by James McGee
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 mol
ls.
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; j
udging 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?”
