized either of them, certainly not the one lying at his feet. The one that had fallen prey to the Fleet’s uncharitable grip, he couldn’t be sure of, but he guessed it unlikely they’d met previously, a theory more or less confirmed by the shock in the man’s eyes when Hawkwood had identified himself as a police officer.
He looked down at the hook and remembered the cleaver. The choice of weapons was intriguing. They were tools of the meat trade. Poke a stick down a rat hole, he thought, and you were never sure what was going to come crawling out. Maybe his enquiries about Doyle had touched a raw nerve. He looked again at the body.
In the normal course of events, at odds of two to one and given the weapons they had brandished, it would have been their victim lying face down on the cobbles. Unluckily for them, they hadn’t expected to be confronted by a former officer in the Rifles who’d spent the last six months of his army career living rough in the Spanish mountains slaughtering Frenchmen. They’d paid for their mistake with their lives. Not that Hawkwood intended to lose any sleep over it. His attackers had dealt the hand. Unhappily for them, it had been Hawkwood holding the trump cards.
He closed his eyes. There were too many damned ifs and buts floating around in the broth.
And it had been a long day – two grisly murders, one suicide and a visit to a madhouse; not exactly commonplace, even by a Bow Street officer’s standards. It was late, he was soaked through and bone-tired. A good night’s sleep wouldn’t come amiss. That way he’d be refreshed and ready to resume the investigation in the morning.
His decision made, Hawkwood tossed the hook over the rail into the Ditch and continued on his way; a dark figure disappearing into a darker night.
8
Sawney was at his usual booth, counting the night’s earnings. A jug of porter and a wooden platter of bread and cheese stood by his elbow, but they remained untouched while he did his sums. His sallow face was drawn in concentration. His lips moved in soundless calculation.
It was a little after eight o’clock and the Dog was almost empty, save for a trio of brawny, bloodstained Smithfield porters who’d stopped in for breakfast, while over by the hearth a couple of exhausted whores, dresses askew, were sleeping off the exertions of the night before. A fire had been newly lit and the taproom stank of smoke and grease, sawdust, stale sweat and beer.
They’d offloaded three of the five corpses from the cellar, the two males and the boy. The males had gone to Guy’s. The boy’s cadaver had been delivered to a private anatomy school over on Little Windmill Street. They’d received a fair price for the two males – nine guineas for the pair – but it had been the child’s corpse that had seen the best return. Smalls – children – sold according to height; six shillings for the first foot and ninepence an inch for the rest. The boy had been tall for his age, added to which he’d suffered from a deformed foot. Anatomists paid extra for abnormalities, so Sawney had made eight guineas from the child alone. He’d even found a buyer for the teeth he’d extracted from that bugger, Doyle. A dentist over on Dean Street had taken them off his hands. There had been some minor haggling, but the final price had been acceptable to both parties.
All things considered, they’d turned a tidy profit.
Sawney’s thoughts turned to the female cadavers. They had been promised to an anatomist over on Chapel Street, but Sawney had decided to hold off in the hope of driving the price up further. It was a pity they hadn’t been pregnant.
Pregnant females were at a premium. The only legitimate source for bodies was still the gallows, but the law drew the line at hanging pregnant women. As a result, condemned female prisoners would often try to get themselves knocked up by fellow inmates in the hope of cheating the hangman.
Sawney reckoned he had maybe another twenty-four hours before the smell down in the cellar got too strong to bear. The Dog reeked bad enough as it was but rotting corpses had an aroma that was unmistakable. He was reminded of St Clement Dane’s church, where the crypt had held so many rotting bodies the congregation couldn’t hear the hymns for the buzzing of the flies and people had fainted in the aisles from the smell.
On second thoughts, Sawney decided, maybe he’d take the Chapel Street offer after all, move them that night, cash value notwithstanding. Get them out of the way. Of course, if he did hang on and the bodies went off in the meantime, they could always render them down. There was more than one way of skinning a cat. Ha ha.
Sensing a brooding figure behind his shoulder, he looked up. Taking this as an invitation, Hanratty slid on to the opposite bench, a concerned look on his rough-hewn face.
Sawney frowned. “What?”
“They’ve found Jem Tate’s body. It was stuffed down an alley off Thieving Lane. He was missing his boots, shoes and breeches.”
Sawney was silent. The evening’s takings were temporarily forgotten.
“How’d he die?”
“His face was stove in. Wrist was broke, too.”
Sawney absorbed the information. “What about Murphy?”
Hanratty shook his head. “Ain’t no sign of ’im.”
Sawney gnawed the inside of his cheek.
Hanratty leaned close. Shadows played across the crown of his head. His face was seamed and coarse, his jowls were shaded with stubble. “Chris’sake, Rufus, I told you it was a mistake sending them after a Runner. I bloody told you!”
Sawney stopped chewing. His eyes hardened. “And I recall you tellin’ me that Tate and Murphy were good men.”
Hanratty sat back. “So they were.”
“Not bleedin’ good enough, though,” Sawney grated. “Were they?”
Hanratty coloured. “Maybe Murphy got him.”
“Maybe,” Sawney said. “So why hasn’t he reported back?”
It was Hanratty’s turn to chew his lip. “P’raps ’e’s hurt, gone to ground somewhere.”
“All right, so if they took care of ’im, where’s the bastard’s corpse?”
“I told ’em to toss ’im into the Ditch. The rats’d pick his bones clean in a couple of days. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe they got ’im.”
“Maybe,” Sawney said cautiously.
Dumping a body in the Fleet was a tried-and-tested and very efficient means of disposal. If you didn’t want to risk doing it in the open, there were plenty of access points throughout the Warren; hidden trapdoors and flagstones that could be lifted to allow unwanted items to be consigned into the black mire. The Fleet was London’s equivalent to the River Styx, except there was no Charon to ferry the shades of the dead to the afterlife, just the rats.
“What’ll we do?” Hanratty fixed Sawney with an anxious gaze.
Sawney thought about it. “Nothing.”
Hanratty blinked. A nerve flickered at his throat. It looked as though a worm had burrowed under his flesh and was trying to escape through his skin.
“Tate’s dead,” Sawney said. “And Murphy’s absent without leave. Neither of ’em is talkin’. Far as you an’ me is concerned, if any other Charleys come callin’, we know nothing. None of my lot’ll talk. Tate and Murphy were working for themselves. There’s nothing to link ’em to us.”
“Their names are in my ledger,” Hanratty said.
“So cross ’em off.” Sawney’s voice was a snarl. “They always were troublemakers, weren’t they? The Dog’s a legitimate labour exchange, ain’t it? No room for either of ’em in an honest, upstandin’ establishment.”
Hanratty thought about it, eyes narrowed. Sawney waited. He could have sworn he heard wheels turning. Finally the publican nodded. “That might do it.”
“Course it will,” Sawney said. “We got a good arrangement here, you an’ me. I ain’t about to see it swept downriver by some nosey lawman.”
“What about Tate and Murphy?”
“What about ’em? We know Tate’s no threat, not now he’s been stripped bare.”
Sawney spoke the truth.
Unless there had been witnesses who could prove otherwise, as far as anyone else was concerned, Tate could have been the victim of an unexpected assault himself. There’d been any number of luckless souls who’d been murdered for their boots, shirt and breeches on the banks of the Fleet. Could be, someone had seen Tate coming out of the Dog on payday and thought he’d still have money in his pocket.
“And Murphy?”
“If the useless bugger does show ’is face, your boys can deal with him. In fact, it might be worth our while them makin’ a few enquiries to see if he ’as turned up somewhere – discreetly like.”
Hanratty nodded, his mind clearly more at ease. “Aye, they can do that.”
“And while they’re at it, see what they can find out about this bleedin’ Runner, just in case he’s still around. What did Symes say he was called? Hawkwood, was it?”
“Consider it done.”
“Good. In that case, I’ll get back to my counting,” Sawney said. He separated out a pile of coin and passed it across the beer-stained table. “This week’s storage fee.”
Hanratty scooped the money into his palm and closed his fist. His fingers were stubby and the skin over his knuckles was crisscrossed with scars. His nails were ingrained with dirt and bitten to the quick.
Sawney looked up. “Chances are, Tate and Murphy did their job, otherwise there’d be a mob of Charleys outside,’ ammering on the door. There ain’t, so it looks like we’re still in business, right?”
“Right.” Hanratty pocketed his cut and nodded.
Sawney watched him go. Perhaps it had been a mistake, going after the Runner. There again, Sawney reminded himself, he had a livelihood to protect. He had responsibilities – and they didn’t come cheap. Maggett and the Ragg brothers didn’t work for him out of the goodness of their hearts.
And there was Sal, of course. Had to keep her happy. Though Sawney had had the feeling for some time that Sal wasn’t in it for the money. She was in it for the excitement, the thrill. At times it was almost as if she craved it.