James McGee - Resurrectionist

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.”