Resurrectionist

7

Sawney was in the cellar, stacking bodies by the light of a lantern, when he heard the heavy tread on the stair.

“His ’Oliness ’as turned up, Rufus. Didn’t know we was expectin’ ’im.”

Sawney cursed savagely. The body he’d been trying to prop against the wall was wrapped in a filthy sheet, but the ends of the sheet had come loose and the grey-faced corpse, which was beginning a slow emergence from its state of rigor mortis, was proving to be a bit of a handful.

“Rufus?”

“I heard you, Maggsie. I’m not bleedin’ deaf.”

Sawney tried again. This time, he managed to get the corpse’s arm to stay inside the sheet. Lucky it was a female. A male would have been heavier and more difficult to manoeuvre.

“Come ’ere.’ Old this,” Sawney snapped. “Bleedin’ sow’s all over the place.”

A hulking shape appeared over Sawney’s shoulder. “What do you want me to do?”

Sawney nodded towards the arm, which had flopped loose for the third time. “Just keep the bloody thing tucked in while I wraps ’er up. And mind what you’re doin’. I want to make sure we deliver ’er in one piece.”

“What do you think she’ll fetch?”

Sawney reached for the corner of the sheet. “Four maybe.” He clicked his tongue and looked around the room. “Not a bad night’s work.”

Abel Maggett grunted. “Too right. Mind you, gettin’ ’er over that bleedin’ wall was a bitch. Damned near done my back in.” The big man pressed a meaty hand against the base of his spine and winced.

Sawney studied his companion with a jaundiced eye. He was by no means a small man himself, but Maggett towered over him by at least a foot and he was big with it. A slaughter-man by trade, Maggett was capable of hefting pig carcasses three at a time. The thought that the big man had put his back out lifting a woman’s cadaver over a five-foot wall was laughable. That was Maggett for you: a real caution.

The knot in the sheet secured, Sawney stood back and admired his handiwork. All told, there were five bodies awaiting delivery: two grown males, a male child and two females. Definitely a good haul.

Sawney knew they’d have to move them soon, however. The wintry weather was a boon, the cellar was ice-cold. Even so, it wouldn’t be long before the bodies would start to turn. Sawney was already having doubts about the child’s corpse. He thought he’d detected some leakage when he’d wrapped the thing. The quicker they passed the bodies on, the better. Once decomposition started, prices would drop significantly. True, they could always chop the bodies into bits and sell the parts separately, but it was a messy business and he didn’t want to go down that road except as a last resort.

He turned to Maggett. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs.” The big man nodded towards the five sheet-entwined bodies. They reminded Maggett of caterpillar cocoons. “When do you want to move ’em?”

“It’ll have to be before sun-up. Maybe later tonight. Can’t risk carrying them through the streets in broad daylight. We’ll use the cart.”

Maggett grunted in acknowledgement. His massive chest strained against the material of his shirt and the buttons of his dark moleskin waistcoat.

Sawney lifted the lantern from its hook. “Right, let’s see what the bugger wants.” Taking a last look around the cellar, Sawney led the way up the stairs and entered the room with Maggett at his back. He frowned at the sole occupant, who was pacing the floor like a cat in a cage. “I thought we ’ad an agreement. You weren’t to come callin’, ’less you was invited. I don’t recall sendin’ word that I wanted to see you.”

Verger Lucius Symes stopped pacing and blinked nervously. Lit by the candlelight, his face bore an unhealthy waxen sheen.

“Well?” Sawney rasped. “I ain’t got all bleedin’ night. What is it? You after your cut, is that it? I told you it was on the usual terms. You’ll get yours when we get ours, and that won’t be until later. I’ll get one of the Ragg boys to drop your share round in the morning.”

Sawney turned to Maggett, shook his head and blew out his cheeks. “Christ, all that lifting’s done my head in. An’ I could murder a wet. I’ve got a throat as dry as a witch’s cunny. Verger looks like he could do with a tot of somethin’ as well. Maggsie, you’re forgettin’ your manners. Get some mugs and open a bottle.”

Maggett frowned. “We ain’t got no mugs, Rufus. Ain’t got no booze neither.”

“Bloody hell.” Sawney raised his eye to the ceiling. “We’re in a bleedin’ pub, for Chris’sakes. Use your noggin.”

Maggett’s wide brow furrowed at the change of tone.

As if to illustrate Sawney’s point, a burst of gin-soaked laughter sounded from the other side of the wall, reminding them that the busy, smoke-filled taproom was only a few feet away.

Sawney sighed. “Go and get some, and tell Hanratty to put it on the slate.”

For someone of his stature, Maggett could move remarkably quietly. Sawney watched him steal out of the room and shook his head again, half in amusement, half in weary exasperation. Maggett was a staunch companion with many excellent qualities, brawn, loyalty and obedience being chief among them. But there were times when he could make a fence post look intelligent.

As Maggett disappeared, there came the sound of a second person’s footsteps and the swish of skirts from the passage outside. There followed a brief murmured exchange and then another, smaller figure appeared in the open doorway. The verger’s eyes widened momentarily.

Moving into the room, the girl slipped an arm round Sawney’s waist.

“’Ello, darlin’,” Sawney said. He turned and nodded towards the verger. “Look who’s come to visit.”

The girl stared at the verger. There was no welcome in her expression.

The verger stared back then his eyes moved to Sawney. “You didn’t have to do it.”

“Sorry, Verger – do what?” Sawney looked at the girl and raised his eyebrows as if to ask her if she knew what the verger was talking about. The girl shrugged.

“Kill him like that,” Symes said.

“Ah,” Sawney nodded sagely, running a tongue over yellowing teeth. “You mean young Doyle.”

“Why?” The verger repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Sawney put his head on one side. He looked like a stoat studying a rabbit. “Because I could.”

The verger blinked.

“Well, what the ’ell did you think was going to happen to ’im?” Sawney rasped. “You think I was just going to give ’im a tap, tell ’im he’d been a naughty boy and send ’im on his way?” Sawney shook his head. “Couldn’t have him ’arbourin’ ideas above ’is station, could I? Should’ve remembered he was playin’ with the big boys. He knew the rules and he broke ’em. In my book, that meant he ’ad to pay. Had to set an example for the rest of them, else there’d just be bleedin’ chaos. Can’t have that, might disrupt business. And right now business is good.” Sawney paused. “And you should know,” he added pointedly. “So don’t come whining to me ’cause you don’t like my methods.”

Releasing himself from the girl and taking a step forward, Sawney wagged his finger. “You knew what you were getting into, just as much as Doyle. You’re a paid-up member, Verger, and it’s us who pays you – handsomely, as I recall.”

The verger paled.

“Not to mention the perks,” Sawney continued. “Like young Sal here, tootin’ your flute whenever you drops by.”

The verger’s gaze flickered to the girl. Her expression was just as dark as Sawney’s and the verger’s throat constricted. There was an unblinking intensity in those midnight-tinted eyes that seemed both feline and wild. As he stared at her, he knew, despite the threat in Sawney’s tone, that it was the girl who was undoubtedly the more dangerous.

“What?” Sawney said mockingly. “Don’t tell me you want out. Jesus, that’s it, ain’t it? You’re here to tell us you’ve had your fill. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it don’t work like that. You ain’t out till I tell you you’re out. This ain’t a bleedin’ – what do they call it? – Democracy. Besides, the season’s only been up and running for a month. We’ve still got another five to go. The schools are open, terms have started and they’ll be wantin’ bodies. It’s our job to supply them, as fresh as possible. That’s what they pay us for.”

Sawney gazed at the verger, who was looking like a man who’d lost a guinea and found threepence. “No, wait, you weren’t actually thinkin’ of leavin’ of your own accord? You ain’t that naïve, surely? When will you learn? We own you, Symes. We pay you, so we own you. You ever wondered what might happen if the vicar and the parishioners got to know about your little hobbies? I know you’re not strictly what they call a man of the cloth, but you’re close enough. What do you think they’d say if, durin’ next Sunday’s service, young Sal here interrupts the sermon to tell everyone that she sucks your cock of an evening in a back room of the Black Dog pub? You really want to go down that road? No, I didn’t think so. And I’ll tell you this, so there’s no misunderstandin’: dropping the word to the vicar and ’is parishioners will be the best thing we do to you.” Sawney leaned in close so that his face was inches away from the verger’s. His voice dripped quiet menace. “You get my drift?”

A rattle of tin mugs and the clink of glass from the doorway interrupted the moment.

“I got us a bottle, Rufus,” Maggett announced. “On the slate, like you said.” The big man appeared oblivious to the tension in the room.

Sawney straightened. “Did you now, Maggsie? Well done. Just what the doctor ordered. How about you, Verger, a drop of grog to wet your whistle?”

The verger remained silent. Sawney sighed theatrically. “Jesus, don’t tell me there’s more?”

“You crucified him.” The verger’s voice trembled.

Sawney took the bottle from Maggett’s hand and poured three fingers of gin into one of the mugs. He took a sip and smirked. “Just my little joke.” He raised the mug to his lips once more and paused. “No,’ ang on, in fact it was Sal’s idea.” He turned to the girl. “That’s right, ain’t it?”

The girl did not reply. Turning her head in the verger’s direction, she stretched out her arms and raised them to shoulder height.

“Bloody rotten way to spend Easter,” she said, then giggled.

The verger stared at her in horror.

“I tell you, Verger, she’s a wag,” Sawney said. “Has me in stitches, so she does, seein’ as it’s closer to Christmas than Easter.” Sawney held out the bottle. “Here you go, Sal, get your tongue round that. You sure you don’t want a snort, Verger? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“You took out his teeth and tongue.”

“Too right,” Sawney said. “There’s good money in teeth, especially sound teeth, and young Doyle’s teeth were sounder than most. There’s plenty of toffs out there who’ll pay good money for a new set of canines. It’s all the rage. Did I ever tell you about that time I broke into the vault of that meetin’ house in Shoreditch? Can’t recall how many stiffs they ’ad down there, but I do know it took me three hours to get the teeth out of ’em. Earned myself sixty quid, though. It beats shovellin’ shit. An’ I’ll tell you another thing: there’s not a tooth-puller in London that ain’t been supplied with teeth dug up from an ’ospital field.” Sawney waited for the information to sink in before adding, “An’ I’ll guarantee there’s more than one politician sportin’ teeth taken from some poor bastard lying dead on a Spanish battlefield. I should bleedin’ know.”

“The police said the tongue was cut out as a warning.”

“Did they now? Well, there’s truth in that, I’ll not deny it. And I’ll wager it’ll do the trick, too. We’re the top dogs here, not Naples and his bleedin’ Borough Boys. Us. The sooner they start takin’ us seriously, the better. There’s a good living to be made for all of us, you included, Verger. So long as nobody rocks the boat …” Sawney paused. “You said it was the police who told you it was a warning?”

The verger nodded. “I had to raise the alarm. It would have seemed odd if I hadn’t.”

“You did your duty, Verger. Wouldn’t expect anything else from a fine, upstandin’ citizen like yourself. Don’t worry about it. Bloody Charleys couldn’t find water if it was rainin’.”

“The man they sent wasn’t a Charley. He was some sort of special constable.”

Sawney shrugged, unconcerned. “Amounts to the same thing. They ain’t much better.”

“This one might be,” Symes said. “He’s next door.”

It was often the little things in life that gave the most satisfaction and, for the verger, having borne the brunt of Sawney’s scorn for the last few minutes, watching the look of incredulity steal over the latter’s face was as pleasurable as hearing a peal of church bells on a Sunday morning.

“He’s here?” A nerve quivered in Sawney’s cheek. “Christ, you led him here? He followed you?”

The verger swallowed. The pleasure of the moment withered, to be replaced by a creeping dread.

“I didn’t lead him anywhere,” Symes said defensively. “He was here already.”

Sawney frowned. “Then how …?”

“One of the gravediggers told him they thought they’d seen Doyle drinking in one of the local pubs. He’s probably visiting them all, looking for information.”

“Shite!” Sawney swore. “Did he see you?”

Symes reddened. His new-found boldness was disintegrating by the second. He took an involuntary step backwards. “I don’t think so.” The verger hesitated, and then nodded towards the girl. “He was talking to her.”

The room went very quiet.

Sawney pivoted slowly. His look was murderous.

“He was what?”

“That’s what I was coming to tell you,” Sal said quickly. She turned to the verger. “What was his name?”

“I can’t … no, wait, it was Hawkwood, Officer Hawkwood.”

“Officer?” Sawney repeated, frowning.

Sal bit her lip. “He told me his name was Matthews. Said he was a pal of Doyle’s and he was looking for him ’cos there was chance of work for the two of them.” Sal paused. “Didn’t look like a bloody constable. Bastard!”

“He still here?” Sawney asked.

Sal shrugged. “Don’t know. I left him to come to you.”

“What do we do?” Maggett asked. There was a fresh light in the big man’s eyes, promoting him instantly from low-witted bruiser to competent lieutenant awaiting orders.

“If he’s still here, I want a look at him,” Sawney said. He put down his mug and moved to the wall. Maggett and Sal followed. Symes brought up the rear.

There were several candle brackets set in the walls, all at eye level. Sawney moved to the middle one. Reaching up, he extinguished the candle flame with his finger and thumb, then tilted the bracket to one side. He stepped back, allowing access to the small two-inch aperture left in the plaster, and nodded at the verger. “Take a look. If he’s there, you point the bugger out. You got that?”

Symes stepped up and placed his eye to the hole.

“Well?” Sawney pressed.

Symes couldn’t see a thing at first. So poorly was the taproom lit that it took several seconds for his eye to focus and his brain to register what he was seeing. He was aware that the room was still crowded but in the gloomy interior, with tobacco smoke hanging over the counter like a bank of sea fog, it was hard to make out faces. Gradually, however, his eye grew accustomed to the light and individual features began to take shape.

“Chris’sakes!” Sawney breathed. “How long’s it bleedin’ take?”

The verger bit his tongue and continued to search the room.

Suddenly he stiffened. He backed away from the wall. “He’s in the corner booth, to the right: the tall one, with the coat and the long hair. He’s wearing military breeches, a yellow stripe down the seam.”

Beside him, Sawney heard Sal draw in her breath.

“You’re sure it’s him?” Sawney said.

Symes nodded. “He’s dressed rough, but yes, it’s the same man. I’m certain of it.”

Sawney pushed the verger aside and took a look for himself. When he stood back, his mouth was set in a grim line.

“What?” Maggett said.

“Sal was right. He don’t look like a constable. My guess is it’s because he ain’t. Verger said he called himself Officer Hawkwood. I’m bettin’ he’s a bleedin’ Runner.”

“Bloody hell!” Maggett said, alarm in his voice. “What’s he doin’?”

“He ain’t doing anything. Just sittin’ there, nursin’ a wet.” Sawney stepped away from the wall, his face thoughtful.

“Let me see.” The girl moved to the wall. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the eye-hole. There was a pause and then she said, “Yeah, that’s him. A few of the girls asked him if he wanted some company before me, but he turned us all down. He’s not bad lookin’ – for a Runner.”

She stepped away and found Sawney giving her a hard stare. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you even think about it. You do, I’ll slit your gizzard.”

Seeing the look on Sawney’s face, the girl’s expression faltered. “I was only jokin’, Rufus.”

“I wasn’t,” Sawney said softly. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. Said I’d never heard of Doyle. I told him he’d probably got the wrong pub. He should try the Dog and Dray.”

Symes had registered the flash of fear in the girl’s eyes. A chill moved through him. There was an awkward silence. “What should we do?” he asked.

Sawney’s gaze moved from the girl to the verger.

“Rufus?” Maggett said. He was over by the wall, taking a look at the individual who was causing all the fuss.

“Hold on,” Sawney said, “I’m thinkin’.” He took a drink, swilled the grog around his tongue and swallowed. He poured out a fresh mug, then looked at the verger. “You’re positive he didn’t see you?”

The verger shook his head firmly, more confident now. “I’m sure.”

Too busy gawpin’ at Sal’s tits, Maggett thought to himself. And who could blame him?

Sawney mulled over the verger’s reply. After a few seconds he nodded. “Then I don’t reckon we’ve got anything to worry about. There’s no one here’s going to talk. They know what’s good for them. The bastard’ll be old news in a week. I’d say we’re in the clear.”

Sawney straightened. “Right, worth a drink, I reckon.” He looked at Symes. “How about it, Verger? Not much point us fallin’ out, not when we’ve more work lined up. What’s done is done. Tell you what, we’ll get some more booze in. Good stuff, not this rotgut. Come on, Maggsie, let’s see if we can’t find ourselves a couple of those bottles Hanratty keeps under the counter for the special customers.”

Maggett frowned. He was wondering what bottles. He was also wondering which special customers Sawney was talking about.

Sawney rolled his eyes at his lieutenant’s expression then turned to Symes. “Be best if you hung around, anyway, Verger, at least until that bastard Runner has slung ’is hook. Go on, have a seat, take the weight off. Sal here’ll look after you. How’d that be? Sal, entertain the man. That’s an order.” Sawney winked. “We’ll be back in ten minutes. Give you two a bit of privacy. Come on, Maggsie.” Sawney ushered the still-frowning Maggett towards the door. He turned. “An’ you be gentle with him, Sal, y’hear?”

Sal grinned and poked her tongue out. “Don’t you worry. I’m always gentle with Lucius.” She turned to the verger and chuckled. “Ain’t that right, sweet’eart? Go on, sit yourself down.” She nodded towards the chair. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Sawney and Maggett left the room. Symes watched them, a worried expression on his face.

“Don’t worry about them,” Sal whispered, as the footsteps retreated. “It’s just you and me. We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

The verger hesitated. Sal tugged gently on his sleeve. “You know you want to.” She dropped her gaze. “I can tell.”

The verger coloured, but he did not resist when she led him to the wing-backed chair and pressed him down into the seat. She leaned over him, placed both hands on the arms of the chair, and gazed at him from beneath her dark lashes. “Will it be the usual, then, sir?” she asked teasingly.

Symes closed his eyes, cursing himself for his weakness. He kept them shut as Sal knelt down and began to undo his breeches. When she had done so, she reached for him. Symes caught his breath as he felt the touch of her palm.

Sal grinned as she took hold. “Toot-toot,” she said softly, as she lowered her head.

The verger’s eyes were still clamped shut when Sawney re-entered the room. Symes was breathing heavily. His left hand was on the arm of the chair. His right hand was resting on Sal’s shoulder. Sal’s head was bobbing up and down in his lap. Neither of them seemed aware that Sawney had returned. A yellow-toothed grin creased Sawney’s face as he studied the verger’s rapt expression. Sal increased her rhythm. The verger’s breathing grew ragged. Without altering her position, Sal looked up, caught Sawney’s eye, and winked. Sawney felt himself stiffen. He reached down and adjusted himself through his breeches.

The verger was close to the point of no return. He emitted a low moan as Sal increased the pressure of her lips. She was still looking at Sawney and continued to gaze up at him as he leaned over the back of the chair. Suddenly the verger grunted. At the moment of release Sawney, with exquisite timing, looped the cord round the verger’s throat and pulled tight. Caught in that moment of confusion between pleasure and pain, the verger shuddered. As the realization of what was happening struck him, his eyes shot open and he clawed at the cord encircling his throat. Legs kicking, he flailed from side to side in a vain attempt to free himself. Scrambling away from the verger’s thrashing limbs, Sal rose and spat the contents of her mouth into the nearest mug. Sawney’s forearms bulged. Gradually, the verger’s struggles grew weaker, then stopped. Sawney waited for half a dozen seconds before releasing the cord. A strong faecal smell filled the room. He gazed down at the verger’s inert body with a look of disgust. “Bloody sod shat himself.”

Sal rubbed a hand across her lips and grimaced. “Bleedin’ took you long enough.”

“The bugger was spryer than ’e looked.” Sawney tossed the cord aside, reached for the bottle and picked up a mug. He was intrigued to discover his cock was still semi-hard.

“I wouldn’t use that one,” Sal said.

Sawney looked into the mug and wrinkled his nose. He put the mug down, raised the bottle to his lips, took a swig, then handed it to Sal. “Clean your mouth out, girl.”

She was swilling the grog around her gums when Maggett came back in, looking confused. Having accompanied Sawney outside, and then been told to stay put for five minutes, he’d been kicking his heels on the landing, wondering what the hell Sawney was playing at. Now he knew. The big man glanced down at the verger’s corpse. His face betrayed no emotion. If Sawney had thought it necessary to kill the verger, then it would take a braver man than Maggett to question the decision. He sniffed. “Aw, Jesus!”

Sal poured some grog into a mug and passed it to Maggett. “There you go, Maggsie. This’ll take your mind off the smell.”

As Maggett took the mug and raised it to his mouth, Sal glanced at Sawney and stifled a grin.

Sawney’s eyes flicked to the mug and, as Maggett swallowed, he let go a snort of laughter.

Maggett lowered the mug and frowned. “What’s the joke?”

“Not a thing, Maggsie.” Sawney smiled benignly at his lieutenant. “Not a bleedin’ thing.”

Maggett drained the mug and nodded towards the chair. He missed Sal turning her head away as the giggles took hold. “What’ll we do with his ’Oliness? You want to hang on to him? Or should we feed ’im to Reilly’s hogs?”

Behind him, Sal’s shoulders were shaking.

Sawney clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. He tried not to look at Sal. He could feel himself starting to go.

Reilly was a slaughterman with a yard off Hosier Lane. He’d dispose of anything for a price; he wasn’t particular. Neither were his hogs. He kept three of them in a pen in his yard; huge, vicious brutes, with a reputation for devouring whatever was put in front of them. The word was that Reilly kept them hungry on purpose, starving them periodically in case their services might be required. Keeping them hungry made them less likely to question their menu. Sometimes Reilly let people watch – for a fee, of course; always the businessman.

“We’ll stow ’im with the others for the time being,” Sawney said, managing to control himself. “I’ll ask around. One of the schools might like him. Don’t see why we should bring that bogtrotter into it when we can do it ourselves an’ make money from it.”

“You want me to take ’im downstairs, Rufus?” Maggett asked, though he didn’t look overjoyed at the prospect. The smell was getting worse with each passing minute.

Sawney nodded. “We can swab ’im down later.”

“What about the bastard outside?” Sal asked. She had recovered from her giggling fit. Her face was instantly serious.

“I’ll take a look,” Sawney said, and moved to the wall.

Attaching his right eye to the peephole, Sawney surveyed the taproom. The Runner, if that’s what he was, was still at his table, but as Sawney watched he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. Suddenly, he paused and turned. For a moment, it seemed as though he was staring directly into Sawney’s eyes. Sawney’s breath caught in his throat. He knew there was no way he could be seen, but it had been a heart-stopping moment, nonetheless.

Sawney let go his breath as the tall, unsmiling man strode off through the tables, heading for the door to the street. He followed the black-coated figure’s progress, noting how calmly and easily the man moved through the crowded taproom. As he disappeared, Sawney stepped away from the wall and repositioned the light bracket.

“He’s on his way.” Sawney relit the candle and looked down at the body in the chair. “Stupid sod, thinkin’ I’d let the likes of him tell me what I should do!”

Sal and Maggett said nothing. When Sawney was off on one of his rants, it didn’t pay to interrupt.

But it seemed that was all Sawney had to say, on the subject of insubordination, at any rate. He turned to Maggett. “You had that word with Hanratty, right?”

Maggett nodded. “All done.”

Sawney nodded. “We’d best get busy then. I’ll go and get the cart. You take care of that –” Sawney nodded towards the chair. “Check ’is pockets first. You never know, he might ’ave some spare cash. We can use it to give ’im a send-off. Let the bugger pay for ’is own bloody wake.”

A chill rain was falling as Hawkwood left the Dog. There were no street lamps. The insipid candle glow seeping from the pub’s small, square, smoke-blackened windows cast a leathery sheen across the saturated cobbles. Further down the street faint pinpricks of light the size of fireflies were all that could be seen through chinks in the rough wooden shutters of the adjacent tenements. The rest of the alley was as dark as a catacomb.

The heavy drizzle had driven most people indoors, though there were still a few hardy souls around. Through the murk he could make out vague, waterlogged shapes darting under the overhanging eaves in an attempt to stay dry. Heads bowed, their cast-down faces were little more than pale blurs in the shadows.

Hawkwood turned up the collar of his coat. The rain, cold and hard against his face, matched his mood.

A series of ear-splitting feline howls pierced the night. The din was followed by the sound of an object being thrown and a high-pitched shriek that ebbed away into an uneasy silence. The rain continued to fall.

A sickly smell was drifting along the alleyway. The city was full of such odours, but Hawkwood recognized the stench. It was the Fleet. After two nights of heavy rain, the river had burst its banks. Not that anyone referred to the Fleet as a river. Most people called it the Ditch. Though even that was a euphemism for a trough of filth that was no more than an open sewer. The Fleet didn’t flow so much as ooze. That was if it bothered to move at all. It was said the rats didn’t need to swim across the Fleet, they sauntered.

Some stretches ran below ground, but where the Fleet saw the light of day, such as the section that ran behind Field Lane, it was used as a dumping ground for every type of effluent matter, solid and liquid, that humans and animals could excrete, as well as discarded waste from the nearby meat markets. The smell hung over the confined streets and alleyways like a blanket. On some days, depending on the weather, the stink would carry for miles. Even for a city renowned for its foul odours, the Fleet was in a class of its own.

The smell did at least give Hawkwood his bearings. He was skirting the southern boundary of the district known as Jack Ketch’s Warren, in memory of the city’s former hangman. Most locals referred to it simply as the Warren. A labyrinthine web of narrow lanes and passages, the slum was aptly named.

Hawkwood hunched into his coat and tried to ignore the water dribbling uncomfortably down the inside of his collar. Holborn Bridge lay around the next corner. Once there, he would be back on the main thoroughfare and out of the midden. He looked up. A small uneven gap had appeared in the clouds. Framed in the opening, a round moon hung like a pearl-grey teardrop. Caught by the ghostly radiance, rooftops and chimney pots rose in stark silhouettes against the night sky. The rain pricked like tiny arrows against his skin while above him overspill from the gutters ran down the slatted walls of the tenement houses in bright ribbons of quicksilver.

The sound of a heavy tread to his right drew his attention; a boot heel striking the cobbles, someone else hurrying to escape the wet. Hawkwood was aware of an indistinct shape moving at the edge of his vision; a vague shadow tucking itself into the side of the alleyway, blurred behind the drifting curtain of rain.

Then, as the slit in the clouds widened, he saw a dark form detach itself from the shelter of a low archway. He caught, too, the dull gleam of metal as moonlight glanced off an object in the figure’s hand: some sort of hooked implement, held low and partially concealed.

He sensed rather than saw the second shadow materialize from the entrance to a dark passageway to his left, close to the end of the bridge’s low wooden railing, and knew immediately that this was more than two bedraggled pedestrians seeking shelter from the inclement weather. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw that the second man was also armed with a broad, oblong blade, some kind of cleaver.

Hawkwood was already turning, his left hand pulling aside the hem of his coat, allowing his right hand access to the ebony tipstaff. He pulled the baton free.

It was hard to make out specific features in the shadows. Both men wore cloth caps, pulled low, and short jackets, collars turned up, with neckerchiefs round the lower halves of their faces. The one to Hawkwood’s right was the closer of the two. Hawkwood had an impression of muscle and agility. It occurred to him that he should identify himself as a police officer, but in the darkness and the downpour and with the hook scything towards him, his first thought was purely of self-preservation.

Hawkwood turned aside, his right hand slamming the tipstaff against the side of the attacker’s wrist. The crack of ebony on bone seemed unnaturally loud even with the noise of the rain coming down. It was accompanied by a sharp exclamation of pain. He swung the baton again, a reverse strike against the attacker’s elbow, his full weight in the blow. There was another yell, followed by a ringing clatter as the metal hook struck the cobblestones and skidded across the alley floor. Without pause, Hawkwood pivoted on his left heel, his open coat swirling around him. Keeping his arm rigid, he drove the side of the tipstaff up against the base of his attacker’s nose. He felt the cartilage give way as the strike followed through, crushing the nasal bones, driving the splinters up and into the brain. It had been meant as a killing blow and the effect was devastating. It was as if the attacker had run into a brick wall. He simply stopped all forward momentum, fell to his knees and collapsed face down on to the cobbles.

Without pausing even to draw breath, Hawkwood spun. The second man had come closer but there was a noticeable hesitation in his step. Clearly, the speed of Hawkwood’s retaliation and the brutal force of his counter-attack had given this one pause for thought. He stared down at the figure sprawled motionless on the cobblestones.

“Don’t be a fool,” Hawkwood warned. “I’m a police officer.”

The attacker’s head lifted. Above the scarf, his eyes widened.

“Not what you expected, was it, cully?” Hawkwood said. Without diverting his gaze from the masked figure, Hawkwood tossed the tipstaff into his left hand. The attacker’s eyes followed the flight of the baton. Then his attention flicked back to Hawkwood. Rain dripped from the peak of his cap and ran down the blade held low in his fist. The moonlight reflected the doubt in his eyes.

“Your choice, cully,” Hawkwood said calmly, and waited.

And then he saw the subtle shift in stance, the transference of weight from one foot to the other, and with it the unmistakable tightening across the knuckles of the hand that gripped the cleaver. He saw the white crescents in the attacker’s eyes shrivel and darken, and thought wearily, Oh, Christ.

But the attack, when it came, was clumsy. The new man was not as light on his feet as his companion and not as limber and in order to deliver a blow he first had to draw back the cleaver.

In that second of indecision, Hawkwood, unlike his opponent, did not hesitate. He feinted the baton towards the hand holding the blade. Instinctively the attacker lifted his arm to ward off the threat, realizing his mistake as soon as he had done so. Hawkwood saw his opening and launched his boot towards the exposed belly. His kick drove the air from the attacker’s lungs, slamming the man backwards.

In the drenching darkness, Hawkwood’s attacker had failed to see how close he was to the waist-high wooden fence at the edge of the bridge. Had it not been for the rain it was possible he might have recovered his footing, but in places the uneven cobblestones had become as slippery as winter ice.

Almost lifted off his feet by the force of Hawkwood’s kick, the attacker staggered back against the wooden slats, heels scrabbling for traction. Arms flailing, he made a desperate attempt to stay upright. Gravity, however, had the upper hand. The rotten staves splintered under his weight and the blade wielder toppled over the side of the bridge, the cry of terror rising from his throat as he tumbled into the void.

Hawkwood approached the shattered railing. Returning the tipstaff to the pocket of his coat, he peered cautiously over the edge. The smell that rose to meet him was foul beyond belief. He drew back sharply, fighting the urge to retch. Forcing himself to take a deep breath – a difficult feat given that the appalling stench seemed to be devouring the air around him – he peered once more into the abyss. Even in the shadows cast by the surrounding hovels, he could tell that the water in the Ditch, swollen by the rain, had risen considerably. It was only a few feet below the curved underside of the bridge and was almost solid with filth. It was like looking down into a trough of black treacle. He could hear the rain striking the surface. It sounded like musket balls tearing into flesh.

There was no sign of his attacker. A bundle of what looked like matted fur close to the opposite bank drew his attention; the carcass of some long-dead animal, a dog, he guessed. Within the grey tangle he could make out a pale curve of bone, part of a ribcage. He caught a glimpse of a small, sleek black pelt scampering along a piece of driftwood, followed by the ripple of a long hairless tail, but it was gone in an instant.

He heard it then, a faint snuffling grunt, the sort a pig might make grubbing for roots. He realized it was coming from directly below him, close in to the bridge’s brick supports. Mindful of the precarious state of the rail and trying not to inhale too deeply, he leaned over and searched for the source of the sound.

He spotted movement down in the filth; a pale, spider-like shape clawing desperately for purchase against the worn brickwork. It took Hawkwood a second to realize he was looking at a human hand and that the area of shadow surrounding it was the partially submerged body of his attacker.

As Hawkwood watched, the attacker made another vain grab for freedom. The oily black crust broke apart, releasing the man’s upper arm, enabling him to turn his head. But the release was temporary. His neckerchief had become dislodged, but the attacker’s face was unrecognizable beneath the mask of shit and mud. Only his eyes, white and wide with fear, were visible. His mouth was open but no sound emerged. Then, as quickly as it had relaxed its hold, the sticky effluence began to drag him under. In the blink of an eye he was gone, drawn into the black maw beneath the bridge as if the ground had opened and swallowed him whole.

Hawkwood straightened. He turned and walked over to where the first attacker was lying on the ground. Heedless of the wet, he gazed down at the dead man without sympathy. He looked around. There were no signs of life; no flicker of candlelight to indicate a curtain had been pulled aside, no cries of alarm, no running footsteps that might have suggested witnesses running to summon help. Nothing moved other than the rain, which continued its relentless fusillade against windowpane and tile. Ignoring the widening puddles, Hawkwood knelt and turned the body over. The lifeless eyes were dull and staring. The thin scarf that had concealed the attacker’s lower features had slipped. It was soaked with rain and stained black with blood. The face was not one that Hawkwood recognized. He switched his attention to the dead man’s clothing, moving through the pockets. No help there either; they were empty. He rose to his feet, his eyes quartering the cobblestones. His gaze caught the gleam of steel. He walked over to the wall and picked up the hook, turning it in his hands, pondering its significance.

It was weighty and there was a simple beauty in its smooth curves. The handle ended in a T-shape, allowing the holder to grip the bar of the T in his palm so that the shaft of the hook emerged from the gap between his middle fingers. It was a remarkably effective tool as well as a fearsome weapon, and one he’d seen many times in the markets and slaughter yards of Smithfield, used by butchers and meat porters to drag animal carcasses on and off cutting slabs.

Hawkwood considered the implications. That there was a connection between his attackers and his visit to the Dog seemed glaringly obvious.

It was possible, he supposed, that they’d been no more than a couple of opportunists who’d spotted him in the taproom, seen him pay for his drink rather than receive it on credit, viewed him as an easy mark and, acting on impulse, followed him into the alley.

An alternative explanation was that they’d been villains he’d come up against before; men out for revenge. But that seemed doubtful, given that he hadn’t recognized either of them, certainly not the one lying at his feet. The one that had fallen prey to the Fleet’s uncharitable grip, he couldn’t be sure of, but he guessed it unlikely they’d met previously, a theory more or less confirmed by the shock in the man’s eyes when Hawkwood had identified himself as a police officer.

He looked down at the hook and remembered the cleaver. The choice of weapons was intriguing. They were tools of the meat trade. Poke a stick down a rat hole, he thought, and you were never sure what was going to come crawling out. Maybe his enquiries about Doyle had touched a raw nerve. He looked again at the body.

In the normal course of events, at odds of two to one and given the weapons they had brandished, it would have been their victim lying face down on the cobbles. Unluckily for them, they hadn’t expected to be confronted by a former officer in the Rifles who’d spent the last six months of his army career living rough in the Spanish mountains slaughtering Frenchmen. They’d paid for their mistake with their lives. Not that Hawkwood intended to lose any sleep over it. His attackers had dealt the hand. Unhappily for them, it had been Hawkwood holding the trump cards.

He closed his eyes. There were too many damned ifs and buts floating around in the broth.

And it had been a long day – two grisly murders, one suicide and a visit to a madhouse; not exactly commonplace, even by a Bow Street officer’s standards. It was late, he was soaked through and bone-tired. A good night’s sleep wouldn’t come amiss. That way he’d be refreshed and ready to resume the investigation in the morning.

His decision made, Hawkwood tossed the hook over the rail into the Ditch and continued on his way; a dark figure disappearing into a darker night.