Resurrectionist

19

Declan Hanratty had just released himself from his breeches when the interruption occurred. The moll, whose name was Sadie, was bent forward, head down, gripping the edge of the table, her skirt up over her rump, when she felt Hanratty’s weight shift.

For what we are about to receive, she thought wearily and, hearing the grunt behind her, braced herself. When nothing happened, her second thought was that he was taking his bloody time, which wasn’t like the Declan she knew and despised. It took a second for her to realize that Declan’s hands were no longer around her waist. She looked back across her shoulder, fully expecting to see him hunched over, about to change grip, only to discover that wasn’t the case at all.

Declan was still there, but from the expression on his face it was obvious sex was no longer uppermost in his mind. The new focus of his attention was the pistol pressed against his forehead, and the man holding it. The man was tall. He was dressed in a long, dark coat. It was his face that made Sadie catch her breath. Two scars marred his left cheek. One was small and ragged and looked old. The other was fresh and raw and weeping blood. A second man, with a hard face and pewter-coloured hair, was alongside, a finger on his lips. His pistol was pointing at Sadie’s chest. He took his finger away. “No screamin’. Understand?”

Sadie nodded mutely, her heart beating fast.

“Good girl. Now pull your skirt down. I think young Declan’s lost his appetite.”

Sadie did as she was told, hands shaking. She noticed that the pantry door – which had been propped open, Declan having been in too much of a hurry to close it – was now pulled shut.

The grey-haired man took hold of her arm. When he spoke, his voice was calm; almost reassuring. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Sadie told him.

“All right, Sadie, you stand there and be quiet. We just want a few words with young Declan here.” The speaker turned to his companion. “He’s all yours.”

The dark-haired man’s face grew hard. The smaller scar on his cheek whitened. “I’m looking for Sawney and Sal Bridger,” he said, grasping Declan by the collar and placing the muzzle of the pistol squarely against Declan’s brow.

Declan screwed up his face. “What?”

“You heard.”

“Don’t know ’im. Ain’t no Sawney here.”

The man raised the pistol barrel and smashed it across the bridge of Declan’s nose. There was a crack. Blood spurted. Declan yelped and raised his hands.

Sadie opened her mouth to scream, only to find herself stifled by the grey-haired man’s callused palm. “Remember what I said. Quiet now.”

“Wrong answer,” the scarred man said. “And I’m not in the mood. I’ll ask you again: where’s Sawney?”

“You’re a dead man,” Declan spluttered. His eyes were watering copiously. Blood and mucus bubbled from his nose and dribbled down the cleft in his chin.

“Last time,” the man said. “Maybe I should shoot your balls off instead. What’s it to be?”

Declan squirmed at the possibility. “Don’t know if they’re bleedin’ here. Didn’t see ’em. I’ve been out. Got back late. Honest,” he added nasally, and spat a mouthful of blood and phlegm on to the floor. He dabbed his upper lip with the back of his hand in a vain attempt to staunch the flow and stared at the dark crimson smear across his knuckles.

Sadie made a moaning sound, trying to free her mouth from the hand clamped over it.

“Think she might be trying to tell us something?” the older man asked.

“Ask her,” said the scarred man.

The hand was removed.

Sadie threw Declan a look that was part venom, part triumph, and part fear. “They’re upstairs; all of them – Sawney and the rest. Top two landings. They’ve been up there a while.”

“You stupid cow,” Declan spat. He made to lunge forward.

Sadie flinched, but the grey-haired man had already pulled her out of Declan’s reach.

The scarred man jerked Declan upright, then, as Declan’s head came up, he slammed the pistol barrel into the exposed throat. A look of pain and astonishment flooded the sallow, blood-smeared face. The scarred man released his grip and Declan went down gasping for air. By the time he hit the floor, it was too late. He was already drowning in his own blood.

Sadie felt as though she was going to faint.

“All right, lass.” The older man gripped her shoulder. “No one’s going to harm you. We’re looking for a girl; blonde, pretty, name of Molly Finn. Sal might have brought her.”

Sadie stared nervously at the scarred man’s face. “The Raggs’ve got a girl with them. Didn’t see who it was, though, poor little bitch.” She took in the body on the floorboards. She wasn’t sure whether to grieve or gloat.

“Where are the other girls?”

She dragged her eyes away. “Workin’. Hanratty don’t like us skivin’ off if there’s customers out front. Not that there’s many in tonight. I only came in ’ere for a slice of bread an’ cheese. Ain’t ’ad a bite all bleedin’ day. Then that sod decided he wanted a free feel.” Sadie looked again at the dead man at her feet and shivered. Her face suddenly crumpled. “Hanratty’s goin’ to kill me.”

“No, he’s not,” the older man said. “Because you didn’t see anything.” He jerked his head towards a door in the corner of the room. “Larder?”

“What?” Sadie followed his gaze, then nodded dubiously.

The older man ushered her across the floor and opened the door. “Get inside and stay there. Don’t come out. No matter what you hear. You got that?” He didn’t wait for an answer but pushed her in before she had a chance to protest, then closed the door behind her.

Jago looked down at Declan’s body without pity. “If you hadn’t, I would’ve. There’s no way he didn’t know what’s been going on.”

Hawkwood said nothing. He paused, opened the door and Jago followed him out. Lomax and Billy materialized from the shadows beneath the stairwell. They had forsaken the lanterns and were reliant on the candles along the walls. It left their hands free to carry weapons.

“We need to move now,” Hawkwood said. “We’ve been lucky to make it this far. Everyone’s out front. Nathaniel, you’re with Billy. He knows Molly, so the Raggs are yours. Gabriel and I will take care of Sawney. I want him for the murder of Doyle. He’s also my link to Hyde. You ready, Major?”

“I’d say we’re wasting time,” Lomax said, in a voice as hard as stone.

Lemuel Ragg pushed himself away from the girl’s bruised and inert body, half covered by the grubby sheet, and glanced across at his brother, who was sprawled across the opposite end of the bed, legs akimbo. Samuel was clutching a half-full bottle of grog to his chest, as if protecting it against pilferers. He looked at Lemuel and grinned.

“Give us a snort,” Lemuel said, and held out his hand.

Samuel looked down at the bottle as if seeing it for the first time, and raised it to his lips. Taking a swallow, he tossed it the length of the bed. Some of the drink sprayed out and landed across the girl’s naked breasts. She did not react.

Lemuel took a swig. Then he dribbled some of the contents into his cupped palm and rubbed it around his penis. “Stops you gettin’ the pox,” he said.

“Bit late for that,” Samuel said, and then thought about it. “Give it ’ere, then.”

Lemuel passed the bottle, reached out a foot and nudged the girl’s thigh with his toe. He was rewarded with a low whimper.

“Still with us. Thought she might have pegged it. We’ll let her get her breath, eh?”

“Jesus,” Samuel said, wincing, his hand in his lap. “Bleedin’ smarts a bit.”

“Means it’s workin’,” Lemuel said. He lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

The door crashed back on its hinges.

Lemuel’s eyes snapped open. He tried to raise himself but in his haste only succeeded in entangling his feet in the bedclothes. Samuel, also slow to react, found himself caught with one hand on the grog bottle, the other round his cock. Snatching his hand away from his crotch he fumbled for a corner of the sheet to cover his nakedness.

“You’ll be the Ragg boys,” Jago said, stepping over the threshold. He had a pistol in one hand and his cudgel in the other. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” His eyes dropped to the tumble of bedclothes and the unmoving form beneath and his face turned to stone. “On your feet, you bastards. Don’t bother with your breeches. We ain’t strong on formality. Billy! Get in here!”

Billy Haig sidestepped through the door, his hands gripping the blunderbuss. His eyes darkened when he saw the small, blonde figure curled foetally on the bed. He stepped forward quickly and turned the girl’s face gently towards him. He stared up at Jago and shook his head. “It’s not her.”

Shite, Jago thought. He turned to Lemuel, who had managed to extricate his feet and was trying to sit up. “Molly Finn. Where is she?”

Lemuel blinked. “Who the ’ell’s Molly Finn?” He looked towards his brother for guidance, only to see Samuel’s confusion mirroring his own.

It suddenly occurred to Jago that the Raggs might not know. He had no proof the brothers were involved in the girl’s disappearance. He had assumed they were complicit by virtue of their association with the Bridger woman. Maybe their professed ignorance was genuine.

“She’s the girl Sal Bridger picked up this morning. Don’t bloody tell me you don’t know what’s happened to her.”

And then he saw it; at the mention of Sal’s name, a flash of understanding in Samuel Ragg’s eyes that disappeared so fast he could have been forgiven for thinking it had been a trick of the light. But it had been enough.

At that moment, the girl on the bed groaned and opened her eyes. She did it slowly, as if every movement was an effort of will.

“All right, darlin’,” Billy said and looked back at Jago with a mixture of anger and pity.

Which was when Lemuel brought his left hand from beneath the pillow and slashed the open razor across the side of Billy Haig’s throat. As blood from Billy’s severed artery fountained across the bedclothes, Samuel threw the corner of the sheet aside and clawed for the pistol that lay on the nightstand by the side of the bed.

Jago saw Billy go down and slammed the cudgel towards Lemuel’s wrist. But he had been caught off guard and the swing failed to connect. As Lemuel twisted out of reach, Jago shot Samuel through his right eye. The ball exited from the back of Samuel’s skull sending a cascade of blood and brain across the wall behind him.

As the sound of the gunshot echoed around the room, Lemuel came off the bed with a howl of rage and scythed the razor towards Jago’s face. Jago jerked his head back. The razor missed him by a hair’s breadth. Such was the force of Lemuel’s attack that he almost overbalanced, which gave Jago his opening, enabling him to regain the initiative and smash the cudgel against the outside of Lemuel’s forearm. Lemuel shrieked as the bone snapped. The impetus of Lemuel’s forward motion, allied to Jago’s counter-attack, drove Lemuel to his knees. The razor fell from his fist. Wielding the expended pistol like a second club, Jago, with massive force, drove the butt hard against the back of Lemuel’s skull. There was a sound like eggshells splintering. With no change of expression, Jago followed through with the blackthorn and watched dispassionately as Lemuel Ragg’s nude corpse collapsed across the floorboards.

Jago stuck the pistol in his belt and moved quickly to the bed, knowing he was far too late. “Jesus, Billy,” he breathed. Billy Haig’s eyes were still open. There was a look of bafflement on his face. His lips moved soundlessly as he tried to speak. His body arched and his hands scrabbled helplessly at the wound in his neck. Blood was pouring between his fingers. Suddenly, he shuddered. His body sank back on to the bed and his hands grew still.

There was a moan and for a second Jago thought it was Billy and the hairs rose at the back of his neck, until he realized it was the girl. He drew back the edge of the blood-drenched sheet. A pair of green eyes looked beseechingly back at him. Jago reached out, saw the instinctive self-defensive withdrawal as the girl cringed away from his touch.

Moving Billy’s body aside, Jago lifted the girl from the bed. The quilt was on the floor. Hastily, he wrapped the compliant girl in its folds and carried her over to one of the room’s two chairs. “Don’t know if you can hear me, girl, but they ain’t going to harm you any more. You’ve Nathaniel’s word on that. Rest here. I’ll be back for you, I promise.”

Jago patted the girl on the shoulder. Then, with a last despairing glance at Billy’s blood-splattered body, he retrieved the cudgel, grabbed Samuel Ragg’s pistol from the nightstand, and ran from the room, leaving the smell of death behind him.

Hanratty was behind the taproom counter with his son, Lorchan, when he heard the gunshot. The sound of a door slamming had preceded it, but Hanratty hadn’t deemed the noise significant. Slamming doors weren’t an uncommon occurrence in the Dog and he put it down to the usual reason: a drunken argument. But a pistol shot was different.

“Christ!” Hanratty spat. “Bloody Raggs feudin’ again. I’ll have their guts.” Instructing Lorchan to hold the fort, he reached under the counter, where he kept his own pistol primed and loaded.

“Leave it,” a voice said. The order was accompanied by a sound Hanratty recognized as a pistol hammer being cocked. He straightened and turned slowly.

Micah was standing less than five paces away. He was holding a pistol in each hand. One was pointed at Hanratty’s chest; the other covered the taproom. Standing next to him was another, younger man with unruly hair and a pistol aimed at Lorchan’s heart.

“Hands on the counter,” Micah said. “Either of you moves, you die.”

Micah surveyed the room out of the corner of his eye. At this hour, the pub wasn’t full. It wasn’t pay night, so there was no line of sullen men queuing for wages. The cold winter weather had kept many of the Dog’s regulars at home. There were maybe a couple of dozen people in the taproom all told, and that included the molls and the serving girls. Several drinkers, having seen the brandished weapons, were already pushing their chairs back.

“On your way, gentlemen.” Micah’s voice, while not loud, penetrated all corners of the taproom.

“Who says?” a slurred voice enquired belligerently.

“He does.” Micah nodded towards Hopkins.

Heads swivelled. With his free hand, Hopkins placed his police hat on his head and unfastened the remaining buttons on his jacket to reveal his other immediately recognizable badge of office, his bright scarlet waistcoat. Raising the pistol, he took a deep breath. “By the order of the Chief Magistrate, everyone is to vacate the premises.” The constable prayed no one could hear the quaver in his voice.

There were several sharp intakes of breath and a muted chorus of derogatory remarks.

“Now,” Micah warned, and fired one of his pistols into the ceiling.

One of the serving girls let out a scream.

The explosion and the scream had the desired effect. So much for the authority of the uniform, Hopkins thought, as he watched several chairs tip over in the scramble for the exit. I could have been togged up like a bloody general, and it would still be the guns that gave the orders.

The three house molls and the two serving girls remained. Sensing there’d be safety in numbers, they were huddled by the fire.

“What’s your game, cully?” Hanratty lifted his hand from the countertop. His eyes, while reflecting anger, also carried a calculating gleam.

“Did I say you could move?” Micah levelled his pistol at the bridge of Hanratty’s nose. He caught Hopkins’ eye and motioned towards the door.

Hopkins went to the door and locked it.

“Now you can move,” Micah said. “You can join the ladies by the hearth. That way I don’t have to worry about what you’re up to behind my back. Leave the pistol.”

“If you’re after the takings, you’ll be bleedin’ lucky.” Hanratty eyed Hopkins’ uniform, his brow furrowing. “Besides, I already paid this month’s dues to you bastards.” He had the sudden thought that their presence might well be connected with the gunshot upstairs, but for the moment he couldn’t think how.

“It’s not your takings we’re after,” Micah said.

Hanratty frowned. “What then? We just sit here?”

“That’s right,” Micah said, moving to the counter and exchanging his spent pistol for the one the publican had been reaching for. “And if either of you opens his mouth again, I’ll blow both your heads off.”

It occurred to Hopkins that for man who up until then had shown little sign of eloquence, Micah, when the mood took him, certainly had a way with words.

Maggett stumbled out of the privy, buttoning himself up. He was all fingers and thumbs. He’d heard the pistol shot while he was pissing in the back alleyway and recognized it for what it was and where above his head it had come from. The almost simultaneous screech of anger and the muffled thump that followed had been enough to send a warning to Maggett’s brain that danger might be imminent and evasive action was a priority.

The second shot came from a lot closer and it stopped Maggett in his tracks. Advancing slowly, he peered round the edge of the taproom door. The sight of the pistols being trained on the Hanrattys was enough to draw him back into the shadows, but it was the police uniform that removed all doubt the danger was real. He had to find Sawney.

Maggett retreated at speed down the passage. Passing the kitchen, he paused only to lift one of the heavy meat cleavers from the wall before setting off at a lumbering run towards the back stairs.

When the first shot rang out Lomax swore and muttered darkly, “There goes our element of surprise.”

Hawkwood said nothing. They were on the top floor. Unlike the floors beneath, there were no candles along the walls to show the way, but a skylight was set in the roof, allowing moonlight to filter down on to the landing.

A splintering crash rose from below as a door gave way. Hawkwood knew it was Jago starting to go through the rooms. Lomax was correct. They had lost the advantage and speed was now the overwhelming factor.

Hawkwood tried the first door. It was locked.

A second pistol shot sounded from downstairs. Micah and Hopkins keeping the rest of the Hanrattys at bay, or so Hawkwood hoped.

Hawkwood drove his boot against the door lock. It took two kicks for the door to give way. The room was empty. Hawkwood backed out, just in time to hear the click of a latch and see a slim silhouette emerge from a doorway at the other end of the landing. He had a brief glimpse of a halo of dark hair framing a small, pale face and an arm coming up from behind the angle of a petticoat.

He heard Lomax yell, then there was a gleam of moonlight on metal and even as he brought his own pistol up and squeezed the trigger and saw the figure flung backwards against the side of the door by the force of the impact, there was a simultaneous flash of powder and a dull crack and he heard Lomax grunt and spin away.

As Sal started to go down, a second figure, which Hawkwood knew had to be Sawney, reached out, grasped her about the waist and, using her body as a shield, raised a pistol and fired. Hawkwood felt the wind from the ball as it ploughed past his ear and struck the wall behind his head.

A muttered curse came from below and to his left and a pistol roared. Hawkwood saw Sal’s body slump and then he was bringing the second pistol up. The gun jerked in his hand as the explosion filled the landing, then Sal’s body dropped to the floor and the figure sheltering behind her fell away, feet slithering.

At that moment, Hawkwood knew they’d failed. They had needed Sal Bridger and Sawney alive. Just one of them would have done. He cursed his stupidity. Sawney had only the one pistol. There had been no opportunity for him to reload and therefore there had been no need for Hawkwood to shoot a second time. He hadn’t thought it through. Everything had happened too fast.

Hawkwood looked down. Lomax was half sitting, half lying against the wall, holding his shoulder. He rewarded Hawkwood with one of his macabre grins and then his attention shifted to the end of the landing and Hawkwood saw him stiffen. Following Lomax’s gaze, Hawkwood saw movement close to the floor. One of the bodies was twitching.

Gripping the spent pistols, he walked forward. As he did so, a monstrous shadow arose from a second stairwell at the end of the landing.

Maggett erupted out of the darkness, the cleaver high in his fist. Hawkwood had a fleeting impression of a vast form filling his vision and then the massive hand was reaching for him and there was a flash of steel above his head and the blade was curving towards him with appalling speed.

And then there was a second shadow, which seemed to come from nowhere, and the world exploded with a roar as Jago slammed the muzzle of the blunderbuss against Maggett’s jaw and pulled the trigger.

Maggett’s face disintegrated as his corpse was blown sideways by the blast. The cleaver thudded on to the floor as the sound of the gun reverberated along the landing like the voice of God.

Jago stared down at the weapon, an expression of awe on his face. “Good thing I went back for it. Jesus! She does kick like a mule.” Jago nodded down at Maggett’s corpse. “Lizzie wasn’t wrong. He was a big bastard.”

Sawney groaned.

Hawkwood, ears ringing, looked down. Sawney was clutching his chest. The pistol ball had struck him an inch below the ribcage. The blood that was welling over his shirt and waistcoat looked black in the moonlight.

He stared up at Hawkwood. “Bastard,” he whispered hoarsely. “Knew we should have killed you.”

Hawkwood squatted down. “Where’s Hyde?”

“And Molly Finn,” Jago said.

“Sal?” Sawney tried moving his head to see.

“She’s dead,” Hawkwood said. “Same as you. You’ve been gut shot, Sawney. All the surgeons in the world can’t save you from dying. Not even Colonel Hyde. Where is he? And where’s Molly Finn?”

Sawney’s chest rose and fell. His brow puckered. “Molly Finn? The little cow Sal picked up? You came here lookin’ for her?” Sawney tried to laugh and then coughed suddenly. Blood bubbled from between his gritted teeth.

“Where is she?” Jago grated.

“That’s what’s funny. She was never here, you stupid sods. We delivered her to ’im.”

“Who?”

“Colonel bleedin’ Hyde. Who’d you think?”

“What?” Hawkwood said, not understanding.

“You deaf? He wanted a live one, so we gave her to ’im.” Sawney coughed again. Blood burst out of his mouth. His hands began to flutter across his chest, fingers tapping against his waistcoat. His eyes rolled in his head.

“Jesus!” Jago spat. He reached down and grabbed Sawney’s collar. “Where are they, you bastard?”

For a moment, Sawney seemed to recover from his convulsions. His eyes regained their focus and he frowned. “You Jago? Hanratty told me about you. Said you were king o’ the castle? That right? That’s bleedin’ funny. That’s a riot.” Another spasm took him and he coughed once more.

“Christ,” Jago said. “For once in your miserable life, do something right, you piece of shit!”

Sawney’s eyes widened. He stared at Jago and then at Hawkwood. He moved his hand across his belly. His fingers began to play with the pocket on his waistcoat. Then they lay still and his lips parted.

“Why the bleedin’ ’ell should I?” he hissed, and died.

“God Almighty!” Jago released his grip and stared down at the corpse in disbelief. “God All bloody Mighty!”

A shadow blocked the moonlight coming through the skylight above them; Lomax stood with his neck cloth, dark with blood, pressed against his right shoulder. “Is it over?”

“It is for that bastard,” Jago said. “God damn him to Hell!”

Lomax gazed down at Sal Bridger’s corpse. There was a hole in the middle of her forehead and blood on the front of her petticoat. “She’d have been a pretty little thing once,” he murmured to no one in particular.

Hawkwood wasn’t listening. He was still crouched over Sawney, wondering where they went from here. They were no nearer to finding Hyde or Molly Finn. The night’s enterprise had turned into a bloody mess. Literally.

His eyes travelled down from the lifeless eyes to the bloodstained clothing. He noted how Sawney’s left hand was clamped over the wound, while the right looked as if it was still reaching into the waistcoat pocket. In fact there was a slight bulge there, he saw. Half curious and yet not really knowing why, he moved Sawney’s hand and reached inside.

Hawkwood tugged the object free. It was a silver cross. A strange thing for Sawney to own, Hawkwood thought. As he eased it out, a piece of paper came with it; a folded page from a notebook. Hawkwood opened it out. There was writing, he saw, in a small but neat hand. It was almost too dark to read clearly, but a word caught his eye. Hawkwood held the page up to the moonlight.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

In the taproom, the women were still clustered together, while Micah and Hopkins stood guard over a glowering Hanratty and his son, who were seated back to back, hands on their heads, legs crossed, on the floor in front of the fire.

“You!” Hanratty said, as Hawkwood entered. His eyes opened wider when he saw Jago and Lomax follow behind. His attention settled on Jago. “I know your face, too, cully.”

Jago ignored him. “Micah?”

“We’re good,” Micah said.

“There’s a girl upstairs. The Raggs were usin’ her.” Jago turned to the women. “I don’t know her name.”

“Callie,” one of them said.

Jago nodded towards Hopkins. “Take the constable up to her and bring her down here. Go now.”

Hopkins looked to Hawkwood for guidance. Hawkwood nodded. “Take my pistols. Give me yours.”

The constable frowned.

“Yours is still loaded,” Hawkwood said.

They swapped firearms and Hopkins and the moll who had spoken left the room.

“A word, Major.”

Lomax walked over.

Hawkwood tucked the pistol into his belt. “Nathaniel and I are leaving. You’re in charge here. How’s the shoulder?”

“I’ll live.”

“When they bring the girl down, see she’s taken to a physician. Nathaniel tells me she’s been sorely treated. There’s another one, name of Sadie, hiding in the larder. Make sure she gets out as well. Get all the girls out. Hopkins can see to it.”

Lomax saw the darkness in Hawkwood’s eyes. “What about them?” he nodded towards the Hanrattys.

“Micah will take care of them.”

Hawkwood looked towards Jago, who was standing next to his lieutenant. Jago gave a small, unobtrusive nod.

“You have a problem with that, Major?” Hawkwood asked.

Lomax held Hawkwood’s gaze for maybe two or three seconds. “No,” he said. “What about this place?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you can burn it.”

There was another pause.

“I might enjoy that,” Lomax said.

Hawkwood nodded. He turned to Jago. “Ready?”

“Waitin’ on you, Cap’n.”

“Bring a light,” Hawkwood said.