Resurrectionist

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’re 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 luck. 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.

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 need?”

“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 chopped 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.”

Lomax sat back. “God Almighty. You’ve got a bloody nerve!”

“One other thing,” Hawkwood said, nodding at Lomax’s blue coat and scarlet waistcoat. “You won’t need the uniform.”

There was a long silence. Finally Lomax leaned over and cast his good eye into Hawkwood’s glass.

“Best drink up, then,” he said.