by James McGee
While Billy pondered the circumstances of Danny McGrew’s undignified exit, Hawkwood lowered his mask and looked around. He wasn’t expecting witnesses, but it paid to be sure. “Check your weapons.”
Placing his lantern on the ground, Hawkwood drew the pistol from the holster on his belt and by the guttering light checked the flint, frizzen and powder. He pulled back the hammer to half-cock and released it gently back to the un-cocked position. Replacing the gun in the holster he did the same with his second pistol. As well as the firearms, he also had the knife in his boot and his tipstaff.
The others followed suit. Jago, who had supplied the guns, was similarly armed, save for a stout blackthorn cudgel. The sound of hammers being drawn and reset filled the enclosed space, sharp and precise in the darkness.
Lomax had just the one pistol, tucked into a chest holster for ease of access. His other weapon was a short-bladed sword, secured in a scabbard against his right hip. Hawkwood was curious to see how Lomax was able to check the pistol one-handed, but it was clear from the way that Lomax tucked the barrel of the gun under his right armpit and removed the oiled leather cow’s knee from around the lock with his good hand, that the former cavalry officer was in no need of assistance. Lomax, sensing he was being observed, looked up and chuckled. “What? You afraid I’ll drop the bloody thing?”
“Wouldn’t have asked you along if I’d thought that,” Hawkwood said. He eyed the cow’s knee as Lomax tucked it into his pocket.
Lomax looked sheepish, or at least as sheepish as a one-eyed man could. “Thought it might rain.”
Hawkwood grinned.
Lomax grinned back, his face contorting, then his good eye flicked sideways and he said, “My saints, lad, what are you planning to shoot? Elephants?”
He was staring at the weapon in Billy’s hands. Until then, it had been strung from a shoulder strap concealed beneath the youth’s coat. It was a severe-looking piece; compact, not much more than twenty inches in length, with a walnut stock and a brass barrel. The muzzle of the gun was slightly flared.
“Yous want to swap?” Billy asked.
Lomax stared at the gun, clearly giving the offer serious thought, but then he shook his head. “You probably need two sound hands. Am I right?”
Billy nodded. “She’s got a kick like a bloody mule, so she has, but anything you hit stays down.”
“I believe you,” Lomax said. He sounded almost wistful.
As well as the blunderbuss, Hawkwood saw that Billy, too, had a pistol tucked into his belt.
They were well armed, Hawkwood thought, but would it be enough? It would have to be, he decided. He retrieved his lantern and nodded towards the stairs. “All right, Billy. Take us up.”
Jago gripped the blackthorn cudgel, caught Hawkwood’s eye and grinned. “Just like old times,” he said softly.
“So long as the rest of it doesn’t turn to shit,” Hawkwood said, scraping the sole of his boot against the edge of the first step.
They ascended in silence and had climbed no more than a dozen steps before the lanterns picked up the outline of the trapdoor above them. The hinges, Hawkwood saw, appeared to be in good order and well oiled.
Billy paused and placed a finger to his lips. Then he reached out his hand to the side. It looked as if he was stroking the wall, until Hawkwood realized he was counting along the line of bricks. Suddenly, his hand stopped moving. He turned and nodded.
Hawkwood and Lomax drew their pistols and slowly eased the hammers back. Then they listened.
The seconds ticked by. Hawkwood wondered whether the chill on the stairs was real or if the anticipation of what might lie ahead was fuelling his imagination.
Then Jago tapped Billy gently on the arm. Billy pressed his fingers against the corner of one of the bricks. The brick shifted, allowing Billy to remove it. Placing the brick on the step beside him, Billy inserted his hand into the exposed cavity. He waited and watched as Jago reached up, braced himself, and placed his palm against the underside of the trapdoor. They listened again.
“Do it,” Jago said.
The sound of cogs slipping into place came from above. Hawkwood tensed. The noise sounded horrifically loud in the confined space. Billy withdrew his hand from the wall and Jago pushed hard against the trap. As it swung open, Hawkwood raised the light and he and Lomax thrust their way past, pistols at the ready, sweeping the cellar. Jago and Billy were less than a heartbeat behind. With the shadows retreating before the advancing lanterns, the first thing they saw was the pale face staring back at them from the darkness.
In the alleyway outside the Black Dog, Constable George Hopkins placed the watch back in his coat pocket and turned to the man standing beside him. He tried to ignore the dryness that had gathered at the back of his throat. “It’s time,” he whispered.
Micah nodded, buttoned his jacket to conceal the pistols in his belt, and pushed open the door. “Stay close,” he instructed.
Hopkins fastened his coat, turned his collar up, swallowed nervously and, cap in hand, followed Micah into the pub.
Their entry into the dingy, smoke-filled interior attracted little reaction. A few heads turned, but in the main they belonged to customers seated close to the door. The interest that was shown suggested irritation at the sudden cold draught, rather than suspicion at a stranger’s presence.
Not for the first time, Hopkins was struck by his companion’s composure. During their short acquaintance, he’d learned that Micah was a man of few words. It wasn’t that Jago’s lieutenant was surly, more that he saw no need for idle chitchat. So be it, Hopkins thought. What was important was that Jago trusted him and Captain Hawkwood trusted Jago. That was good enough for him; more than enough.
Which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t wondered about the relationship between the captain and Nathaniel Jago. Hopkins’s mind went back to the stories he’d heard about the Runner and his network of informers. From what he had seen, it was obvious that Hawkwood and Jago’s friendship was well established, and that Jago was far more than a petty eavesdropper whose loyalty was dependent on financial remuneration. As to the origins of the relationship, however, Hopkins could only speculate. He assumed the two men had been comrades-in-arms during the war – theirs seemed to be a bond that had been forged in shared adversity – but, as to the specifics, he remained ignorant. He wondered if there’d ever come a time when he had someone with whom to stand shoulder to shoulder, secure in the knowledge that his back was protected.
Micah led the way to a table in the corner of the taproom not far from the door and the two of them sat down. Hopkins placed his hat on his lap. He noted how Micah arranged his chair so that his back was to the wall, providing him with an uninterrupted view over the rest of the room.
“What now?” the constable asked.
Micah looked around, caught the eye of one of the serving girls, and beckoned.
“We wait,” he said.
“You can lower your pistol, Major,” Hawkwood said.
Judging from the expression on Lucius Symes’ face, death had come as a terrible surprise. The verger’s body was propped against the base of the wall, the head canted at an unnatural angle. His lower jaw hung open so that it appeared as if he was drooling, while his glazed eyes were fixed on some unidentifiable point in the far corner of the cellar. A grimy sheet covered his waist and lower limbs.
Hawkwood squatted down, braced himself against the stink coming off the corpse, and studied the dark weal that encircled the verger’s wattled neck.
“You know him?” Jago gazed down at the corpse.
The recognition must have shown on his face, Hawkwood realized. He stood up. “It’s Lizzie Tyler’s verger.”
“Hell of a place to end up,” Jago said.
They looked about them. The chamber bore a closer resemblance to a dungeon than the stock cellar in a public house. Benches ran along two of the walls while against another sat two large metal vats. The vats were raised off the cellar floor. Each one rested
on a metal brazier. They reminded Hawkwood of the large cooking pots used in regimental kitchens. Affixed to the ceiling above each vat was a block and tackle, from which were slung a chain and hook.
Hawkwood approached the nearest bench. An assortment of bladed tools lay scattered across it: knives of varying lengths, saws and cleavers. There were more hanging from pegs along the wall. These weren’t carpenter’s paraphernalia, Hawkwood knew. He was looking at a butcher’s block.
The tools looked well used. The knife blades were heavily stained while the gaps between each saw tooth were encrusted with matter. Some of the blades showed tiny specks of rust.
Jago cursed. He had put his lantern down and placed his palm on the bench-top without looking. He lifted his hand away with another exclamation of disgust and wiped it on his breeches. Then, frowning, he rubbed his fingers and thumb together and held them up to his nose.
“Feels like tallow. Bloody odd smell to it, though.”
Whatever the substance was, the surface of the bench was coated with it. It gleamed like varnish in the lantern light.
Hawkwood looked down. Beneath the bench, a shallow drainage channel had been cut into the stone flags. He followed its line to the point where it disappeared into a recess in the corner of the cellar floor. The flags around the edges of the channel were black with residue. A cold feeling began to work its way through his bones.
“Oh, dear Lord,” Lomax said hoarsely.
Hawkwood turned. Lomax had picked up Jago’s light and was peering into one of the vats. Suddenly he straightened, turned away quickly and, without warning, vomited against the cellar wall.
Billy, who’d been examining the contents of the other bench, looked up and stared. Hawkwood and Jago exchanged glances. They approached the vat. At first sight the vessel appeared to be empty save for a thick layer of congealed fat which had accumulated at the bottom and around the sides of the vat’s interior. Both men recoiled at the smell. Small wonder Lomax had thrown up, Hawkwood thought. He could feel himself beginning to gag. Then he saw it. At the bottom; an object caught in the grease. He lowered the lantern and heard Jago suck in his breath.
It was the bottom segment of a human jawbone.
“Mother of God,” Jago breathed. “What is this place?” He turned. “Billy, get your arse over here. When you ran for Hanratty, did you know about this?”
But Billy wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on the contents of the second worktop.
“Billy?” Jago said again. Then he looked over Billy’s shoulder and went quiet.
Billy was backing slowly away from the bench.
Curious, Hawkwood followed the youth’s transfixed stare.
Candles. Dozens of them; some loose and scattered in disarray, others tied together in bundles. Alongside them were coils of candle thread and a stack of rough wooden moulds. Further along the bench was what looked like a pile of small wax tablets.
Hawkwood knew the look in Jago’s eyes would haunt him for a long time to come. Cautiously, he moved to the second vat. Bracing himself, he peered over the rim. From what he could see it contained only dirty water. A thin oily scum floated on the surface of the liquid, like lather in a laundry tub. Hawkwood examined the vat’s exterior. Its base was blackened and pitted by heat, like that of its twin. Remnants of ash coated the floor of the brazier beneath it.
“Tell me you didn’t know about this, Billy,” Jago said.
Over by the wall, Lomax wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared around him in disbelief.
Billy shook his head. His face was white. “I didn’t. Swear to God. It was only a cellar. Hanratty used it for his kegs and contraband. It was one of my jobs – stacking the booze. There was none of … this.”
Jago nodded towards the verger’s body. “You think that’s what they planned to do with him? Render the poor bugger down to soap and candles, and sell him on street corners? Sweet Mary, what have we gotten ourselves into?”
No one answered. They were too consumed by the horror they were seeing.
Hawkwood found his voice. “If you were wondering what sort of men we were going to be up against, Major; now you know.”
At first, Lomax just looked back at him, saying nothing. Then he gave a brief nod of understanding. Both of them knew there was nothing more to be said.
Hawkwood turned to Jago and Billy. “We’ve work to do.”
The way out was via a door at the top of a flight of wooden stairs. Without any expectations, Hawkwood tried the latch and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t open. Whoever had turned the room into a slaughterhouse wouldn’t want to be disturbed or see their handiwork discovered.
Jago took the set of lock picks from his jacket. “What’s on the other side, Billy?”
“Passageway. There’s another cellar leading off it. Then there’s stairs leading up to the next floor. I did hear there are more passages towards the back; and tunnels joining all the other houses in the street. Dunno if that’s true. There are places I never got to see. I can get you inside, but after that it’s up to yous all.” He stole a glance at the dungeon behind them, crossed himself and shuddered.
There was a dull clunk from inside the lock. Jago gave a grunt of satisfaction. Returning the lock pick to his waistcoat, he retrieved his lantern from Lomax and reached for the latch.
The passage was unlit and empty. The stone floor indicated they were still some way beneath the pub. It also suggested the foundations were very old and constructed long before the Dog had been built.
Jago caught Hawkwood’s eye. His expression was grim. Hawkwood knew what Jago was thinking. If Molly Finn was here, what were the chances of finding her alive? The girl’s only hope was if they’d taken her for recreational purposes and weren’t finished with her yet. Otherwise they’d probably dispose of her the way they had Lucius Symes.
They checked the second cellar anyway, just in case. This time there were no surprises, though Hawkwood suspected that the markings on some of the casks might well have sparked interest from the Revenue men. Other than the trapdoor through which the unfortunate McGrew had been dispatched, there was nothing else of interest.
Leaving the cellar behind, they proceeded along the passageway and paused at the foot of the stairs.
“Watch your backs,” Hawkwood said, thinking, even as he uttered the words, that it was unnecessary advice.
They began to climb.
19
Declan Hanratty had just released himself from his breeches when the interruption occurred. The moll, whose name was Sadie, was bent forward, head down, gripping the edge of the table, her skirt up over her rump, when she felt Hanratty’s weight shift.
For what we are about to receive, she thought wearily and, hearing the grunt behind her, braced herself. When nothing happened, her second thought was that he was taking his bloody time, which wasn’t like the Declan she knew and despised. It took a second for her to realize that Declan’s hands were no longer around her waist. She looked back across her shoulder, fully expecting to see him hunched over, about to change grip, only to discover that wasn’t the case at all.
Declan was still there, but from the expression on his face it was obvious sex was no longer uppermost in his mind. The new focus of his attention was the pistol pressed against his forehead, and the man holding it. The man was tall. He was dressed in a long, dark coat. It was his face that made Sadie catch her breath. Two scars marred his left cheek. One was small and ragged and looked old. The other was fresh and raw and weeping blood. A second man, with a hard face and pewter-coloured hair, was alongside, a finger on his lips. His pistol was pointing at Sadie’s chest. He took his finger away. “No screamin’. Understand?”
Sadie nodded mutely, her heart beating fast.
“Good girl. Now pull your skirt down. I think young Declan’s lost his appetite.”
Sadie did as she was told, hands shaking. She noticed that the pantry door – which had been propped open, Declan having been in too much of a hurry to c
lose it – was now pulled shut.
The grey-haired man took hold of her arm. When he spoke, his voice was calm; almost reassuring. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Sadie told him.
“All right, Sadie, you stand there and be quiet. We just want a few words with young Declan here.” The speaker turned to his companion. “He’s all yours.”
The dark-haired man’s face grew hard. The smaller scar on his cheek whitened. “I’m looking for Sawney and Sal Bridger,” he said, grasping Declan by the collar and placing the muzzle of the pistol squarely against Declan’s brow.
Declan screwed up his face. “What?”
“You heard.”
“Don’t know ’im. Ain’t no Sawney here.”
The man raised the pistol barrel and smashed it across the bridge of Declan’s nose. There was a crack. Blood spurted. Declan yelped and raised his hands.
Sadie opened her mouth to scream, only to find herself stifled by the grey-haired man’s callused palm. “Remember what I said. Quiet now.”
“Wrong answer,” the scarred man said. “And I’m not in the mood. I’ll ask you again: where’s Sawney?”
“You’re a dead man,” Declan spluttered. His eyes were watering copiously. Blood and mucus bubbled from his nose and dribbled down the cleft in his chin.
“Last time,” the man said. “Maybe I should shoot your balls off instead. What’s it to be?”
Declan squirmed at the possibility. “Don’t know if they’re bleedin’ here. Didn’t see ’em. I’ve been out. Got back late. Honest,” he added nasally, and spat a mouthful of blood and phlegm on to the floor. He dabbed his upper lip with the back of his hand in a vain attempt to staunch the flow and stared at the dark crimson smear across his knuckles.
