Resurrectionist

6

In a corner of the smoke-filled taproom two customers were competing for the favours of a whore. Though she was well past her prime, overweight and heavily rouged, the duo engaged in the tussle for her ample charms were drunk on gin and, viewed through an alcoholic haze in the muted candle glow, her imperfections were less apparent than they might have been in the cold light of day.

The woman leaned across the beer-stained table. A pair of enormous milk-white breasts strained provocatively against her low-cut bodice. Placing her mouth against the ear of one of her companions, the whore dropped her hand on to the leg of the other and began stroking his inner thigh.

The drunk into whose ear she had been whispering lewd enticements grinned expectantly. Sliding a hand inside her gaping blouse, he began a vigorous kneading of her right breast. The whore pulled away, shrieked playfully and slapped the hand down, deflecting his crude advances with an admonishing finger, at the same time throwing his companion a knowing wink.

Interpreting the wink as a gesture of encouragement, the second man lifted his mug to her lips, encouraging her to take a sip. She did so, tipping her head back. Draining the mug, she wiped her chin with the back of her hand and licked her lips with relish.

The whore, whose name was Lizzie Tyler, had been playing the drunkards against each other for a good ten minutes. It was a game at which she had become an expert. She’d certainly had enough practice over the years.

It was an unfortunate fact that accommodation, no matter how squalid, did not come free, and with the long winter nights drawing in, Lizzie had no intention of walking the cold, dark streets any longer than she had to.

There had in the past been times when, finding herself a copper or two short of the rent, Lizzie had been obliged to pay in kind for the roof over her head. But her landlord, an odious individual by the name of Miggs, whose rat-infested dosshouse nestled on a corner of Field Lane, had chosen to interpret this arrangement as his personal conjugal right. And that was an option Lizzie had no wish to pursue. A lady had her dignity and a right to a man’s respect, after all, even if she was a whore.

So, Lizzie had taken to plying her trade among the public houses and grog shops around Smithfield and Newgate, enduring humiliation, insults and beatings in a continuing struggle to keep the cold and Landlord Miggs at bay and her lice-ridden head above water.

The advantage of catering for gin-guzzlers was that, more often than not, once they got you into the alley, rammed up against the wall, they were too far gone to do the business. If she was particularly inventive, a girl could wrap the tops of her thighs round a man’s cock and, by dint of a little panting and moaning, fool him into thinking that he had outperformed Casanova himself. And in that particular sphere of deception, Lizzie Tyler was as adept as a conjurer’s assistant. Whether the customer could rise to the occasion or not, money still had to change hands. But so far all Lizzie had managed out of this pair was a leery smirk and two swallows of rotgut. So, even as she submitted herself to their unco-ordinated fumbling, Lizzie was on the lookout for an alternative source of remuneration, just in case.

One customer had caught her attention. She’d seen him enter the tavern a while earlier. Tall and dark-haired, he was wearing a long black coat over a shabby grey jacket and what looked like a pair of old military breeches. The yellow seam down each leg was faded and worn. His boots, she noticed, also looked old but appeared to be of good quality, which struck Lizzie as odd, given the run-down appearance of the rest of his attire. In her time as a moll, she had seen a variety of men and a bewildering array of footwear from, it had to be said, just about every conceivable angle; it was Lizzie’s avowed opinion that you could tell a lot about a man by the boots he wore. And this one intrigued her, seated alone in a booth on the opposite side of the room, his back to the wall, his face now cast in semi-shadow. She’d seen the way he carried himself and the scar below his eye, which, along with the remnants of uniform, suggested he was most likely a wounded veteran, down on his luck, who’d come to the pub looking for employment. Given that the Black Dog doubled as a house of call, it seemed the most obvious explanation.

If you required the services of a professional, a lawyer or an actuary, you paid a visit to Lincoln’s Inn or Bartholomew Lane. If you had need of someone at the tradesman’s end of the job market – a tailor, shoemaker, or perhaps a weaver – you went to the Green Dragon. If you wanted someone more menial – a chimney sweep, rag picker or suchlike, there was the Three Boys. But if you were seeking someone for the really dirty jobs – a gravedigger or a shit shifter on one of the night-soil barges – then chances were you’d find him in the Dog.

Lizzie eyed the tall man and wondered what sort of work he was after. Already two or three of the other girls had sidled up to his table, jiggled their titties and trailed a hand across his shoulders, in a less than subtle attempt to engage his interest. All of them had received the same response. A brief dialogue had ensued, followed by a shake of the head and an intimidating look that said, All right, you’ve tried me once, now don’t bother me again. And so they hadn’t.

A sharp tweak of her right nipple jerked Lizzie out of her reverie. The drunk at her elbow was trying to cadge another free feel. Lizzie decided she’d had enough. The charade was over.

“That’s it, darlin’,” she snapped, slapping the hand away. “You want Lizzie to take you to paradise, you gotta pay the fare.” She turned to the second man. “You, too, sweet’eart. What’s it to be? Lizzie ain’t got all bleedin’ night.”

Both men blinked myopically. Lizzie sighed and looked across the room. The dark-haired man was still seated by himself, nursing a mug. Lizzie considered her options, which were not numerous. Well, she thought idly, it might be worth a try …

Hawkwood sensed he was being watched. He raised the mug to his lips as if to take a sip and quartered the room. It was the plump moll in the corner. He watched as she slapped away the roving hands of her table companions and registered the speculation in her gaze as her eyes met his.

Ignoring her come-on, he lowered the mug and looked around. Similar scenes were being enacted around the room. The molls were out in force. They had good reason to be. It was Saturday evening and it was payday.

In a partially curtained-off alcove, beyond a low archway to the left of the counter, a small knot of poorly dressed men was lining up before a bald, unsmiling, bullet-headed man seated at the pay-table. In front of him sat a ledger and a sack of coin. Behind him stood two younger men, well built, in waistcoats, with the sleeves of their shirts rolled up to display an impressive expanse of well-toned muscle. Each was armed with a thick wooden cudgel.

Hawkwood watched as one by one the waiting men stepped up to the table to sign or make their mark, in exchange for coin. Having collected their earnings, they made straight for the counter and the gin, their faces etched with a combination of resignation and despair. Hawkwood had seen the same haunted look in the eyes of French prisoners of war. It was the look of defeated men with uncertain futures.

The bullet-headed paymaster was called Hanratty and it was his alehouse. The men guarding his back were his sons. Hanratty had been landlord of the Dog for longer than anyone could remember, and the Dog had been an employment agency for a good deal longer than that.

Although the Dog catered for a variety of low-ranking occupations, its primary source of labour derived from its geography. The pub was less than a stone’s throw from Smithfield. It was inevitable, therefore, that it also catered for the meat market. Hanratty had been a butcher before he became a publican and he still had contacts in the trade, so if you had need of porters, butcher’s boys, tripe-dressers, and the like, the Dog was your first port of call.

Acting as middleman between masters and workers, Hanratty ran his labour exchange with a rod of iron. It was an effective and – for the canny publican, at least – a very lucrative arrangement.

For the men seeking employment, there was a price to pay. If you wanted work, you had to sign on. If there was no work to be had, Hanratty would give you credit to buy food and victuals – but only at the Dog. When he found you work, Hanratty would pay the wages on the employer’s behalf – first deducting any money he was owed. Too bad if the debt exceeded the wage, which it usually did. Whichever way a man turned, Hanratty had him by the balls. The pale, drawn faces coming away from the pay-table said it all.

For most of them, the only way to alleviate the misery, even if it was just for an hour or two at the end of the day, was drink. Hanratty always made sure he had an abundance of that particular panacea in stock. And it was no coincidence that wages were paid in the evening.

If it wasn’t drink, it was likely to be whist or cribbage. A number of games were in session that evening, and a couple of tables along several punters were engaged in a noisy round of dominoes. The click-clack of tiles slamming on to the tabletop accompanied the raucous laughter of the players.

Hawkwood viewed the proceedings with weary fascination. Cards and alcohol: an unholy alliance if ever there was one. It was a bad combination even in the rich gaming clubs along St James’; in this neighbourhood, it was a licence for trouble. Especially if there were molls on tap as well. But Hanratty had his boys on hand in case things got rowdy. If a man was foolish enough to start anything, he’d be taken outside into the alley and shown the error of his ways. A harsh enough punishment in itself, but not as bad as having your name removed from the ledger. Once your name was scratched out, you didn’t earn. And if you didn’t earn, you starved. So did your family.

It was Hawkwood’s first visit to the Dog, though it wasn’t his first visit to a house of call. There were a dozen similar establishments within a square-mile of the market and the Dog was the fourth on Hawkwood’s list following the gravedigger’s tip-off that Edward Doyle, the man hanged in Cripplegate and currently occupying a cold dissection room, may have frequented one of the Smithfield watering holes. So far, however, he hadn’t discovered a damned thing.

Hawkwood could think of three reasons for his lack of success: genuine ignorance, concern over self-incrimination, and fear of reprisal. There had been more than a hint of the latter in the responses he’d received, even though his enquiries had been covert. It probably meant that word of the crucifixion had spread and people were too scared to point the finger.

All he could do for the moment was continue working his way down the list of taverns in the hope that something would eventually present itself to him. That didn’t mean, of course, that he couldn’t indulge himself in a small libation at the same time. Besides, after the day he’d had, he decided he’d earned it. And in a place like the Dog, if he hadn’t got a drink in front of him people would have noticed.

It was also one way of taking his mind off the God-awful stench.

The smell had hit him the moment he entered the pub and it hadn’t taken long for him to realize that it wasn’t emanating from any one source. It was all around him, seeping from every pore of the building, all the way from the foundations, the bricks in the walls, right up to the rafters above him. It oozed from the unwashed bodies and the clothing of the drinkers, and it rose like a thin mist from the blood-stained cellars and killing yards that had, in various reincarnations, been an integral part of the surrounding neighbourhood for the best part of six centuries. Here, the sickly aroma of putrefying flesh and the corrupting smell of death was a living, breathing entity.

On market days, the streets and alleyways around Smithfield foamed red with the blood from the slaughterhouses. Pavements would be slick with discarded entrails, while residue from the mounds of waste products tossed aside by butchers, sausage-makers and cat-gut manufacturers would be left to rot in the shallow, fat-lined gutters.

Inside the Dog, the carpet of sawdust had managed to soak up most of the day’s blood, but the pieces of mashed intestines and foot-trodden globules of animal matter tracked into the bar on the heels of the customers had helped churn the once-white dust into a stinking, black molasses that made the cracked flagstones look as if they had been smeared with dog shit.

The smell in Bedlam had been bad enough, Hawkwood thought, raising his mug, but this was far worse.

Inevitably, thinking about the hospital, his mind went back to the fire and the colonel’s fiery demise.

Constable Hopkins had asked why. Hawkwood was aware that his terse response, while accurate, still left many questions unanswered.

Apothecary Locke had said that the colonel was originally committed to Bethlem because his mind had been tortured by his experiences in the Peninsula. Hawkwood knew only too well the horrors the man would have witnessed in his capacity as a battlefield physician: tables awash with blood, his fellow surgeons elbow-deep in gore as they cut, probed and cauterized shattered flesh in a desperate attempt to make whole the bodies of soldiers maimed by musket shot, hacked by sabre, or shredded by cannon fire.

Hawkwood remembered his visits to the hospital tents all too well. It wasn’t only the sight of the wounded and the dying that remained with him but the sounds they’d made. Soldiers spitting out the leather strap and screaming in agony as the dull-bladed saw was dragged across bone; the whimpering of a drummer boy as the forceps searched for that elusive fragment of lead ball, the heart-rending wail of a dying ensign calling for his mother’s comforting hand as his innards cascaded like bloody tripe across his belly. While outside the tents, in the heat and the dust, the sickly-sweet smell of gangrene from the towering piles of amputated, fly-blown limbs would drift on the wind like rotten apples. Small wonder the colonel had lost his reason, Hawkwood reflected.

Many would have called the colonel a saviour, a man of compassion who had dedicated himself to the preservation of life. Who could have foreseen that a dark, malignant force lurking deep within the recesses of the colonel’s brain would drive him to commit two savage acts of murder?

Was it possible that, alongside that hidden malignity, there had still burned a tiny spark of conscience? Not only had he murdered a priest, but he’d also killed an innocent woman. Had the guilt finally caught up with him? It looked that way. In the end, overcome by remorse, the colonel had taken his own life.

He’d even used the church bell to summon witnesses to his suicide and cremation.

Hawkwood thought back. What was it Apothecary Locke had said? Confession was good for the soul? By his actions, the colonel clearly thought fire would have the same cleansing effect, even if they were likely to be the flames of Hell and everlasting damnation.

Though perhaps that had been the point.

Either way, the case was closed. Chief Magistrate Read had expressed his satisfaction at that. As he had announced when Hawkwood had returned to Bow Street to advise him on the outcome, it meant that all his attention could now be focused on the Cripplegate murder.

So, in the fetid interior of the Black Dog tavern, Hawkwood sat with his back to the wall, sipped his porter and watched the room.

Lizzie had decided it was time to give her two suitors the heave-ho. Both were virtually comatose. One was already face down on the table. His breathing had become increasingly ragged and Lizzie knew it was only a matter of time before he’d begin to snore. The other was leaning over the side of the bench, looking as if he was about to disgorge the contents of his stomach over the blood-soaked, sawdust-streaked flagstones.

Lizzie sighed. Using her considerable weight, she prised herself from between the two men. As she did so, one breast made an energetic bid for freedom. With nonchalant ease, Lizzie tucked the escaping mammary back into its proper place and squeezed out from behind the table.

The dark-haired man hadn’t moved from his seat, Lizzie saw. Perhaps a closer, more intimate approach was called for, rather than her previous long-range attempt to attract his attention. Undeterred by the possibility of rejection, Lizzie reached inside her bodice and pushed up her already spectacular bosom. In her experience, a frontal attack usually did the trick.

Hawkwood watched the moll extricate herself from her companions’ clutches. He had an inkling she would soon be heading his way and, judging by the determined expression on her face, unlike the other members of her sisterhood, this one might have a hard time taking no for an answer. He prepared to repel boarders. Unless she had the information he was after, of course; nobody knew the seamier establishments and the people who frequented them like the city’s molls.

Hawkwood had made good use of working girls in his career as a peace officer. The advantage being that he very rarely had to make the running. He would wait for the molls to come to him. The tactic had nothing to do with vanity. He just knew that if he hung around in one place long enough the women would invariably make the first move. They’d flirt, some more brazenly than others, and make their play, usually accompanied by a generous view of the goods on offer. And in the course of their inducements he would solicit them for information.

So it was with the Doyle enquiry. In each of the drinking dens he’d visited, Hawkwood had casually dropped the name on the pretext that he was an old acquaintance and there was a job in the offing with a chance for both of them to earn a few shillings. But the responses, so far, had all been the same. No one knew the man. Or if they had known him, they weren’t talking. Not yet, anyway. The only thing he’d received from the girls so far had been looks of disappointment, genuine and feigned, as they’d deserted him for someone who was prepared to pay for their company.

Hawkwood eyed the moll. She was definitely on her way over. He took a sip from his mug, and braced himself.

Lizzie had her prey in her sights when she sensed the presence at her shoulder.

“Find your own, darlin’. That one’s mine.”

The voice was soft and seductive and threaded with a raw huskiness that spoke of a lifetime of hard liquor and a throat roughened by cheap tobacco fumes.

Lizzie felt the short hairs along her arms and the back of her neck prickle. She turned slowly and found herself confronted by a pair of midnight-blue eyes set in a pale, elfin face framed by a cascade of jet-black ringlets.

“Sal!” Lizzie swallowed nervously. “Didn’t know you was in tonight.”

“Is that right, Lizzie? And there was I thinking you were avoiding me.” The corner of the young woman’s mouth lifted, but there was no humour in her tone. The dark eyes were totally without warmth.

Lizzie felt herself shrink under the piercing gaze.

“Just tryin’ to make a livin’, Sal,” she said quickly. “You know how it is. A girl’s got to earn a crust.”

The young woman nodded slowly, hands on her hips, as though giving Lizzie’s response due consideration.

“Might be worth trying to earn it someplace else then.” Though softly spoken, the threat was there.

Lizzie blanched. “Didn’t mean no harm, Sal, honest.”

“Course you didn’t, Lizzie. I know that.” The girl smiled silkily and laid her hand on Lizzie’s arm.

Lizzie felt her skin crawl. She prayed that nothing showed on her face.

“You won’t tell Sawney, will you?” Lizzie blurted, hating herself for the tremor in her voice.

The girl’s eyes narrowed momentarily. They reminded Lizzie of a cat that had once been housebroken but had reverted to a feral creature, cunning and savage. She felt her arm gripped, as if by sharp talons, and winced.

“Now why would I do that?” The voice was quiet, almost a whisper, yet still audible. “This is just you and me having a quiet chat. Tell you what, why don’t you run along like a good girl and we’ll say no more about it? How’s that?”

Lizzie was conscious of a hollow thumping sound and realized it was the pounding of her heart. She wondered if the other woman was aware of it. Probably; the fingers still holding fast to her wrist were close to her pulse. She nodded and felt a bubble of sweat beading between her shoulder blades burst into what seemed like a thousand droplets of moisture. The back of her dress clung to her body as if it had been drenched with warm water.

“Thanks, Sal. It won’t ’appen again. Promise.”

The girl released her grip. “Course it won’t. Go on, now. Off with you.” Slender fingers patted Lizzie’s arm reassuringly. “And take care, now, Lizzie. You hear?”

Lizzie nodded again. Turning hurriedly and sucking in her breath, she headed for the door. She was a yard or two away when the door opened, admitting a blast of cold air and half a dozen fresh customers; more men with empty pockets and low expectations, already casting longing looks towards the counter and the pay-table in the alcove. Most would be looking for a drink. More than a few wouldn’t have the money to pay for it, but if their name was in the ledger they knew Hanratty would give them credit. Just for tonight, tomorrow could look after itself.

Had it been any other time, Lizzie would have executed a swift about-turn, fluttered her eyelashes, hoisted up her bosom and set to work, but not tonight. Ignoring the gauntlet of crude inducements and wandering hands, Lizzie pushed her way through the new arrivals and out through the open door.

It was only after she had emerged into the street that Lizzie realized she was still holding her breath. She let it out slowly, emitting a soft involuntary moan of relief as she did so. She looked down at her hands and found they were shaking. She clenched her fists, straightened, and moved into the shadows by the side of the building. Leaning against the wall, she waited for her heartbeat to settle. She heard footsteps approaching out of the gloom; two more men on their way into the pub. They didn’t notice her at first. When they did, they looked surprised not to receive a proposition. Lizzie, her cheek pressed against the damp brickwork, remained silent and let them go.

It occurred to Lizzie, as she waited for her breathing to return to normal, that she had still not earned her rent money. She looked back at the pub’s entrance, weighing her options. There was always the George or the King of Denmark. The night was growing colder. The street suddenly looked dark and forbidding and there was a new hint of rain in the air. Lizzie shivered. Pushing away from the wall, she set off towards Field Lane. Tonight, she wanted to be in her own bed. And if that meant submitting to the lecherous demands of Luther Miggs, on this occasion, it was a price she was more than willing to pay.

Hawkwood had seen the exchange between the two women. The expression on the face of the older moll had been intriguing. In the murky interior of the taproom, with shadows playing across washed-out, alcohol-ravaged features, it was sometimes difficult to read a person’s face or mood. But there had been no mistaking the look of apprehension in the big moll’s eyes when she had turned and seen the younger woman standing beside her.

There was a pecking order in all strands of society, Hawkwood knew, and that applied to the oldest profession as much as it did to any other. Whoring was, by nature, territorial. Molls guarded their patch zealously. It didn’t matter if the location was an archway in Covent Garden, an alleyway in St Giles’ or the taproom of the Black Dog, the same unwritten rule applied: trespassers would be dealt with. It was clear that in the Dog some sort of boundary had been crossed. What had been surprising, from Hawkwood’s perspective, was the absence of histrionics. There had been no hysterical altercation, no screaming or scratching of eyes. There had been only quietly spoken, though evidently very persuasive, words. It hinted at some kind of severe warning.

Curious that it had been the older woman who had given way. In the normal scheme of things, Hawkwood would have expected the younger whore to beat a retreat, but that hadn’t been the case. Given that other whores were plying their trade in the Dog, why had the older moll been singled out for chastisement?

She’d strayed from her traditional haunt, Hawkwood surmised, and had chosen the Dog because it was warm and because it was payday and maybe there’d be enough men with money in their pocket or credit to go around. The reason for the older moll’s abrupt departure was probably that simple. She’d just made an unwise choice of hunting ground and had been sent on her way by the Dog’s matriarch, who, having emerged victorious from the encounter, was now weaving her way through the tables towards Hawkwood’s side of the room.

Watching her progress, Hawkwood noticed the way the other whores seemed to give way before her. He wondered if it was his imagination, for it appeared as if most of them were trying to avoid eye contact, acknowledging her superiority within the pack. She’d seen off one weaker rival and the other girls knew it; judging from their collective demeanour, they heartily resented her for it.

Unlike most of the others, she had the looks; there was no disputing that. There was a swagger about her that suggested she revelled in it. The obligatory tight, low bodice accentuated her pale skin and slender curves to their best advantage, but it was her face that drew the attention, the dark eyes especially. She’d have been a pretty child, Hawkwood suspected, and had probably traded on that to get her way. There was certainly self-awareness in her manner. It spoke of someone who’d experienced a catalogue of despair and degradation at the hands of men and had, by force of character, risen above it, most likely at the expense of others. In this sort of place it was sometimes difficult to gauge a person’s age, male or female. Somewhere in her mid twenties, he guessed, though she could have been younger.

Even when she stopped at his table, it wasn’t easy to tell. He realized then what the confrontation had been about.

She looked down at him and grinned. “You’re a lucky man, sweet’eart.”

“Is that right?” Hawkwood said. “How come?”

“I just saved your arse. Another ten seconds an’ Fat Lizzie would’ve been all over you like a bad rash. An’ she’s ’ad more than a few of those in her time, I can tell you. She likes to pass ’em on, too, if you know what I mean.” The girl winked suggestively.

“Lucky I had you watching over me, then,” Hawkwood said.

“Glad I could help, darlin’.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward. In the well of her unlaced top, the dark valley between her breasts beckoned invitingly. “My name’s Sal.” Her gaze moved suggestively to Hawkwood’s groin. “Nice breeches.” Her eyes drifted back to his face. “What brings you to the Dog? You lookin’ for company?”

“Not tonight,” Hawkwood said.

At that moment a customer at the adjacent table rose unsteadily to his feet, fumbled at the flap of his breeches and cast an eye towards the back of the room and the doorway leading to the privy. He was barely out of his seat when the girl reached over, grasped the empty chair and pulled it towards her. Spotting the move out of the corner of his eye, the man turned to remonstrate. “What the bleedin’ –?” Then his eyes fell on the culprit and his red-veined cheeks paled.

“Don’t mind, do you, Charlie?” the girl said, taking her seat. “Only I noticed you weren’t usin’ it.” Her dark eyes glowed.

For a second the man looked as though he was about to speak. Indecision moved across his face. Then his shoulders sagged and he shook his head. “Nah, that’s all right, Sal,” he said hollowly. “Best be goin’, anyway.” Turning quickly to avoid the embarrassed looks of his companions, he left the table and teetered off across the sawdust-smeared floor.

The girl turned back to Hawkwood as if nothing had happened. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, you said you weren’t lookin’ for company.” She arched an eyebrow. “You sure? We could call one of the other girls over. They’ve got rooms out the back. We could have some fun, the three of us. How’s that sound? You up for it? I know I am.” She gave Hawkwood the eye once more. “I’m always up for it.”

“Another time,” Hawkwood said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

The girl placed her right forefinger between her lips, sucked on it suggestively and ran its moistened tip along Hawkwood’s sleeve. “Been waitin’ a while, though,’ aven’t you? You sure they’re going to turn up?”

“He’d better,” Hawkwood said. “There’s money in it if he does.” He took a sip from his mug. “Maybe you’ve seen him around? He said he’d be here. His name’s Doyle, Edward Doyle.”

The girl’s brow furrowed. “Can’t say as I know the name. What’s ’e look like?”

Like death, Hawkwood thought, but didn’t say so.

The girl listened to Hawkwood’s description of what Doyle would have looked like if he’d had a pulse and all his teeth, and then shook her head. “Sorry, sweet’eart. Still don’t ring any bells. You sure ’e meant the Dog? There’s the Dog and Dray over the other side of Long Lane. Maybe you’ve got the wrong place.”

“Bugger,” Hawkwood said. He clicked his tongue. “Just my luck.”

“What sort of work was it, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“There’s a man wants some hog carcasses delivered. Only a morning’s lifting and carrying, but there’s a shilling or two in it.” Hawkwood frowned and added glumly, “Looks like I’ll have to find somebody else.”

“There’s plenty in ’ere who’d be up for it.” The girl jerked her head towards the counting table.

Hawkwood followed the gesture. “You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll try a couple of the other places first though, seeing as we’re mates. What was that place you mentioned? The Dog and Dray, was it? If he doesn’t turn up there, I might come back.”

“I’ll look forward to that. Meantime, I can ask around, if you like. If I hear anything an’ you come back, I’ll pass it on. What’s your name, by the way? You never said.”

Hawkwood took a sip of grog. “Matthews.” He kept his face straight.

“What do they call you?”

“Jim.” Hawkwood took another swallow. The porter tasted as if it had been laced with fulminate. He tried not to grimace.

She smiled at him again, indicating that the attempt had not been a total success. “You sure I can’t tempt you, Jim Matthews?’ Cos you were definitely lookin’ a bit lonely sittin’ here on your own.”

“The answer’s still no,” Hawkwood said.

The girl hesitated, then shrugged philosophically, pushed back the chair and stood up. “Ah, well, can’t blame a body for tryin’. Your loss, sweetheart.”

Blowing him a kiss, she headed towards the back of the room. Hawkwood watched her disappear beyond the veil of tobacco smoke and the tightly pressed bodies. He sensed she knew he was watching her by the exaggerated sway of her hips, though she did not turn back to check.

There was a definite easing of tension at the next table, he noticed. The stilted conversation became more animated. A couple of the men were giving him curious looks, presumably wondering why he wasn’t following the girl out. Let them wonder, Hawkwood thought. He considered the girl’s prospects. He recalled a story he’d been told about sharks, sea predators that had to keep moving and eating to stay alive. He thought about the girls plying for trade. Their lives seemed very like the shark’s: every day spent in an endless trawl for prey. In that regard, each of them was as lost in hope as the men lining up at Hanratty’s table.

Following their brief encounter, Hawkwood doubted the girl would be without company for long. She had the looks and she had the wit, and there were plenty of customers in attendance, so the queue for companionship wasn’t about to shorten any time soon.

Hawkwood took a look around. A new batch of woebegone souls had begun to file past the pay-table. Another half an hour, he decided, and he’d call it a night. He caught the eye of a serving girl and held up his mug. He’d convinced himself that the grog wasn’t too bad. In any case, once the first swallow was out of the way, it didn’t really matter because he wouldn’t be able to feel the inside of his mouth anyway.