Resurrectionist

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.

Sawney recalled more than one occasion when, after a night’s successful retrieval, Sal’s excitement had manifested itself in a way that had left both of them bathed in sweat and hotter than a farrier’s furnace. When Sal got excited, she got inventive; and Sawney had to admit that an inventive Sal was almost as enjoyable as cash in hand. She had stamina, too; there had been times when Sawney had found himself hard pressed to keep up with her.

Sawney accepted that Sal went with other men. In fact, he found her independent streak a relief after some of his other liaisons. Sal needed sex like some people needed alcohol. She thrived on it. She was a whore; it was her nature. Sal would laugh and say that she needed the exercise. Besides, she said, it helped keep her supple, and she knew that Sawney liked her supple. Supple like an eel.

But Sawney drew the line at police officers. Sal had told him she’d been joking when she’d hinted that she fancied the Runner, but for a second there he hadn’t been so sure. There had been a light in her eye that suggested she might have been half serious. Sawney’s threat, on the other hand, had been real. He’d rather she entertained Maggett than a bloody Runner. Having seen the way Maggett looked at her sometimes when he thought no one was watching, Sawney wondered if the two of them hadn’t been at it behind his back anyway. He wouldn’t have put it past them.

They’d met a year or so back, when Sawney had picked her up in Covent Garden one night. He’d just sold a brace of cadavers to an anatomist over on Webb Street, south of the river, and was feeling flush and looking for company; right place at the right time, as far as he was concerned. Sal had been on the game for a while by then, working out of a three-storey brothel on Henrietta Street. The place had catered for clients who liked them young, and Sal’s looks, smooth skin and firm body had meant she’d rarely been without company, although she wasn’t as young as she led her customers to believe. Even now, Sawney wasn’t sure of Sal’s true age. He wondered whether she knew it herself. Twenty or thereabouts, he reckoned, though she had an old head on her. She told him she’d lost track of the number of times she’d been passed off as a sweet virgin looking to be deflowered by a kind gentleman. It was amazing the rewards that could be enjoyed by concealing a tiny balloon of sheep’s gut filled with pig’s blood in the palm of the hand and puncturing it with the sharp edge of a ring at just the right moment.

In reality, she’d lost her virginity at the age of thirteen, to one of her father’s drinking pals, a labouring man over in Shoreditch. Her father’s mate had told her not to tell anyone, that it would be their special secret. So Sal had never told a soul, until she told Sawney. She went on to reveal how she’d slit her abuser’s throat with her father’s razor before emptying his pockets and heading for the bright lights. Sawney wasn’t entirely convinced that she’d been telling the truth; you couldn’t always be sure with Sal. She had a temper on her, no doubting that. He’d witnessed it often enough, usually at the expense of some luckless moll who’d made a play for one of Sal’s regulars.

The first time she’d gone with Sawney she’d asked him about the set of teeth he’d been folding into a handkerchief as he got dressed. So beguiling was her expression that Sawney told her.

After their third time together, she asked if he’d take her with him on the gang’s next job.

“I could be your lookout,” she’d told him. “No one’ll suspect a girl.” Then she had grinned and taken him in her mouth. Sawney, breathing heavily, had decided it might not be a bad idea.

Convincing the others had been the challenge. Unsurprisingly, the initial reaction of Maggett and the Ragg boys had been somewhat less than positive, but the more they went at it, the more the idea seemed to grow, because no one would suspect a girl. A female loitering on her own was more likely to be suspected of touting for custom than acting as a sentinel for a crew of resurrection men. Right from the start her looks had proved a positive bonus. Like the time she’d been surprised by a night watchman outside St Sepulchre’s burying ground. While a quick-thinking Sal entertained the watchman up against the front wall of the graveyard, Sawney and his boys were able to haul three stiffs over the back wall. Everyone had profited from that night’s efforts, including the watchman, who’d been so overwhelmed that it was a good five minutes after resuming his patrol that he remembered he’d left his lantern on top of the wall. That same evening, Sal’s inventiveness had taken Sawney to places he’d only visited in fevered dreams.

Since then, they had never looked back. Sal had proved her worth. In any case, she was Sawney’s woman and Sawney was top dog and his word was law. That was all anyone needed to know.

Sawney finished his counting. The others would be along shortly to divide the spoils and plan their next sortie. With the anatomy schools well into the stride of the new term, the demand for bodies was bound to increase. Sawney felt a warm tingle of satisfaction at the thought and treated himself to a sip of porter to celebrate his good fortune and the promise of profits to come.

“You are Rufus Sawney.” It was a statement, not a question.

Sawney started in his seat. He had not heard anyone approach. He turned.

The figure behind his right shoulder was standing straight and eerily still. One hand grasped a walking cane, the other hung by his side. The face was colourless, the skin drawn so tightly over the cheekbones and jaw, it appeared almost translucent in texture. And yet it was not the outline of the face that caught Sawney’s attention but the colour of the man’s eyes. In contrast to the pale flesh that encased them, they were the deepest set, darkest eyes Sawney had ever seen. So dark it was difficult to determine where the pupils ended and the irises began. Their raptor-like gaze was made even more pronounced by a triangle of hair that was combed back from the high forehead like a sharp, pointed beak.

It occurred to Sawney that the stranger must have been seated in the adjacent booth, concealed behind the dividing wall. How long he might have been there, Sawney didn’t know. He wasn’t sure why, but he found that thought, rather like the alluring quality of the stranger’s voice, vaguely unsettling. He took a quick look round for reinforcements, but Hanratty was nowhere to be seen.

Sawney found his voice. “Who’s askin’?”

“My name is Dodd.”

Sawney didn’t like being blindsided, especially in what he considered to be the heart of his personal domain. What was that stupid sod, Hanratty, doing, letting a stranger get so close without so much as a by your leave?

“You are Sawney?”

For a moment, Sawney was tempted to deny it, but if the stranger had been in the next booth he’d have overheard his conversation with Hanratty and would therefore have been well aware of his identity before initiating the enquiry.

“What’s it to you?” Sawney asked truculently.

“I wish to hire your services.”

“Is that right?” Sawney’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And what would that be for?”

“Procurement.”

Sawney blinked.

“That is your forte, is it not?”

“My what?”

“Your area of expertise.”

“Nah,” Sawney said quickly, shaking his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, squire. You’ve got the wrong man. Not sure I know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Really?” Dodd looked genuinely surprised. “I had it on very good authority that you were the man to ask for.” Without waiting for an invitation, and ignoring Sawney’s glare at his temerity, the newcomer lowered himself on to the opposite bench and rested the handle of the cane against his knee.

“That so?” Sawney’s eyes narrowed warily. “An’ who might that ’ave been then?”

“Thomas Butler.”

Sawney tried to keep his face neutral.

He knew he hadn’t succeeded from the half smile that played along the lips of the man seated opposite, who continued: “A gentleman who is currently employed as head porter at the dissecting rooms at St Thomas’s Hospital.” The smile faded. “But then, you knew that; after all, Butler is your middleman, is he not?”

Sawney stiffened. It was as if the dark eyes were boring into his soul. Over on the bench by the hearth the two whores had begun to stir, perking the interest of the Smithfield boys on the next table who were nudging one another at the prospect of some early-morning exercise. The women’s faces were pink from the heat of the burning logs.

Dodd’s voice broke into Sawney’s thoughts.

“I see my words have unnerved you. Forgive me. Though, were I in your shoes, I suspect I would be just as circumspect. Indeed, your friend Butler suspected this might be your response. It was his suggestion that I furnish you with a snippet of information only the two of you would know, to prove that I have his trust. Can I assume such a gesture would vouchsafe my character?”

Sawney said nothing. He picked up his mug of porter. It kept his hands occupied and, more importantly, it provided him with several vital seconds in which to think.

The newcomer did not seem at all intimidated either by Sawney or the nature of the surroundings. In fact, it was Sawney who was experiencing disquiet. Somehow, this Dodd, as he called himself, seemed to have gained the upper hand. As if to emphasize the subtle shift in authority, the man leant close. Sawney felt himself trapped in the dark gaze. “He told me to tell you that he would have paid another five guineas for the Chinaman.”

Sawney took a sip of porter and slowly lowered his mug to the table.

“He also suggested, should you be in further doubt, that I address you as …” Dodd paused and his voice dropped “… Private Sawney.”

Sawney’s fingers tightened around the handle of his mug. The silence stretched for what seemed like minutes. A sudden crackle of laughter from the two whores eventually broke the tension.

“Nobody calls me that,” Sawney breathed softly. “Not now, not any more.”

Dodd held his gaze for several seconds before sitting back and nodding in brisk acquiescence. “Quite so, quite so. A man’s history is his own affair. It does not behove a person to dwell on the past. Let us say no more about it.” He placed his hands palm down on the table. “So, now that the tiresome introductions are over, do I pass muster?”

Sawney’s pulse began to slow. He frowned; not at the question, nor the lingering tone of condescension, but at the interesting use of words. Muster? Not a term you generally heard away from the parade ground. Was Dodd making fun of him? He stared at the man across the table, but if there was another, deeper message in those dark eyes it remained resolutely out of view. Sawney thought he saw a slight movement at the corner of Dodd’s thin mouth, the ghost of another smile perhaps, but it did not linger. He looked down at the man’s hands. The fingers were long and tapering, matching their owner’s stature. Moving his eyes along, Sawney couldn’t help noticing that the man’s wrists, though slender, were tight with sinew.

“All right,” Sawney conceded, “so you’ve proved it was Butler who sent you. What’s it you want from me?”

Dodd hesitated, as if formulating his reply. Finally he said, “I wish you to procure a certain item for me.”

There was an expectant pause. “You mean a thing?” Sawney said.

“A thing?” Dodd frowned at the term, then nodded in understanding. “Ah, yes, of course, that’s what you call them, isn’t it? How original. I suppose that’s one way of distancing yourselves from the nature of the merchandise. Yes, I do indeed wish you to procure a thing for me.”

Perhaps it had been the note of sarcasm, Sawney could not put his finger on it, but Dodd’s knowing manner was beginning to grate.

“Retrievin’ don’t run cheap.”

“I did not suppose otherwise.” The corner of Dodd’s mouth twitched. “Which is why I’m prepared to offer generous remuneration.”

Sawney frowned. “Come again?”

“You will be well paid.”

Too bleedin’ right, Sawney thought.

“And just so we understand one another,” Dodd continued, “you may address me as Doctor …” The words, again softly spoken, sounded almost like a warning. “I should also inform you that, subject to your performing this initial endeavour to my satisfaction, it is probable I will have further work for you.”

Sawney’s ears pricked up. “What sort of work?”

“I will require you to provide me with several … specimens … things.”

Sawney did not respond. He could tell from the doctor’s tone that there was more to come.

“I have but three stipulations …” Dodd paused, and then said, “They must be fresh, female, and young.”

“Young?” Sawney asked.

“Not mature. Ideally less than twenty-five years of age.”

Sawney considered the brief. He had no qualms about fulfilling the order. The doctor wasn’t asking for anything out of the ordinary. Over the months he’d been in business, Sawney had had far stranger requests. But it didn’t do to let the customer know that.

“Stealin’ to order’ll cost you,” Sawney said.

Dodd’s expression did not alter. “It would also be on the understanding that our agreement is mutually exclusive.”

“Eh?”

“You are to work solely for me.”

Sawney raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Sorry, squire – er, Doctor. That ain’t possible. I got other commitments.”

“It would be for a limited period.”

“Don’t make no difference,” Sawney said. “I got my regular customers.”

Dodd nodded gravely as if sympathizing with Sawney’s dilemma. “Loyalty to one’s clientele is an admirable quality, and I commend you on it. But perhaps I could persuade you to reconsider …?”

He reached into his pocket. When he opened his hand and laid the cross on the table between them, Sawney stared at it.

The doctor spread his arms in a gesture of apology. “I regret that I am unable to access my main accounts at the moment. However, I trust this will suffice, at least for the time being.” Dodd laid his hands open, as though presenting an offering. “It is not without sentimental value to me. However, I’m sure a man of your talents should be able to realize its monetary worth in some form or another. Perhaps you’d allow me to offer it as a token of – how shall I put it? – my good faith.”

Sawney looked up sharply, searching for a glimmer of humour in Dodd’s face, but despite the obvious play on words, none was apparent.

The cross wasn’t very big, no more than three or four inches in length, but the silver hallmark was clearly visible. Sawney picked it up and ran the grubby ball of his thumb over the tiny indentations. Despite its size, it was probably worth four or five retrievals. Not a bad return for a few days’ work. And just because he might agree to work on an exclusive basis didn’t mean it had to be so. There were bound to be opportunities to earn a little extra on the side; stood to reason.

It was then that another thought leapt out at him: the prospect of killing two birds with one stone. He placed the cross back on the table and fixed the doctor with a speculative gaze. “Suppose I was to agree, how many … things … would you be wantin’?”

Dodd shrugged. “I am not certain at this time. Two or three, possibly more. It would depend on the quality.”

Sawney sucked in his cheeks as if he was giving the proposition some serious consideration. Finally, after what he thought might be an appropriate interval, he nodded.

“All right, Doctor. Don’t see why not. As it ’appens, you could be in luck. I’ve got a couple of items in stock at the moment that’ll be right up your alley, er … given your particular requirements, that is. Already wrapped, too.”

A flicker of interest flared in the doctor’s eyes. “Really? And what might that be?”

Sawney told him.

“I see, and how fresh are they?”

“Day and a half,” Sawney said. He wasn’t sure if that statement was entirely accurate, but it was close enough. He knew their ages were about right. One out of two was worth a try.

“You can deliver them tonight?”

“Signed and sealed,” Sawney said. “You just tell me the time an’ place.”

Once more Dodd reached inside his coat. This time his hand emerged clutching a small notepad and a stub of pencil. “Do you know your letters?”

“You askin’ if I can read and write? We ain’t all ’eathens down ’ere, Doctor.”

“I am delighted and relieved to hear it.” Dodd tore a page out of the notebook and began to scribble. “Here is the address. Can you read my hand?”

Sawney peered down at the information. He frowned.

“What is it?” Dodd asked, as he returned the pencil and notebook to his pocket. His expression was still.

Sawney shook his head. “Thought I knew all the schools. Didn’t know there was one there, that’s all.” He folded up the page and tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Right then.” He reached for the cross.

Sawney never saw the doctor’s left hand move. The next thing he knew it was clamped round his wrist. Dodd’s eyes were as hard as stone. When he spoke, his voice was couched low and as brittle as broken glass.

“Be aware of one thing, Sawney …” The doctor’s gaze moved to the silver cross. “Do not think of disappearing with your down-payment. If you run, I will find you. Be assured of that. I expect you to stand by our agreement. I expect my instructions to be carried out to the letter and with the utmost discretion. There is to be no deviation. Is that clear?”

Sawney tried to pull his arm away, but the strength in the doctor’s grip was astonishing.

“Is that understood?” Dodd repeated.

Sawney winced as the doctor’s grip tightened. “Jesus, I said we’d do it, so we’ll do it. And what do you take us for? You think we’re going to stroll up and down the Strand postin’ bleedin’ bills?”

“Your word, Sawney. Do I have your word?”

Sawney found himself transfixed. There weren’t many things that unnerved him, but the coldness in Dodd’s eyes made his blood run cold. He swallowed and nodded.

“Capital.” Dodd released the hand abruptly, picked up his cane, and got to his feet. Then, looking Sawney straight in the eye, as if nothing untoward had happened, he smiled. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

The doctor turned away. At that moment Sawney sensed something dark skitter across the back of his brain, as if someone had opened a door on to a dim-lit room allowing him to see a glimpse of shadow pass behind a guttering candle flame, that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and yet which left him with such an intense feeling of dread that the breath caught in his throat.

It was only as Dodd paused and turned that Sawney realized the sound of his exhalation must have carried. A chill moved through him.

The doctor’s head was cocked as he looked back over his hunched shoulder. “What’s wrong, Sawney? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” In the low light, the doctor’s eyes were still as black as coal, without warmth.

Sawney looked down and saw that the skin along his arms had become a patchwork of goose pimples. Each individual hair was standing to attention like a bristle. He shook his head quickly and nodded towards his plate. “Bit of cheese went down the wrong way, that’s all.”

The doctor held his gaze for what seemed like minutes. “There is one more thing, Sawney. The bodies are to be delivered whole. Leave the teeth.” With the instructions hanging ominously in the air, Dodd turned and continued on his way out.

Sawney waited for the doctor to make his exit before releasing his breath. He got up, pocketed the cross, and walked unsteadily to the counter, taking his mug with him. Hanratty kept a bottle of Spanish brandy beneath the boards. Sawney emptied the dregs from his mug into the slop bucket, lifted the brandy from its hiding place and poured himself a measure. He raised the drink to his lips, took a long, deep pull, and waited for his heart to slow down.

Then he asked himself what had just happened.

He wasn’t sure what his mind had shown him – a flash of memory, perhaps, or an omen of what was to come. He didn’t know. He tried to recall what it was he had seen, but his brain did not respond. Whatever it was, Sawney had the feeling that it was malevolent. If that same door was ever to stand ajar again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what lay on the other side of it. He took another swig of brandy.

“Rufus?”

Sawney jumped; the second time in a day. The snarl erupted from his lips.

“Jesus! Don’t ever bleedin’ sneak up on me like that again, you stupid bastard!”

Maggett flinched and stared at the brandy. “You all right, Rufus?”

Sawney didn’t answer. Maggett frowned and nodded towards the taproom door. “Who was that then?”

Sawney ignored the question. “Where are the boys?”

Maggett jerked his thumb skywards. “Upstairs with some moll. Surprised you can’t hear ’em. Bleedin’ animals.”

Sawney put down his mug. “Go bring them down. Don’t take any shit. I’ve a job for them. There’ll be a run on tonight, too. I got a customer for their ladyships downstairs.”

Maggett looked pointedly at the mug in Sawney’s hand and the half-empty bottle on the countertop and raised an eyebrow.

“Medicinal purposes,” Sawney snapped.

Maggett turned away. He had no idea what was irking Sawney. He suspected it might have to do with the man who’d just left. He hadn’t seen Sawney looking that shaken for a long while. Trouble was, whenever Sawney got the hump, he had a tendency to take it out on everyone else. Maggett sighed. He hoped the mood was temporary. Otherwise it looked as if it was going to be a long day, not to mention a longer night. He just hoped the job was going to be worth it.

As Maggett turned and made his way to the back stairs, Sawney wiped a hand across his lips. He felt a little better. The brandy had done the business. He straightened. Probably nothing more than his nerves playing tricks. It wasn’t unusual when a retrieval was in the offing to get a touch of the jitters.

Sawney felt the shape of the cross in his waistcoat pocket and pressed his hand against his chest. Taking his mug, he headed back to his booth, realizing, as he retraced his steps, that he’d left the bag containing the night’s takings in full view. He cursed and shook his head at his forgetfulness, then looked towards the porters’ table, but the trio were now too ensconced with the whores to have noticed anything else. The anticipation of a quick fumble with a willing participant tended to make a person oblivious to his or her surroundings. Sawney could probably have driven a coach and four through the taproom door and they wouldn’t have been aware of anything except the wind from its passing.

Sawney sat down and took out the cross. He stared at it, turning it in his hand, and thought about the man who had given it to him. He was a strange one, this Dr Dodd. Curious, too, that he should have come in person rather than using Butler as an intermediary. Not that Sawney was going to complain. This way, he wouldn’t have to give Butler a cut for brokering the job. Not that he’d have paid out willingly, anyway. Not with Butler having stiffed him over the Chinaman. He reminded himself to have words with the porter about that one, the fly bastard. Foreign corpses weren’t dissimilar to cripples, pregnant women and children. They didn’t come on the open market that often and you could make good money from them, if you knew what you were doing. It dented Sawney’s pride to know that he could have earned a few extra guineas had he been more alert.

And while on the subject of money, a silver cross was a curious form of currency. Worth a fair bit, though. There’d be no problem getting a good price for it. Sawney wasn’t too sure about the doctor’s story, however; especially the bit about not having access to his accounts. What was all that about? He ran his finger over the hallmark once more. Sentimental value, my arse, he thought. Couldn’t be that sentimentally attached if he was prepared to barter it for a couple of day-old stiffs.

Sawney hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it out on to the floor. Not that he was going to let it worry him. He wouldn’t have lost any sleep had the doctor confessed to smothering his grandmother and hocking her pearls to raise the necessary. As far as he was concerned, if someone wanted to pay him, who cared where the bloody money came from? And Dr Dodd had hinted there’d be more if he played his cards right. Sawney liked the sound of that. Sawney took another swig of brandy and grinned to himself. Things were looking up.