Resurrectionist

by James McGee

  Lizzie sniffed disdainfully. “It’s Sal’s main feedin’ ground. Like I said, she thinks she’s queen of the bleedin’ May. Mind you, she’s Sawney’s woman. That helps. Ain’t no one going to go up against Sawney and his crew.”

  “Sawney?” Jago said. He caught Hawkwood’s eye.

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve heard the name mentioned. He’s a mate of Hanratty’s.”

  Hawkwood sensed there was more. “And?”

  “You asked me if I knew any resurrectionist scum?”

  Hawkwood didn’t reply. He knew Jago was going to tell him anyway.

  “They say this Sawney’s new to the game and he ain’t too particular ’ow he earns a livin’, if you know what I mean. Rumour is, he digs ’em up and Hanratty stores ’em prior to delivery. Rumour is all it is, though …” Jago paused. “Other thing I seem to remember is that he was in the army; a driver with the Royal Wagon Train. Did a runner back in ’09.”

  Hawkwood sat back. Jesus! he thought wildly. A frisson of excitement moved through him. He tried to sound calm. “This crew of his, what about them?”

  “Princes, each and every one,” Jago smiled grimly.

  “The Raggs ain’t no princes,” Lizzie muttered. “Bleedin’ animals, they are. They like it rough. Some of the girls do too, but most don’t – and they’re the ones they go for. I’ve seen some of the girls after Lemmy and Sammy Ragg’ve been with ’em. It weren’t a pretty sight. They like doin’ it together. They take turns, if you know what I mean. Don’t know about Maggett. He ain’t so loud.”

  “Maggett?” Hawkwood threw another questioning glance towards Jago, but the former sergeant seemed content to let Lizzie retain the honours.

  Lizzie grimaced. “He’s Sawney’s right-hand man. His brain’s smaller than most, but the rest of him makes up for it. I saw him break a man’s arm once, just because the poor sod knocked ’is drink. Did it as easy as snapping a twig.”

  “He’s big?” Hawkwood asked.

  Lizzie nodded.

  “How big?”

  “Big,” Lizzie said firmly.

  “And what’s this Sawney look like?”

  “A shifty-eyed streak of piss.”

  “I was thinking more about his size,” Hawkwood said. “And his colouring.”

  Lizzie grimaced. “Well, he ain’t nowhere as big as Maggett. Mind you, there’s not many who are. He’s about the same height as your man who brought me in here, only a bit more round shouldered. Got dark hair, goin’ a bit thin on top. An’ he’s got bad teeth.”

  “Sounds like God’s gift,” Jago said. “You wonder what this Sal sees in ’im.”

  “There’s no accountin’ for taste,” Lizzie agreed. “Though I did ’ear a rumour he’s built like a horse, if you know what I mean.” She paused. “But that still don’t mean he’s not a shifty-eyed streak of piss. Got a temper to go with it, too. He’s not a man to cross.”

  Hawkwood closed his eyes. His mind went back to the description of the two men who’d been seen leaving the corpses at Bart’s. One had been of average height. The other had been a big man, who’d hefted the dead body he’d been carrying with ease, according to the constables who’d chased them. He was reminded also of the signs he’d found at the scene of the Doyle murder. They had indicated that four people could have been involved in the hanging and crucifixion, with one of them having the strength to raise the body into position by the hangman’s rope.

  “Bloody Symes,” Hawkwood said, shaking his head. “I should have guessed.”

  Though he knew he probably wouldn’t have, unless the bastard had been carrying some sort of sign above his head.

  “Symes? Who’s Symes?” Jago said.

  “He’s Lizzie’s verger. And he’s in it up to his neck.” Hawkwood clenched his fist. “We need to talk, Nathaniel.”

  Jago stared hard at the expression on Hawkwood’s face, then nodded. He turned to Lizzie. “You’re a good girl, Lizzie. You see Micah on the way out. Tell him I said he was to settle up with you. He’ll see you right.” For a second, the big moll looked uncertain, and then she realized the audience was over. She got to her feet, gave both men a cautious nod and an uncertain smile, then gathered up her skirts.

  Hawkwood leaned forward. “Know anyone called Doyle, Lizzie? Edward Doyle?”

  Lizzie’s brow wrinkled. “Don’t ring no bells, though I think there might’ve been an Eddie who used to do a bit of porterin’ for Maggett. Maggett’s a slaughterman. He’s got a yard over near Three Fox Court.”

  It was a common enough name but there might be something in it, Hawkwood thought. Perhaps Doyle hadn’t been a member of a rival gang, after all. The murdered man could well have been part of Sawney’s crew, and there’d been a falling out among thieves.

  The information imparted, Lizzie continued towards the door. Then she paused. “No one’ll know you got all this from me, will they? Only Molly’s a sweet girl. I wouldn’t like to think anything had happened to her. She always ’ad time for a chat. Not like that other sly bitch.”

  She was referring to Sal, Hawkwood presumed.

  “Be our secret, Lizzie,” Jago said. “Mind how you go, now.” Adding, when Lizzie was out of earshot, “That’s a turn-up. Didn’t expect to hear anything so soon.”

  “You probably wouldn’t have,” Hawkwood said, “if she hadn’t been nursing a grudge against Sal Bridger.”

  “Don’t like her much, does she?” Jago agreed. He turned to find that Hawkwood was regarding him with a bemused expression. “Look, I never carry small change, all right? So, what do you think?”

  “I think we should have had this conversation a good deal earlier.”

  Jago sucked in his cheeks. “Might not ’ave done either of us much good. Molly Finn wouldn’t have been missin’ then, and Lizzie wouldn’t have been feelin’ the need to do her civic duty. We’d probably have been none the wiser. Likely, we’d have been sittin’ here with our thumbs up our arses.”

  Hawkwood sighed.

  “I take it those questions you were lookin’ to ask me have been answered?” Jago said.

  “I’d say so. Most of them, anyway. One thing’s clear. All roads lead back to the Dog.”

  “For you and me both.” Jago frowned. “You reckon that’s where your mad colonel’s been hiding himself?”

  “It’s possible, though I’ve no definite proof linking him to Sawney. It’s just a gut feeling.”

  “I’ve been with you when you’ve had them before. You weren’t often wrong.”

  “It also strikes me he’d consider himself a cut above Hanratty’s usual clientele.” Hawkwood pursed his lips. “Either way, I’m going to have to go back there to find out.”

  “Funny you should say that. I was considerin’ payin’ the place a visit myself.”

  “You’re thinking that’s where Sal Bridger might have taken Molly Finn?”

  Molly Finn and Hyde? Even as Hawkwood posed the question, it didn’t seem likely the two of them would be under the same roof.

  “Right now it’s all I ’ave to go on. I’d say neither of us has much of a choice.”

  “I’m wondering what Sal Bridger would want with Molly Finn. It’s not as though the Dog lacks molls,” Hawkwood said. “And the last time I saw Sal, she was going out of her way to remove the competition.”

  “You know what they say,” Jago replied, “about dogs shitting on their own doorstep. Maybe they had something special in mind that they couldn’t do with someone closer to home.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Me neither.”

  “It’ll be two against seven, you know. Hanratty and his boys will side with Sawney; bound to.”

  “So we get ourselves a little help. Even the odds,” Jago said. He grinned wolfishly.

  “You do realize I’m a peace officer. It’s my duty to act within the boundary of the law.”

  “Course it is,” Jago said, his tone serious. “So how many do you think we’ll ne
ed?”

  “Another two at least, maybe three,” Hawkwood said. He could see that Jago was concerned about something. “What?”

  “They’ll have to be bloody good. The Hanrattys are hard bastards and this crew of Sawney’s sounds useful.”

  Hawkwood knew what Jago was implying. This wasn’t a job for the average constable, and use of fellow Runners meant the involvement of officialdom and that was going to take time, which both of them knew they didn’t have.

  “You got anyone you can call on?” Jago asked.

  “Other than you, you mean?”

  “Hell, you’ve always got me,” Jago said. “Fact of life. Same as I’ve always got you.”

  Hawkwood allowed himself a smile but the question made him think. With the exception of Jago, the list of suitable candidates with the necessary expertise was depressingly small.

  “I’ve got one,” Hawkwood said. “Maybe.” But there was no guarantee the person he had in mind would want to be involved.

  “Up to me then,” Jago said. “You got a problem using some of my boys?”

  “Not if they’re good.”

  “Oh, they’re good,” Jago said. “Wouldn’t be with me otherwise.”

  “All right,” Hawkwood said. “Let’s do it.”

  “Best get goin’ then.” Jago got up from the table and quartered the room. His gaze alighted on a table by the door where Micah was sitting patiently, a mug in his hand. Jago gave a silent indication that he and Hawkwood were leaving. Acknowledging the gesture, Micah drained his mug, stood up and waited until they had joined him.

  The three men walked to the door to find that evening was upon them. The drop in temperature as they emerged from the warmth of Newton’s was enough to make them wince. Jago looked up at the night sky. “Likely there’ll be snow by morning.”

  Micah didn’t answer and Hawkwood saw no reason to argue. He turned up his collar.

  “Captain?”

  Hawkwood felt Jago stiffen. Micah moved closer to Jago’s side, Hawkwood turned and stared at the hovering constable.

  “I thought you were escorting the body to the surgeon. Why are you still here?”

  Hopkins hesitated, made unsure by Hawkwood’s tone. “Waiting for orders, Captain. Wasn’t sure if you’d need me again. I sent the body off with Constable Tredworth. Thought I’d better wait for you.” The constable’s eyes darted sideways towards Jago and his lieutenant.

  Jago gazed back at Hopkins with an amused expression on his face. Micah maintained an impassive silence. If anything, he looked vaguely bored.

  “Did you now?” Hawkwood stared at the constable, taking in the slim frame, the less than flattering uniform, the ears and the mop of hair jutting from beneath the ridiculous hat. In the few days he’d worked with Hopkins, Hawkwood had found himself quietly impressed by the young officer’s attitude. George Hopkins might not have had the chance to grow into his uniform, but Hawkwood sensed he’d matured in other ways. There was certainly a new awareness in his expression that had not been there before. Perhaps the events he’d been witness to had given the constable a sudden understanding of his own mortality.

  Hawkwood could see that Jago was looking at him questioningly. He knew Jago well enough to know exactly what his former sergeant was thinking. He wondered if he would come to regret his next decision.

  “Meet back here?” Jago said, as if it was already a foregone conclusion.

  Hawkwood thought about it a bit more. Finally he nodded. He looked at Hopkins. “You’re to arm yourself, and you tell no one. You understand?”

  “Yes, s—, Captain.”

  “It’d be best if we use the back entrance,” Jago said, “so’s not to alarm the citizenry. What time?”

  Hawkwood made a calculation.

  “Don’t be late,” Jago said to both of them, and winked.

  Hawkwood entered the taproom of the Four Swans in Bishopsgate and paused to let his eyes grow accustomed both to the dim lighting and the pall of tobacco smoke that hung over the tables like a heavy sea fog. The place was busy, as usual. The clientele was a mixture of regular drinkers who considered the inn their home from home, and those who were passing through. Most of the latter were travellers who were either recent arrivals from the early-evening coach or those who were awaiting its departure on its onward journey. The inn provided a very good supper and empty seats were generally hard to come by. Standing on the threshold, Hawkwood looked towards the booth in the far, dark corner, where he knew, almost certainly, one chair would be vacant.

  The candle on the table was worn down almost to a stub. The man occupying the corner of the booth, his right side tucked in against the wall, was seated in shadow. He was eating his way through a bowl of thick stew. At his elbow rested a half-full pewter tankard.

  “How’s the mutton?” Hawkwood asked.

  The man turned his head slowly and looked up. “Wouldn’t know. I chose the beef.”

  Hawkwood slid into the booth and extended his left hand. “How are you, Major?”

  Major Gabriel Lomax put down his fork and extended his own left hand to meet Hawkwood’s. “I’m well, Captain. Yourself? Still hunting vermin?”

  “It’s a full-time job.”

  “Isn’t that the God’s honest truth?” Gabriel Lomax said, and grinned. Or rather he gave an approximation of a grin. Lomax was a former cavalry officer. Like Hawkwood, he was a veteran of Talavera, but though he’d survived the battle, he had not escaped injury. Trapped under the weight of his dead horse, the former dragoon had fallen prey to the fires that had ravaged the battlefield in the aftermath of the fighting. He’d been rescued from beneath his roasting mount by a French officer who’d seen his plight, but not before the flames had taken their dreadful toll. The right side of Lomax’s face, from eyeline to throat, looked as if it had been scourged with nails. The black patch he had taken to wearing did little to conceal the ruin that lay beneath it, a fissured crater crisscrossed with scar tissue. When Lomax attempted a grin only the left side of his face showed any animation. The effect was that of a grotesque, lopsided mask. The fires had also transformed Lomax’s right hand into a twisted claw. It was rare, therefore, that Gabriel Lomax didn’t end up spending the evening in a corner seat at a table by himself. Invalided from the army, the cavalryman had put his experience to good use. These days, he commanded armed horse patrols, protecting travellers and coaches on the King’s highways in and around London.

  “Good God!” Lomax said when he saw the livid scar on Hawkwood’s cheek. “I know I have the devil’s own job shaving, but at least I’ve a bloody excuse!” He peered closer, recognizing immediately the cause of the gash. “Ah, my apologies. I trust, in that case, the other fellow came off worse?”

  “Not yet,” Hawkwood said. “But he will.”

  Lomax drew back, his good eye glinting perceptively. “Of that, I have no doubt. So, tell me, what brings you to my table on a cold night like this? Wait, you’ll have a glass to ward off the chill? A brandy, perhaps? French, not Spanish,” he added conspiratorially.

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  “Good man.” Lomax looked for the nearest serving girl and raised his hand in a summons. “Brandy for the gentleman, if you would. Make sure it’s from the special reserve, Beth. This one’s a friend of mine.”

  The girl smiled and nodded, then she saw Hawkwood’s face. The smile faltered but only for a fraction before she turned and went off with a sway of her hips.

  “Typical,” Lomax said. “I’ve just gotten them used to me, then you turn up. Probably thinks we’re related. Mind if I finish my stew? I’ve been out all bloody day riding down bridle culls. Nothing like the thrill of the chase to give a man an appetite.”

  “Catch anything?”

  “Small fry. Two boyos tried to hold up a coach at the top of Mile End Road. Not the brightest of the bunch. Only got down off their horses to do the job! We happened by and their mounts bolted. Left the silly sods running around like chickens with their heads chop
ped off. Thought I’d die laughing.”

  Lomax finished his stew, took a draught from his tankard and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Hawkwood’s drink arrived. Lomax waited until the girl left and Hawkwood had taken a swallow. “So?” he said. “I was about to ask again what brings you here, but I see you have that look about you. My guess is it involves a proposition. Would I be right?”

  Hawkwood hesitated.

  “Best come straight out with it, Captain.”

  “I’m hunting tonight,” Hawkwood said. “I need a good man at my back.”

  “And you thought of me? I’m flattered. Is it dangerous?”

  Hawkwood thought of Doyle’s crucified body nailed to the tree. “Probably.”

  “Splendid! I’m your man. Will I need my horse?”

  Hawkwood laughed. He couldn’t help it. “No, Major. We’ll be going by shanks’ pony.”

  Lomax looked back at him in disbelief. “You’re asking a one-eyed, one-armed cavalryman to help you, on foot. You must be bloody desperate.”

  “We’ll have help.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it. You’re sure it’s me you want?”

  “Can you fire a pistol?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can you wield a blade?”

  “Not at the same time.”

  “There’s not many who can,” Hawkwood said. “But you know how to use them, and that’s what I’m looking for. One after the other’s good enough for me.”

  “This sounds suspiciously as if it might be a private skirmish.”

  “Not entirely, but I need someone who won’t get squeamish if it does turn rough. We’ll be looking for a man and a girl. It’s likely the girl wants to be found. The man will not. There’ll be people who’ll want to stop us.”

  “People?”

  “Hard men with hard reputations. It’s unlikely quarter will be given.”

  “How many?”

  “Seven possibly.”

  “You said we’d have help?”

  “Friends of mine. Few in number, but they won’t shy away.”

  “Sounds intriguing. Do I get time to think it over and make my decision?”

  “You’ll have as long as it takes me to finish my drink.”