Resurrectionist

by James McGee

  “You there!” The shout sprang out of nowhere.

  Hyde turned towards the sound. Out of the corner of his eye, Hawkwood saw a figure break from the shadows fifty paces away. He looked up, saw Hyde’s expression change from one of shock at discovery into a mask of cold anger, and knew it was over. As the sword point skewered towards his heart, Hawkwood abandoned his attempt to grab the knife hilt and turned his left arm desperately into the path of the sword.

  The steel blade seared through the sleeve of his coat. As the rapier point tore into the flesh of his upper arm, Hawkwood twisted his body against the sword’s blade. He felt the tension in the steel as the blade bent, but the sensation was eclipsed as the pain from the sword thrust tore through him.

  The pounding footsteps were approaching fast. Another shout rent the air. Hawkwood groaned as the sword blade was tugged free. He tried to lift his arm to ward off the next attack, but it never came. He was aware of the figure above him pausing, then it was moving past his field of vision towards the passageway from whence it had come. By the time he had raised himself on to his good arm, the figure was gone.

  The running footsteps halted. A pair of boots clattered into view. A body crouched down by his side and he heard a voice that was remarkably familiar enquire breathlessly, “Sir, sir, are you all right, sir?”

  Hawkwood felt the warmth flowing down the inside of his coat sleeve. He could also taste the blood that had traced its way down from the gash on his cheek to his lips. He gazed up at the anxious face and sighed. “I thought I told you not to call me sir.”

  Hopkins put an arm under Hawkwood’s shoulder. “Sorry, s—, Captain. I forgot.” The constable stared at Hawkwood, taking in the blood on his face and the dark drips pooling on the cobblestones from the end of the coat sleeve. “You’re wounded!”

  “I know,” Hawkwood said wearily. “And it bloody hurts.” Hawkwood leant back against the wall. “What brings you here?”

  “You’re bleeding, Captain. You need a physician.”

  “I’ve had enough of bloody physicians,” Hawkwood snapped. “I’m up to my arse in bloody physicians. Did you see where the bastard went?”

  Hopkins shook his head. “He’s disappeared. Who was it?”

  “Colonel Titus bloody Xavier bloody Hyde,” Hawkwood said, and winced as the pain streaked along his arm and up into his shoulder.

  The constable’s eyes grew wide. He stared in dismay towards the alley that had swallowed Hawkwood’s attacker. “I should have gone after him.”

  “No you bloody shouldn’t,” Hawkwood said. “We’ll find him. I asked what you were doing here.”

  “I came to fetch you, Captain. Orders from the Chief Magistrate.” The constable paused. “They’ve found another body.”

  17

  The corpse was wedged in the angle between two trusses spanning the Fleet. The thick timber beams had become a necessary feature of the Ditch. Held in place by wide metal brackets affixed to the brickwork on the opposing shores, they prevented the walls of the slums that lined the riverbanks from collapsing into the mud-black water.

  Hawkwood knew the body would not have been left on the beam intentionally. More than likely it had been heaved from the bank in the hope that the river would take it into its stinking embrace, sucking it into the honeycomb of sewers, rat-runs and underground waterways that flowed beneath the city’s streets. The ebb tide and the cessation of the rain had resulted in a considerable lowering of the water level, leaving the cross beams and their grisly decoration exposed for all to see.

  They were growing careless, Hawkwood thought.

  He watched in silence as the body was dragged up to the top of the bank. It had not been a job for the faint hearted. The constable who had lowered himself on to the beam in order to get a rope round the corpse had, more than once, come close to losing his footing and pitching into the effluence flowing turgidly beneath him. The condition of the corpse had not helped. Even from where he was standing, and in the rapidly disappearing light, Hawkwood could see the gaping wound in the dead woman’s belly and the places along her arms and legs where the flesh had been removed. The constable had lost the contents of his stomach within seconds of sitting astride the beam. He was ashen faced as he followed the corpse up to solid ground and the look he gave Hawkwood, who had directed him to retrieve the remains, left no one in any doubt what he thought.

  There were a few onlookers, though not enough to constitute a crowd. Gawpers were a fact of life when a dead body was involved, even though corpses were not an uncommon sight. In this instance, a carved-up female cadaver had been enough to set tongues wagging more than usual; so much so that some upstanding citizen – a rare creature in this neck of the woods – had gone looking for a constable rather than abandoning the thing to its fate in the vague belief that the river would rise once more and drag it back down into its stinking depths.

  Hawkwood flexed his left arm and winced as pain flared. There had been no time to get the wound seen to. Fortunately, the bleeding had stopped. The gash along his cheek was still weeping thin, watery tears of blood, but was not as serious as it felt or looked. It would heal quickly and, like the sword wound, would join the legion of other scars that crisscrossed his war-torn body. Hawkwood knew he’d been lucky. A heavier blade would have gone much deeper and probably taken his eye out. Though that wasn’t to say that the cut didn’t sting like a bastard.

  He thought about the wound in his arm and wondered what had possessed him to attempt such a gamble. Then he decided not to think about it. He was still alive, that was what mattered. He looked down at his coat. It had saved him, but it was looking the worse for wear. He thought about Hyde; the arrogance, the swordsmanship and the speed at which the man had fought. This was definitely no imbecile, but a man who, until the final seconds when Hopkins had appeared on the scene, had displayed calmness and a clear sense of purpose. This was a killer who was determined and, as Hawkwood had nearly found out to his cost, very dangerous.

  I wanted to take a good look at you, Hyde had informed him. It wasn’t the words that worried Hawkwood so much as the knowledge that Hyde knew who he was. How? And how had the colonel tracked him down?

  A shout from the riverbank interrupted his thoughts. It was Hopkins, indicating that the corpse was viewable. Hawkwood walked over to take a look. There was no question it had been subjected to the same form of mutilation as the others, as Surgeon Quill would doubtless verify. He stared down at the grey, splayed limbs.

  “Small world,” a voice said behind him.

  Hawkwood turned and stared at the tough, broad-shouldered man who had spoken, taking in the powerful frame, the short, gunmetal-grey hair and the hard, craggy features.

  “Jesus!” Nathaniel Jago said, staring at Hawkwood’s face. “Looks like you’ve been in the bloody wars.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” Hawkwood said. “I’ve sent messages.”

  “Have you now? I’ve been away.”

  Hawkwood raised an eyebrow.

  “Takin’ care of some business. Only got back this morning.”

  Hawkwood’s eyebrow remained raised.

  “You don’t want to know,” Jago said, and grinned.

  Hawkwood knew Jago’s commercial interests were many and varied; the majority of them bordering, if not crossing, the frontiers of illegality. Probably best if he didn’t delve too deep, he thought.

  Jago indicated the body and grimaced. “That ain’t a pretty sight.”

  “No,” Hawkwood agreed. He looked at the big man. “I didn’t take you for a lollygagger.”

  Jago shook his head, his face at once serious. “I’m not. Thought it might be someone I’m looking for; a friend of a friend.”

  Hawkwood waited.

  “There’s a lady I’ve been seeing. A workin’ girl of her acquaintance’s gone missing and I put the word out. I was told a body had turned up, female. Thought I should take a look, just in case.”

  “It’s not the one you’r
e after?” Hawkwood said.

  “Not even close. This one’s been dead a while.” Jago frowned. “What’s your interest?”

  “It’s not the first,” Hawkwood said.

  Jago looked at him.

  “It’s why I’ve been trying to get word to you. I was hoping you might be able to help me with some information. I need help, Nathaniel.”

  This time, it was Jago’s turn to lift an eyebrow.

  “What do you know about the sack-’em-up brigade?”

  “Ah shite,” Jago said.

  They were in Newton’s Gin Shop, facing each other across a dirty table at the back of the room.

  Hawkwood had left Hopkins in charge of the corpse, which would be delivered to Quill’s cellar. Two other constables were engaged in tracking down witnesses. Hawkwood knew it would be a miracle if they came up with anything. The locals may have objected to a nude and mutilated corpse appearing on their doorstep, but no one in their right minds would have considered pointing the finger, even if the cadaver had been heaved into the river to the accompaniment of a twenty-one-gun salute.

  Newton’s had all the ambience of a night-soil barge, but it was the closest refuge where they could talk without fear of being overheard. It wasn’t that the place was empty – it wasn’t – but it attracted the sort of clientele who were certain to be far too drunk to listen to, or even care about, anyone else’s conversation. Besides, Jago knew the owner, who had cleared a table for them and awarded two full mugs, on the house. Both men viewed the mugs’ contents with suspicion and immediately pushed the drinks to one side.

  “What do you want with those bastards?” Jago asked.

  Hawkwood told him.

  When he’d finished, Jago announced, “Reckon I’ll have a drink after all.” He turned and summoned the proprietor. “You can take that swill away –” Jago nodded towards the untouched mugs. “Bring us the good stuff. Leave the bottle.”

  When the drink arrived, Jago did the honours. Taking a swallow, he drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “So you think they’re providing your lunatic doctor with stolen bodies? Catch them and you might catch up with him.”

  Hawkwood nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Maybe if you wait long enough, he’ll have another go,” Jago said drily. He shook his head like a disappointed parent. “Jesus, I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

  Hawkwood smiled grimly, and flinched as the muscles in his jaw tugged at the nerves running along the line of his injured cheek. “So, do you know anybody?”

  “Maybe,” Jago said warily. “The buggers don’t exactly advertise. It’s all done on the nod. You got any kind of description?” The big man paused and stared over Hawkwood’s shoulder, towards the door. His eyes narrowed and he nodded imperceptibly.

  Hawkwood turned. A man was pushing through the room towards them. Hawkwood recognized him as one of Jago’s cohorts; he went by the name Micah. He stopped by the table, gave Hawkwood the once-over and leaned down to Jago’s ear. “There’s a moll outside.”

  “Be surprised if there weren’t,” Jago said, “state of this neighbourhood.”

  The messenger ignored the comment. “She says it’s to do with the information you were lookin’ for.”

  Jago considered the implications, then looked towards the door and nodded. “All right, bring her in.” He addressed Hawkwood. “Won’t take long.”

  Jago watched his lieutenant retreat, then sighed. “Like as not, it’ll be another waste of time. That’s the trouble. Offer a bit of a reward and every drunk and ’is flea-bitten hound comes staggerin’ out o’ the woodwork.”

  But Jago was wrong. It wasn’t a drunkard or his dog, it was exactly as Jago’s man had described, a moll – and not just any moll.

  “Bloody hell,” Hawkwood said.

  “What?”

  “I know her.”

  Jago stared at the woman being escorted towards the table. He looked back at Hawkwood in awe.

  “No,” Hawkwood said wearily. “I meant I’ve seen her before.”

  “Thank Christ for that. For a moment, you had me worried. You want to bugger off before she gets here?”

  “No need.”

  It was too late anyway.

  Having accompanied the woman to the table, Jago’s man departed.

  She was clearly apprehensive. Her face was flushed. Her hands were shaking. Jago looked up, his face neutral. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Lizzie … Lizzie Tyler.” As she spoke, the woman’s gaze moved to Hawkwood. For a second she showed no sign of recognition and then her eyes widened. She looked around quickly.

  “So, Lizzie,” Jago said, ignoring the startled expression. “I hear you might have some information for me. That right?”

  The moll turned back and her gaze moved inevitably to Hawkwood’s face. Hawkwood read the questions in the woman’s eyes. There was no small measure of fear there too. It was the fear of an informer being seen by the informed upon. It was unmistakable, and he knew his freshly scarred cheek wasn’t helping matters.

  “It’s all right, Lizzie,” Jago said. “Don’t mind him.” Jago pushed back the spare chair and nodded towards Hawkwood. “He might look like ’e’d slit a nun’s throat for a ha’penny, but he’s harmless. Anything you say to me, you can say to him and it won’t get past these four walls.”

  The woman paused, clearly having second thoughts and yet knowing it was too late to back out. Finally, after taking another furtive survey of the room, she sat down, her bosom wobbling. The chair gave a sharp creak of protest.

  “You want a drink, Lizzie? You look as though you could do with one.” Jago pushed his own mug across the table. “There you go; get that inside you.”

  The big woman stared at the mug before reaching out a hesitant hand and raising the drink to her lips. She took a deep swallow. Then, looking faintly embarrassed by her actions, she lowered the mug to the table.

  “So?” Jago prompted.

  Lizzie took a deep breath. “I heard you was lookin’ for Molly Finn?”

  “That’s right. You know her?”

  Lizzie nodded.

  “And you’ve seen her? Recently?”

  A moment of hesitation, followed by another quick nod.

  “Where?”

  “The Garden. She was lookin’ for business.”

  “When was this?”

  “This mornin’. Early.”

  Hawkwood was astonished. Jago’s intelligence network was even more impressive than he’d realized. The word could only have been on the streets a matter of hours and information on the girl’s whereabouts had already filtered back. He wished his own cadre of informers were as swift to respond, though he suspected that Jago’s methods of inducing people to heed the call were probably more persuasive than his own.

  “Anyone with her?” Jago asked.

  A significantly long pause was followed by a sideways glance in Hawkwood’s direction.

  “Sal Bridger, the little cow.”

  “Who’s Sal Bridger?”

  Hawkwood sat up in his chair.

  “What?” Jago said, catching the movement. “Wait, don’t tell me – her too?”

  Hawkwood looked at Lizzie. “Young? Black hair, blue eyes?”

  Lizzie said nothing. The expression on her fleshy face was enough.

  Hawkwood nodded. “We’ve met.”

  Jago looked at Lizzie. “She a workin’ girl, too?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jago stared at Hawkwood askance. “I can see we need to have a serious talk about the company you’re keepin’.”

  Lizzie frowned. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a girl tryin’ to make a livin’.”

  “Never said there was, Lizzie. So, what is she? Independent?”

  Lizzie nodded again.

  “And you saw her with Molly?”

  “It was underneath the arches, by the edge of the square. Molly was by herself. Didn’t seem to be ’avin’ much l
uck. Then I saw Sal turn up, and the next thing the two of them are skippin’ off together. Arm in arm, they were, twitterin’ like lovebirds.”

  “You didn’t see where they went, or if they met anyone?”

  “No.”

  Jago looked thoughtful. “Tell me about this Sal Bridger.”

  “She’s a vicious little tyke.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Reckons she owns the world, don’t she? Always has to ’ave her own way.” Lizzie nodded her head at Hawkwood. “She ’ad you in ’er sights. That’s why I ’ad to back off. Rules the roost, does Sal, especially in the Dog. She’ll go for anything if she thinks someone else is interested. No offence,” Lizzie added hurriedly.

  “None taken,” Hawkwood said.

  “Don’t matter if it’s a porter or the boy who empties the piss-pots; if it’s got a cock, she’ll go for it. Not that she ain’t had her share of swells, mind. There’s always one or two that come around looking for a bit of rough. I remember there was a lawyer once, and a vicar. From over Cripplegate way, he was.” Lizzie screwed up her face. “No ’ang on, he weren’t a vicar, I’m forgettin’ myself. He was a verger. In fact, she’s still seein’ to him, I reckon,’ cos he was in there the night you came around. I remember ’e was coming through the door as I was goin’ out. Not that he saw me. Probably wouldn’t ’ave remembered me anyway, despite us ’avin done it a few times. Mind you, that was when I wasn’t carryin’ as much meat as I am now. He likes ’em slim. Him and me used to have some good times a while back, until Lady Muck turned up. Sal’s got the looks, I can’t deny that …” Lizzie paused in her monologue, caught by the look on Hawkwood’s face. “What?”

  Hawkwood kept his voice calm. “This verger, what’s his name?”

  “Dunno ’is last name. He used to like me to call ’im Lucy. In our intimate moments, that was.”

  “Lucy?” Jago looked confused. “What sort of man calls himself Lucy?”

  “It’s short for Lucius,” Hawkwood said.

  “Now, how the hell would you know that?”

  “Tell us about the Dog,” Hawkwood said, ignoring Jago’s expression.