Resurrectionist

18

Sawney, nursing a mug of grog, was re-living his black dream. He was in the Dog, on his own, seated in his usual booth. The pub was moderately full, but Sawney was oblivious to the activity going on around him. He was in the dark cellar again and in his mind’s eye he could see the figures in their beds and he could smell the stench of them and see the fear in their eyes, which, in his dream, had been his own eyes staring back at him. The image faded. He looked down and found that his hand was clenched tightly around the waist of the mug. Beneath the skin, his knuckles gleamed white in the candlelight.

It had been in the Peninsula, close to a village, the name of which escaped him; a sad, dusty little hamlet, hardly deserving of the description. A field hospital had been established in a local monastery. Sawney, as a wagon driver, had been tasked to transport the wounded from the battlefield to the surgeon’s operating table. Thomas Butler, his coconspirator in the resurrection trade, had been working as an orderly, tending to the wounded and preparing them for the ordeal of surgery. It had been Butler who, with contacts back in England, had secured buyers for the teeth and trinkets that Sawney and others prised from the bodies of the dead and dying that lay strewn across the bloodied terrain like discarded pieces of offal. Sawney had been better at it than anyone and because of that it had been Sawney whom Butler had approached with a proposition that went beyond the scavenging of canines and molars. Butler wanted more than teeth recovered, he wanted the bodies of French soldiers; wounded ones, not dead. Sawney was to ask no questions. That way, if anyone were to intervene, Sawney could legitimately say they were being transported to the surgeon for treatment; in the same spirit that French army surgeons tended to British wounded.

Only Sawney hadn’t delivered the bodies to the main hospital wards. Under Butler’s direction, he’d taken them to one of the distant outbuildings, the monastery’s winery.

Sawney wasn’t sure how many French casualties he’d delivered into Butler’s hands. Perhaps a couple of dozen, all told, roughly half of whom had been in a very bad way, with a slim chance of survival.

He had never set foot in the outbuilding; never had reason to. All he did was transport the bodies. That was as far as his responsibilities went. Until the day his curiosity got the better of him.

The heat had been oppressive and the brackish water in Sawney’s canteen had failed to alleviate the dryness in his parched throat. Racking his brain for ways to quench his thirst, it occurred to Sawney that the answer was staring him in the face. The winery.

It stood to reason there’d be booze around somewhere; be it wine or brandy. Probably cellars full of the stuff, wall-to-wall barrels, just waiting to be liberated. Bloody officers had probably been helping themselves already, but the buggers couldn’t have drunk it all. Hell, Sawney thought, even the dregs at the bottom of those barrels would be more palatable than the stuff in his canteen. So he had stepped down from his wagon to explore.

Avoiding the main entrance, he had approached the rear of the building. There, he had found what looked to be a long-disused doorway. At the base of an adjacent wall, there had been a set of wooden trapdoors embedded in a stone surround. They’d reminded Sawney of the kind found outside pubs back home, through which the delivery of ale and spirits were made. Old, bleached by the sun and half-hidden beneath overhanging weeds, they hadn’t looked very promising – indeed, the buildings themselves didn’t look as if they’d been in use for a while – but Sawney, sly and greedy and drawn by the possible proximity of a hidden trove, had pressed on. When he came across the stone stairway his excitement had soared.

He’d chanced upon a stub of candle and the light had given him added confidence. It had taken him a while and it had involved a lot of stumbling around, but Sawney’s suspicions had eventually been proved correct. The winery did have cellars, though what with all the winding passages, dead-ends and stairways the place had seemed more reminiscent of an underground maze than a bodega.

It had been through accident rather than design that he’d finally found himself in the main cellar, after what seemed like hours of wandering in the dark. Drawn down a side passage by a faintly flickering light, he’d emerged from the gloom, thinking he’d struck gold at last, only to discover the place was stocked with neither casks nor corks. In fact, there hadn’t been a barrel in sight, only makeshift beds. And they had all been occupied.

Sawney had become inured to death and corpses and the wounded. Or so he had thought. He’d certainly grown used to the scenes outside the surgeons’ tents, where it wasn’t unknown for men to wait in line for days to receive treatment. That view never altered: blood-spattered uniforms, listless faces, sunken eyes and bloated limbs, all marinated in the sweet, sickly smell of gangrene that hung as heavy as a blanket in the fetid air around them. He remembered the surgeons, stripped down to shirt and breeches, arms and clothing caked with gore as they worked on the laid-out bodies, on tables that were no more than wooden doors supported by wine casks.

He remembered sounds too; the continuous creaking of the wagon wheels, the whimpering of the men as they were transported over terrain that would have tested the agility of a goat, and the constant drone of the flies feasting upon the open sores in swarms as black as coal.

This time it had been different. In that underground room, it hadn’t been the sight of the beds’ occupants, the blood or the nature of their wounds that had unnerved him, or even the low moans of discomfort. At least, not at first. It had been the scream.

It had not been uttered by a man. No human throat could have produced that sound or anything like it. It had been more like the screech of an animal, a fox caught in a snare or some kind of ape. Sawney had seen apes and monkeys in his travels. He’d heard the animals shrieking and clamouring, usually in tussles over food, and the noise in the cellar had been remarkably similar in tone and volume. But even as his mind tried to grapple with that unlikely possibility, he had known deep down that he was fooling himself and that even the most vociferous ape could not have made the ghastly cry.

He had never seen the face of the person holding the knife. All he had seen had been the shape of him, the curve of his shoulder, but the image and that piercing scream, allied to the things he had seen, or thought he had seen, in the other pallets further down the cellar had been enough to make him turn tail and run from the cellar as if the hounds of Hell had been snapping at his heels. Sawney had never referred to the incident, not even to Butler. He’d never returned to that hospital. He’d been assigned other duties, transporting equipment on the long journey to Badajoz. It was only after Hyde had revealed his true identity the previous evening that Sawney realized who the man in the cellar must have been and why he’d had that flashback when Hyde had introduced himself as Dodd. Only in the dream had the figure’s face been revealed. Now he’d seen it for real. Sawney’s life had come full circle.

Sawney raised the mug to his lips and took a sip. It tasted like gunpowder on his tongue. He looked about him. Maggett and the Raggs were around somewhere. Sal, too, plying her trade, he supposed. Thinking about the Raggs made Sawney tighten his grip on his mug.

He’d given them a simple job. All they’d had to do was retrieve the woman’s corpse from Hyde’s underground stable and dispose of it. After the last balls-up, there had been no thought in Sawney’s mind to sell it on to any of his usual customers, so he’d given strict instructions to the brothers to make sure the thing disappeared, permanently, and not too close to home. The Raggs had assured him that had been done and, like a fool, Sawney had believed them. Then news came that a woman’s naked corpse had been found high and relatively dry on a beam over the Fleet not much more than a hop and a skip away, which meant they’d transported the thing halfway across London to drop it virtually on their own doorstep. Sawney had let rip; told them they were useless bastards and as much use as a pair of one-armed fiddlers, which had left Sawney drinking on his own, his crew subdued and scattered around the pub. Sawney knew the bad feeling wouldn’t last for long. It never did. Not when there was a lucrative living to be made by sticking together. They made a good team, the five of them; but that wasn’t to say there weren’t times when he would have swung for them, cheerfully.

Sawney’s gaze moved to the couple over at the next table. The man had his hand on the woman’s knee. Sawney watched as the hand disappeared under the dress. There was no squeal of protest, just a giggle as the woman repaid the favour by stuffing her hand down the front of the man’s breeches. Sawney felt himself stiffen. He looked for Sal, spotted her over in the far corner, talking to one of the Hanratty boys. Bastard’s probably thinking about getting his hand down her blouse, Sawney thought. Well, bugger that. If anyone was going to get his hand down Sal’s blouse tonight, it was going to be him. He drained his mug and stood up. As he did so, he caught Sal’s eye. When he jerked his head towards the door at the back of the room, Sal winked and stuck her tongue into the inside of her cheek to make it bulge. Sawney knew that meant she was in the mood too. He felt himself grow harder. Nothing like an inventive whore to get the blood flowing.

They met at the door.

“You want me to bring one of the other girls?” Sal asked. “Make it a threesome? Rosie’s feelin’ a bit frisky.”

Sawney shook his head. “Not tonight. One’ll be enough.”

Sal looked at him and grinned. “More than enough,” she said, and taking his hand she led him through the doorway and up the stairs.

“God’s teeth,” Lomax muttered. “When you said we’d be on foot, this wasn’t at all what I had in mind.”

“Silence at the back. No talkin’ in the ranks.” The instruction was followed by a rasping chuckle. The sound carried eerily in the semidarkness.

“You’re enjoying this, Sergeant. I can tell.” As the light from Jago’s lantern played across Lomax’s ravaged face, his left eye gleamed demonically.

“Away with you, Major. A drop o’ water never hurt anyone.”

“Water, my arse,” Lomax said.

Jago grinned.

They were at least twenty feet below street level and they were wading through shit. Literally.

Odd how natural the short exchange had sounded, Hawkwood thought, as he listened to Jago and Lomax address each other by rank. It had been interesting, and not a little amusing, seeing the two meet for the first time, watching the way they had sized one another up. From their immediate rapport, it was clear that each of them had recognized in the other a man you’d want on your side, no questions asked. He was reminded of Hyde’s comment back in the alleyway: Once a soldier …

“You think young Hopkins’ll be all right?” Lomax asked.

“Micah’s watching his back,” Jago said. “He’ll be fine.”

“Doesn’t talk much, does he?” Lomax said.

“Who?”

“Micah.”

“Doesn’t have to,” Jago said.

And that was the end of that conversation.

Another lantern wavered twenty paces ahead of them, casting an eerie molten glow across the walls and roof of the tunnel.

“How are we doing, Billy?” Jago called softly.

The reply came towards them in a broad Ulster brogue. “Not far now.’ Bout quarter of a mile.”

“Christ,” Lomax said. He gazed down with disgust at the slow-moving tide of filth running alongside them and cursed again as his boot squelched into the soft and yielding morass.

They had gained access to the tunnel through the cellar beneath Newton’s Gin Shop. It had been at Jago’s suggestion, prompted by Hawkwood asking if there was any way of approaching the Dog without being seen.

There was, the sergeant had told him, but it wouldn’t be what you might call fragrant.

Jago had certainly got that right, Hawkwood reflected. The smell coming off the river had been bad enough topside. Down below, it went way past grim. It was unspeakable, almost beyond description.

Like Lomax, they were wearing neck cloths tied around their lower faces, but the protection this provided against the foul stench was marginal, which was to say non-existent. And, as they had soon discovered, the smell wasn’t the only horror that lay in wait for them. The body that had been discovered earlier and which was now with Surgeon Quill had already provided ample proof that the Fleet’s reputation as a communal midden was well deserved. In the dark, dank and dripping tunnels the evidence was even more explicit.

The glutinous stains that ran along both sides of the tunnel extended well above waist height. It was an indication of how high the water level could rise after a heavy rain or if there was a blockage further downstream, hindering the flow. All around them, the brickwork was black with effluence that had been marooned by the retreating tide. It hung in globules, as thick as pitch, and oozed down the walls leaving slug-like trails in its wake.

Their path, which was not much more than a narrow ledge, was swirling with overflow. Each man had lost his footing at least once and had only been saved from sliding over the edge into the noxious soup by the prompt action of one of his companions, who’d been able to reach out a steadying hand.

Upstream, the underground channels were a lot narrower, Jago told them; during times of flooding the water would fill the tunnels in the upper reaches almost to the roof. The former sergeant had grinned. “It’d be like tryin’ to crawl up a cow’s arse.”

A colourful turn of phrase, but it hadn’t been hard to picture the image.

“Christ,” Lomax said again. “I was over in St Pancras barely two months back and there were lads bathing. You wouldn’t think it was the same bloody river.” He stopped suddenly and peered ahead. “Jesus, is that what I think it is?”

Hawkwood raised his lantern and followed Lomax’s gaze. The tunnel had widened, as had the ledge upon which they were walking. Blocks of heavy stone lay scattered around them in the mud and shit. They were obviously very old and circular in shape, probably the ruins of a roof column. Lying next to one of them, half covered by a moraine of black sludge, was what appeared to be part of a ribcage and a partially submerged human skull.

“One way to get rid of the old man,” Jago said, without breaking stride. “A knock on the head when he’s drunk, open the trapdoor and Bob’s your uncle. Guarantee that ain’t the first poor bugger that’s been tossed down the well. God knows what else has been thrown down here over the years.”

Hawkwood thought about the two men who’d waylaid him by Holborn Bridge, the spider hand clutching for purchase and the black mud closing relentlessly over the pale-skinned face of his attacker. The body would be down here somewhere. It might even be close to where they were now walking. There was a possibility, Hawkwood supposed, that it would find its way eventually to the Thames, but he doubted it. Most likely it would get caught against some obstruction, and there it would remain until it had been stripped of flesh and reduced to spikes of bone, entombed in darkness until the end of time.

It occurred to him, given his new-found knowledge, that it had probably been either Sawney or the Dog’s landlord, Hanratty, who’d set the duo on to him. Maybe Lucius Symes had spotted him and slipped them the word. The verger was going to be doing some serious talking once he caught up with him.

They moved on without speaking. The only sound was the splashing of their boots as they made their way along the tunnel. A few yards ahead, Billy’s lantern drew them further into the sewer.

Billy Haig looked about seventeen, though Hawkwood suspected he was probably around the same age as Hopkins. His fair hair and blue eyes no doubt stood him in good stead with the girls. The ready smile would help, too; though the shrewd look he’d exhibited when the introductions had been made had also hinted at a maturity his boyish appearance belied. Hawkwood had wondered about his inclusion – Micah’s stoic presence had not been open to question – but when Jago announced that Billy had once been a runner for Hanratty and knew the layout of the Dog, the reason for the youth’s selection became clear. Though that hadn’t been the only reason why Jago had enlisted Billy’s help. The lad, it transpired, had also enjoyed the favours of Molly Finn and would therefore be able to identify her.

The lantern suddenly came to a halt. Mindful of the slipperiness underfoot, the three men moved forward cautiously.

Billy was pointing to one side. Set into the tunnel wall was a dark, rectangular recess. There were stone steps, Hawkwood could see, rising into the blackness.

“This is it,” Billy said softly. Holding the lantern up, he inclined his head towards a faint mark scratched into the brickwork by the side of the opening. It was in the shape of a diagonal cross. It looked as if it had been made some time ago. Without the aid of the lantern it was doubtful they would have spotted it, but Billy had known what to look for. Beneath the lower legs of the cross were scored, equally roughly, two letters: BD.

Most of the access points had signs, Billy told them. It was one of the few ways people were able to find their way around the subterranean passages.

“What’s up there?” Jago asked, nodding towards the steps.

Billy lowered his neck cloth, grimacing at the smell. “Trapdoor.”

“How the devil do we get in?” Lomax asked. “The damned thing’s bound to be bolted.”

Billy shook his head. “Levers, both sides. But you’ve to know where to look.” He grinned and tapped the side of his nose.

“See?” Jago said, clapping Billy on the shoulder. “Told you he wasn’t just a pretty face.”

“’Tain’t the only trap, neither,” Billy said. He jerked his thumb towards the tar-black ooze. “There’s another one further up. Opens directly over the water. Hanratty uses it to get rid of unwanted merchandise.” The corner of Billy’s mouth twitched. “If yous know what I mean. Saw him drop a fellow called Danny McGrew through it once. Can’t recall what the poor sod had done to deserve it, but the last anyone saw of Danny was the back of his arse as he went to meet his maker.” Billy looked suddenly pensive. “Not a quick way to go, I’m thinking.”

While Billy pondered the circumstances of Danny McGrew’s undignified exit, Hawkwood lowered his mask and looked around. He wasn’t expecting witnesses, but it paid to be sure. “Check your weapons.”

Placing his lantern on the ground, Hawkwood drew the pistol from the holster on his belt and by the guttering light checked the flint, frizzen and powder. He pulled back the hammer to half-cock and released it gently back to the un-cocked position. Replacing the gun in the holster he did the same with his second pistol. As well as the firearms, he also had the knife in his boot and his tipstaff.

The others followed suit. Jago, who had supplied the guns, was similarly armed, save for a stout blackthorn cudgel. The sound of hammers being drawn and reset filled the enclosed space, sharp and precise in the darkness.

Lomax had just the one pistol, tucked into a chest holster for ease of access. His other weapon was a short-bladed sword, secured in a scabbard against his right hip. Hawkwood was curious to see how Lomax was able to check the pistol one-handed, but it was clear from the way that Lomax tucked the barrel of the gun under his right armpit and removed the oiled leather cow’s knee from around the lock with his good hand, that the former cavalry officer was in no need of assistance. Lomax, sensing he was being observed, looked up and chuckled. “What? You afraid I’ll drop the bloody thing?”

“Wouldn’t have asked you along if I’d thought that,” Hawkwood said. He eyed the cow’s knee as Lomax tucked it into his pocket.

Lomax looked sheepish, or at least as sheepish as a one-eyed man could. “Thought it might rain.”

Hawkwood grinned.

Lomax grinned back, his face contorting, then his good eye flicked sideways and he said, “My saints, lad, what are you planning to shoot? Elephants?”

He was staring at the weapon in Billy’s hands. Until then, it had been strung from a shoulder strap concealed beneath the youth’s coat. It was a severe-looking piece; compact, not much more than twenty inches in length, with a walnut stock and a brass barrel. The muzzle of the gun was slightly flared.

“Yous want to swap?” Billy asked.

Lomax stared at the gun, clearly giving the offer serious thought, but then he shook his head. “You probably need two sound hands. Am I right?”

Billy nodded. “She’s got a kick like a bloody mule, so she has, but anything you hit stays down.”

“I believe you,” Lomax said. He sounded almost wistful.

As well as the blunderbuss, Hawkwood saw that Billy, too, had a pistol tucked into his belt.

They were well armed, Hawkwood thought, but would it be enough? It would have to be, he decided. He retrieved his lantern and nodded towards the stairs. “All right, Billy. Take us up.”

Jago gripped the blackthorn cudgel, caught Hawkwood’s eye and grinned. “Just like old times,” he said softly.

“So long as the rest of it doesn’t turn to shit,” Hawkwood said, scraping the sole of his boot against the edge of the first step.

They ascended in silence and had climbed no more than a dozen steps before the lanterns picked up the outline of the trapdoor above them. The hinges, Hawkwood saw, appeared to be in good order and well oiled.

Billy paused and placed a finger to his lips. Then he reached out his hand to the side. It looked as if he was stroking the wall, until Hawkwood realized he was counting along the line of bricks. Suddenly, his hand stopped moving. He turned and nodded.

Hawkwood and Lomax drew their pistols and slowly eased the hammers back. Then they listened.

The seconds ticked by. Hawkwood wondered whether the chill on the stairs was real or if the anticipation of what might lie ahead was fuelling his imagination.

Then Jago tapped Billy gently on the arm. Billy pressed his fingers against the corner of one of the bricks. The brick shifted, allowing Billy to remove it. Placing the brick on the step beside him, Billy inserted his hand into the exposed cavity. He waited and watched as Jago reached up, braced himself, and placed his palm against the underside of the trapdoor. They listened again.

“Do it,” Jago said.

The sound of cogs slipping into place came from above. Hawkwood tensed. The noise sounded horrifically loud in the confined space. Billy withdrew his hand from the wall and Jago pushed hard against the trap. As it swung open, Hawkwood raised the light and he and Lomax thrust their way past, pistols at the ready, sweeping the cellar. Jago and Billy were less than a heartbeat behind. With the shadows retreating before the advancing lanterns, the first thing they saw was the pale face staring back at them from the darkness.

In the alleyway outside the Black Dog, Constable George Hopkins placed the watch back in his coat pocket and turned to the man standing beside him. He tried to ignore the dryness that had gathered at the back of his throat. “It’s time,” he whispered.

Micah nodded, buttoned his jacket to conceal the pistols in his belt, and pushed open the door. “Stay close,” he instructed.

Hopkins fastened his coat, turned his collar up, swallowed nervously and, cap in hand, followed Micah into the pub.

Their entry into the dingy, smoke-filled interior attracted little reaction. A few heads turned, but in the main they belonged to customers seated close to the door. The interest that was shown suggested irritation at the sudden cold draught, rather than suspicion at a stranger’s presence.

Not for the first time, Hopkins was struck by his companion’s composure. During their short acquaintance, he’d learned that Micah was a man of few words. It wasn’t that Jago’s lieutenant was surly, more that he saw no need for idle chitchat. So be it, Hopkins thought. What was important was that Jago trusted him and Captain Hawkwood trusted Jago. That was good enough for him; more than enough.

Which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t wondered about the relationship between the captain and Nathaniel Jago. Hopkins’s mind went back to the stories he’d heard about the Runner and his network of informers. From what he had seen, it was obvious that Hawkwood and Jago’s friendship was well established, and that Jago was far more than a petty eavesdropper whose loyalty was dependent on financial remuneration. As to the origins of the relationship, however, Hopkins could only speculate. He assumed the two men had been comrades-in-arms during the war – theirs seemed to be a bond that had been forged in shared adversity – but, as to the specifics, he remained ignorant. He wondered if there’d ever come a time when he had someone with whom to stand shoulder to shoulder, secure in the knowledge that his back was protected.

Micah led the way to a table in the corner of the taproom not far from the door and the two of them sat down. Hopkins placed his hat on his lap. He noted how Micah arranged his chair so that his back was to the wall, providing him with an uninterrupted view over the rest of the room.

“What now?” the constable asked.

Micah looked around, caught the eye of one of the serving girls, and beckoned.

“We wait,” he said.

“You can lower your pistol, Major,” Hawkwood said.

Judging from the expression on Lucius Symes’ face, death had come as a terrible surprise. The verger’s body was propped against the base of the wall, the head canted at an unnatural angle. His lower jaw hung open so that it appeared as if he was drooling, while his glazed eyes were fixed on some unidentifiable point in the far corner of the cellar. A grimy sheet covered his waist and lower limbs.

Hawkwood squatted down, braced himself against the stink coming off the corpse, and studied the dark weal that encircled the verger’s wattled neck.

“You know him?” Jago gazed down at the corpse.

The recognition must have shown on his face, Hawkwood realized. He stood up. “It’s Lizzie Tyler’s verger.”

“Hell of a place to end up,” Jago said.

They looked about them. The chamber bore a closer resemblance to a dungeon than the stock cellar in a public house. Benches ran along two of the walls while against another sat two large metal vats. The vats were raised off the cellar floor. Each one rested on a metal brazier. They reminded Hawkwood of the large cooking pots used in regimental kitchens. Affixed to the ceiling above each vat was a block and tackle, from which were slung a chain and hook.

Hawkwood approached the nearest bench. An assortment of bladed tools lay scattered across it: knives of varying lengths, saws and cleavers. There were more hanging from pegs along the wall. These weren’t carpenter’s paraphernalia, Hawkwood knew. He was looking at a butcher’s block.

The tools looked well used. The knife blades were heavily stained while the gaps between each saw tooth were encrusted with matter. Some of the blades showed tiny specks of rust.

Jago cursed. He had put his lantern down and placed his palm on the bench-top without looking. He lifted his hand away with another exclamation of disgust and wiped it on his breeches. Then, frowning, he rubbed his fingers and thumb together and held them up to his nose.

“Feels like tallow. Bloody odd smell to it, though.”

Whatever the substance was, the surface of the bench was coated with it. It gleamed like varnish in the lantern light.

Hawkwood looked down. Beneath the bench, a shallow drainage channel had been cut into the stone flags. He followed its line to the point where it disappeared into a recess in the corner of the cellar floor. The flags around the edges of the channel were black with residue. A cold feeling began to work its way through his bones.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Lomax said hoarsely.

Hawkwood turned. Lomax had picked up Jago’s light and was peering into one of the vats. Suddenly he straightened, turned away quickly and, without warning, vomited against the cellar wall.

Billy, who’d been examining the contents of the other bench, looked up and stared. Hawkwood and Jago exchanged glances. They approached the vat. At first sight the vessel appeared to be empty save for a thick layer of congealed fat which had accumulated at the bottom and around the sides of the vat’s interior. Both men recoiled at the smell. Small wonder Lomax had thrown up, Hawkwood thought. He could feel himself beginning to gag. Then he saw it. At the bottom; an object caught in the grease. He lowered the lantern and heard Jago suck in his breath.

It was the bottom segment of a human jawbone.

“Mother of God,” Jago breathed. “What is this place?” He turned. “Billy, get your arse over here. When you ran for Hanratty, did you know about this?”

But Billy wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on the contents of the second worktop.

“Billy?” Jago said again. Then he looked over Billy’s shoulder and went quiet.

Billy was backing slowly away from the bench.

Curious, Hawkwood followed the youth’s transfixed stare.

Candles. Dozens of them; some loose and scattered in disarray, others tied together in bundles. Alongside them were coils of candle thread and a stack of rough wooden moulds. Further along the bench was what looked like a pile of small wax tablets.

Hawkwood knew the look in Jago’s eyes would haunt him for a long time to come. Cautiously, he moved to the second vat. Bracing himself, he peered over the rim. From what he could see it contained only dirty water. A thin oily scum floated on the surface of the liquid, like lather in a laundry tub. Hawkwood examined the vat’s exterior. Its base was blackened and pitted by heat, like that of its twin. Remnants of ash coated the floor of the brazier beneath it.

“Tell me you didn’t know about this, Billy,” Jago said.

Over by the wall, Lomax wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared around him in disbelief.

Billy shook his head. His face was white. “I didn’t. Swear to God. It was only a cellar. Hanratty used it for his kegs and contraband. It was one of my jobs – stacking the booze. There was none of … this.”

Jago nodded towards the verger’s body. “You think that’s what they planned to do with him? Render the poor bugger down to soap and candles, and sell him on street corners? Sweet Mary, what have we gotten ourselves into?”

No one answered. They were too consumed by the horror they were seeing.

Hawkwood found his voice. “If you were wondering what sort of men we were going to be up against, Major; now you know.”

At first, Lomax just looked back at him, saying nothing. Then he gave a brief nod of understanding. Both of them knew there was nothing more to be said.

Hawkwood turned to Jago and Billy. “We’ve work to do.”

The way out was via a door at the top of a flight of wooden stairs. Without any expectations, Hawkwood tried the latch and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t open. Whoever had turned the room into a slaughterhouse wouldn’t want to be disturbed or see their handiwork discovered.

Jago took the set of lock picks from his jacket. “What’s on the other side, Billy?”

“Passageway. There’s another cellar leading off it. Then there’s stairs leading up to the next floor. I did hear there are more passages towards the back; and tunnels joining all the other houses in the street. Dunno if that’s true. There are places I never got to see. I can get you inside, but after that it’s up to yous all.” He stole a glance at the dungeon behind them, crossed himself and shuddered.

There was a dull clunk from inside the lock. Jago gave a grunt of satisfaction. Returning the lock pick to his waistcoat, he retrieved his lantern from Lomax and reached for the latch.

The passage was unlit and empty. The stone floor indicated they were still some way beneath the pub. It also suggested the foundations were very old and constructed long before the Dog had been built.

Jago caught Hawkwood’s eye. His expression was grim. Hawkwood knew what Jago was thinking. If Molly Finn was here, what were the chances of finding her alive? The girl’s only hope was if they’d taken her for recreational purposes and weren’t finished with her yet. Otherwise they’d probably dispose of her the way they had Lucius Symes.

They checked the second cellar anyway, just in case. This time there were no surprises, though Hawkwood suspected that the markings on some of the casks might well have sparked interest from the Revenue men. Other than the trapdoor through which the unfortunate McGrew had been dispatched, there was nothing else of interest.

Leaving the cellar behind, they proceeded along the passageway and paused at the foot of the stairs.

“Watch your backs,” Hawkwood said, thinking, even as he uttered the words, that it was unnecessary advice.

They began to climb.