by James McGee
“Capital.” Dodd released the hand abruptly, picked up his cane, and got to his feet. Then, looking Sawney straight in the eye, as if nothing untoward had happened, he smiled. “I look forward to our next meeting.”
The doctor turned away. At that moment Sawney sensed something dark skitter across the back of his brain, as if someone had opened a door on to a dim-lit room allowing him to see a glimpse of shadow pass behind a guttering candle flame, that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and yet which left him with such an intense feeling of dread that the breath caught in his throat.
It was only as Dodd paused and turned that Sawney realized the sound of his exhalation must have carried. A chill moved through him.
The doctor’s head was cocked as he looked back over his hunched shoulder. “What’s wrong, Sawney? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” In the low light, the doctor’s eyes were still as black as coal, without warmth.
Sawney looked down and saw that the skin along his arms had become a patchwork of goose pimples. Each individual hair was standing to attention like a bristle. He shook his head quickly and nodded towards his plate. “Bit of cheese went down the wrong way, that’s all.”
The doctor held his gaze for what seemed like minutes. “There is one more thing, Sawney. The bodies are to be delivered whole. Leave the teeth.” With the instructions hanging ominously in the air, Dodd turned and continued on his way out.
Sawney waited for the doctor to make his exit before releasing his breath. He got up, pocketed the cross, and walked unsteadily to the counter, taking his mug with him. Hanratty kept a bottle of Spanish brandy beneath the boards. Sawney emptied the dregs from his mug into the slop bucket, lifted the brandy from its hiding place and poured himself a measure. He raised the drink to his lips, took a long, deep pull, and waited for his heart to slow down.
Then he asked himself what had just happened.
He wasn’t sure what his mind had shown him – a flash of memory, perhaps, or an omen of what was to come. He didn’t know. He tried to recall what it was he had seen, but his brain did not respond. Whatever it was, Sawney had the feeling that it was malevolent. If that same door was ever to stand ajar again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what lay on the other side of it. He took another swig of brandy.
“Rufus?”
Sawney jumped; the second time in a day. The snarl erupted from his lips.
“Jesus! Don’t ever bleedin’ sneak up on me like that again, you stupid bastard!”
Maggett flinched and stared at the brandy. “You all right, Rufus?”
Sawney didn’t answer. Maggett frowned and nodded towards the taproom door. “Who was that then?”
Sawney ignored the question. “Where are the boys?”
Maggett jerked his thumb skywards. “Upstairs with some moll. Surprised you can’t hear ’em. Bleedin’ animals.”
Sawney put down his mug. “Go bring them down. Don’t take any shit. I’ve a job for them. There’ll be a run on tonight, too. I got a customer for their ladyships downstairs.”
Maggett looked pointedly at the mug in Sawney’s hand and the half-empty bottle on the countertop and raised an eyebrow.
“Medicinal purposes,” Sawney snapped.
Maggett turned away. He had no idea what was irking Sawney. He suspected it might have to do with the man who’d just left. He hadn’t seen Sawney looking that shaken for a long while. Trouble was, whenever Sawney got the hump, he had a tendency to take it out on everyone else. Maggett sighed. He hoped the mood was temporary. Otherwise it looked as if it was going to be a long day, not to mention a longer night. He just hoped the job was going to be worth it.
As Maggett turned and made his way to the back stairs, Sawney wiped a hand across his lips. He felt a little better. The brandy had done the business. He straightened. Probably nothing more than his nerves playing tricks. It wasn’t unusual when a retrieval was in the offing to get a touch of the jitters.
Sawney felt the shape of the cross in his waistcoat pocket and pressed his hand against his chest. Taking his mug, he headed back to his booth, realizing, as he retraced his steps, that he’d left the bag containing the night’s takings in full view. He cursed and shook his head at his forgetfulness, then looked towards the porters’ table, but the trio were now too ensconced with the whores to have noticed anything else. The anticipation of a quick fumble with a willing participant tended to make a person oblivious to his or her surroundings. Sawney could probably have driven a coach and four through the taproom door and they wouldn’t have been aware of anything except the wind from its passing.
Sawney sat down and took out the cross. He stared at it, turning it in his hand, and thought about the man who had given it to him. He was a strange one, this Dr Dodd. Curious, too, that he should have come in person rather than using Butler as an intermediary. Not that Sawney was going to complain. This way, he wouldn’t have to give Butler a cut for brokering the job. Not that he’d have paid out willingly, anyway. Not with Butler having stiffed him over the Chinaman. He reminded himself to have words with the porter about that one, the fly bastard. Foreign corpses weren’t dissimilar to cripples, pregnant women and children. They didn’t come on the open market that often and you could make good money from them, if you knew what you were doing. It dented Sawney’s pride to know that he could have earned a few extra guineas had he been more alert.
And while on the subject of money, a silver cross was a curious form of currency. Worth a fair bit, though. There’d be no problem getting a good price for it. Sawney wasn’t too sure about the doctor’s story, however; especially the bit about not having access to his accounts. What was all that about? He ran his finger over the hallmark once more. Sentimental value, my arse, he thought. Couldn’t be that sentimentally attached if he was prepared to barter it for a couple of day-old stiffs.
Sawney hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it out on to the floor. Not that he was going to let it worry him. He wouldn’t have lost any sleep had the doctor confessed to smothering his grandmother and hocking her pearls to raise the necessary. As far as he was concerned, if someone wanted to pay him, who cared where the bloody money came from? And Dr Dodd had hinted there’d be more if he played his cards right. Sawney liked the sound of that. Sawney took another swig of brandy and grinned to himself. Things were looking up.
9
“Sometimes,” Maddie Teague sighed, through a cascade of auburn hair, “I think that’s all I am to you: a seamstress and washerwoman.”
“And a grand cook,” Hawkwood said. “Don’t forget that.”
The reward for that comment was a withering look and a sharp dig in the ribs. Hawkwood winced.
Maddie’s emerald-green eyes clouded with immediate concern. Raising herself on to one elbow, she ran her hand gently over the horizontal, four-inch ridge of scar tissue that marred the flesh two inches below Hawkwood’s ribcage. “It still hurts?”
“Only when I’m with company,” Hawkwood said, grinning. He braced himself for another dig, which was duly delivered, though with marginally less force than the first.
Before he could respond, Maddie lowered her head and placed her lips against another, smaller indentation high on his left shoulder.
“So many scars, Matthew,” she murmured softly.
She touched the scimitar-shaped cicatrice etched into the side of his chest below his left arm, then moved her hand to the uneven, crown-sized discoloration on his right shoulder. They were old wounds, like most of the scars on his body; the legacy of twenty years’ soldiering. Weapons of war had left their mark with varying degrees of severity, yet Hawkwood knew he was the fortunate one. He had survived. The bullet scar below his ribs and the knife wound on his left shoulder were the most recent; sustained during his time as a Runner. It was ironic, Hawkwood thought, despite having left soldiering behind, people were still intent on trying to kill him.
Maddie made no mention of the marks on his throat. She never had. Hawkwood recalled the fir
st time they had lain together. Maddie had frowned and traced the bruising with her fingertips and Hawkwood had read the question in her eyes. Then, in a gesture that had astonished him, she had placed her finger against his lips to prevent him speaking, kissed his throat with great tenderness and, still without saying a word, lowered her head on to his chest. Since then, in the quiet moments, she had often enquired about the bullet wounds and the assorted nicks and cuts he carried, but at no time had she referred to the bruises on his neck. It was as if they had ceased to exist.
She kissed him again. “It’s getting late,” she whispered, nodding towards the window where the grey dawn light was trying to peer through a gap in the drapes. “And some of us have a business to run.”
Maddie Teague’s business was the Blackbird Inn. The tavern was situated in quiet seclusion close to the southern end of Water Lane, a short walk from Temple Gardens and King’s Bench Walk. Maddie was a widow and had inherited the Blackbird from her late husband, who’d bought the inn with profits he’d made as captain with the East India Company. The captain’s Will, however, had also included a number of debts. Hawkwood’s need for accommodation on his return to England had solved Maddie’s immediate money problems, reassured her creditors and provided breathing space for her to turn what had been a modest endeavour into a profitable one.
Like the marks on his neck, Maddie had not questioned the provenance of Hawkwood’s financial contributions. She was not unaware that military campaigning often provided opportunity for financial gain. Seamen benefited from prize money gained through the capture of enemy ships, she knew that from her late husband. But soldiering? Maddie presumed that similar opportunities arose. She was not so naïve as to think army pay, even for an officer in the Rifles, was that generous. Presumably, during his two decades of service, cities had been sacked, forts plundered, baggage trains captured. But none of that mattered. Maddie Teague trusted Hawkwood. She’d trusted him from the day he’d walked through the door. She had accepted his offer of financial assistance – there had been no preset conditions other than an agreement giving Hawkwood use of two of the tavern’s back rooms – and not once had she questioned his motives. Later she had also come to accept and value his friendship.
And she knew the feeling was mutual, even if he’d never told her so. He didn’t have to.
Besides, it didn’t hurt, having a peace officer living on the premises.
When Hawkwood arrived back at the Blackbird, soaked, chilled and in severe need of a brandy, dry clothes and a warm bed, he had not been surprised to find that Maddie was still working. The Blackbird, like most of the city’s drinking establishments, kept long hours. To its regular clientele – lawyers, for the most part, with a smattering of clergy thrown in for good measure – it was a comfortable haven away from the pressures of court and congregation. Maddie provided an excellent menu, while the girls who waited on the tables were efficient and friendly without being overly familiar. And waiting on tables was the only service they provided. Maddie had a strict rule, rigorously enforced: no soliciting or propositioning on the premises. You wanted that kind of thing, you took your business elsewhere, Covent Garden or Haymarket. No exceptions, no second chance. The Blackbird was a respectable house and Maddie Teague intended it to remain that way.
Maddie was in the kitchen, delegating chores, when Hawkwood made his presence known. Right hand on hip, she’d eyed his arrival and damp clothes with a raised eyebrow. “I hope you scraped your boots before you came in. I don’t want to go out there and find you’ve tracked mud all through my dining room.”
“And a good evening to you, too, Mistress Teague,” Hawkwood said, suspecting, guiltily, that mud might not have been the only thing he’d left in his wake. It was too late to retrace his steps. He started to remove his wet coat.
“Don’t you dare, Matthew Hawkwood! You hang that up outside in the passage by the door.”
By the time she’d completed the sentence, Maddie had both hands on her hips, a sure sign that she meant business. It didn’t make her look any less attractive. The kitchen was basking in warmth from the hearth and the cooking stoves. Maddie’s scoop-necked blouse did little to conceal the soft swell of her breasts. Her pale Celtic skin was aglow with perspiration. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s gone midnight, so it’s not evening, it’s morning.”
Hawkwood grinned.
“And I suppose you’ll be wanting a bite to eat?” Maddie enquired drily as Hawkwood turned away. She shook her head. “I don’t know why I even bother to ask.” She nodded to one of the girls by the hearth. “Give the remains of that stew a stir, would you, Hettie, and make sure it’s hot. Daisy, you go up to Officer Hawkwood’s rooms and see the fire’s lit, there’s a good girl.”
Hawkwood returned from hanging up his coat to find a place had been set at the head of the table. Maddie indicated the empty chair. “Sit. There’s mutton stew. It’ll warm you up.”
Maddie waited until he was seated, then announced, “Right, I still have customers out there who have homes to go to. Hettie will look after you.” Then, before he could respond, she was gone.
She had still not put in an appearance when Hawkwood left the kitchen and made his way upstairs.
His accommodation on the top floor was modest but comfortable; two low-beamed rooms separated by an archway. The similarity to the late Colonel Hyde’s quarters had struck Hawkwood when he’d returned to his rooms after his visit to Bethlem. He’d found it both startling and not a little depressing when he realized that the comparison extended to the furnishings. Bed, table and chairs, nightstand and desk, and over against the wall his brass-bound campaign chest.
His few possessions didn’t amount to much, but he’d been a soldier for almost all his adult life, fighting the King’s enemies, and during that period he’d probably spent more time on foreign soil than he had at home. Then again, where was home? He had no estate, no family – other than the army, and that part of his life was now over – and few friends.
He thought of other former soldiers he’d come across. It wasn’t hard to recognize them. They were the limbless cripples usually to be found in dark doorways, begging for alms from passers-by too contained within their own world to spare concern for any other unfortunates. They’d given their limbs for King and country only to find themselves abandoned and ignored by both.
Many had turned to petty crime. Sometimes it fell to Hawkwood to apprehend them. Where possible, he was inclined to turn a blind eye and let them go with a warning. Transportation or a spell in Newgate seemed poor reward for a man who, having been maimed in the service of his country, had been forced into stealing a loaf of bread or a half-side of bacon because he couldn’t afford to put food on his family’s table. More than once he had thought, There but for the grace of God …
Hawkwood had been fortunate. Thanks to character references and recommendation, albeit unconventional in nature, he had secured employment and a roof over his head, and for that he was thankful. Had that not been the case, it was more than likely, instead of sharing a warm bed with Maddie Teague, he would still have been shivering by a guerrillero campfire in some snowbound cave in the Spanish mountains.
The fire in the grate was, therefore, a welcome sight and Hawkwood mouthed a silent prayer of thanks for Maddie’s thoughtfulness. He could no longer hear the rain outside, though the steady drip of water from the gutter on to the windowsill was like the slow ticking of a mantelpiece clock.
He saw that the girl, Daisy, had even provided him with a jug of hot water to wash. It had been a kind gesture and he made a mental note to thank her. He was drying himself when a knock sounded at the door. Hawkwood slipped on his shirt, and went to investigate.
“Would the gentleman like his bed warming?” Maddie Teague asked. The light from the sconce-mounted candle in the hallway outside the door made her eyes dance.
“What with?” Hawkwood asked, eyeing the glasses and bottle of brandy balanced on the tray in Maddie’s hands. He
looked up at her face and waited.
Maddie smiled. She reached up with one hand, pinched out the candle flame between finger and thumb, and walked past him into the room.
“Me,” she said.
It had been afterwards, lying naked, the blanket thrown over them to keep the chill at bay, that he had told her about his visit to the Dog and the attack on the bridge. His explanation had been prompted by Maddie’s enquiry about the stains on his coat that, in the dark, had escaped his notice. There had been blood on the hem; probably from the man whose nose had been shattered by Hawkwood’s tipstaff. So much for my powers of observation, Hawkwood had thought.
“If they weren’t footpads,” Maddie said, “who do you think might have sent them?”
“I don’t know,” Hawkwood said.
“Will they send someone to try again, do you think?”
“Maybe.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know that either,” Hawkwood said. “Not until it happens.”
“But you’ll deal with them?”
“Yes.”
“You sound so certain.”
“It’s what I do,” Hawkwood said. “It’s what I’m good at.”
He looked at her. Maddie turned her face away quickly. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ve breakfasts to prepare. If I leave those girls alone for five minutes, Lord only knows what mischief they’ll be up to.”
“Maddie …” Hawkwood said.
She shook her head and got up from the bed. Without turning, she said, “Next time it might be someone better.”
“Then I’ll be careful.”
Hawkwood watched her as she dressed. He wasn’t sure what was the more alluring, Maddie removing her clothes or putting them back on. There was a natural grace to her movements that was a constant source of wonder to him, no matter what she happened to be doing at the time.
She sensed his eyes upon her, turned and wiped her cheek. “What?”
