James McGee - Resurrectionist

“An’ you openin’ this new school ’as to do with it?”

“School?” The question was accompanied by a frown.

“This place,” Sawney said, indicating the room and, by inference, the house.

“Ah, yes, I see. Indeed it has. More than you will know.”

“So you’ll be wanting us to bring you another one, then?”

“Correct.”

Sawney considered the answer, and nodded. “All right, I can do that.”

Just so long as I don’t have to salute you, Sawney thought.

“There is one thing, however,” Hyde said. He moved to the table and sat down. “While the last specimen you supplied far exceeded the quality of the first two, I do have a more… specific… requirement.”

“There was something wrong with it?” Sawney frowned.

“Wrong? No. Butler’s faith in you is well founded. As I said, the previous specimen was most satisfactory. I’ve made excellent use of it.” Hyde leaned across the table. “No, my only concern is that it was — how shall I put it? — still not as fresh as I would have liked.”

Sawney’s brow creased. “Fresh? You ain’t going to get them any fresher. Jesus, any fresher, and they’d be walkin’ and talkin’. Christ, they’d be knockin’ on your bleedin’ door, askin’ to be let in.” Sawney grinned, shook his head in amusement and let go a coarse chuckle. Then he saw that Hyde wasn’t sharing the joke. In fact, there was no humour whatsoever in the doctor’s gaze. What there was looked more like… expectancy. A little bird began to trill and flutter its wings deep inside Sawney’s chest.

Hyde remained silent. His gaze was unwavering, and unnerving. Time seemed to slow down.

Then, suddenly, Sawney understood. He sat up. “You serious?”

At first, Hyde said nothing. He was as still as a statue. Then he said, “Can you do it?”

“Well, it ain’t like pullin’ a rabbit out of a bleedin’ hat,” Sawney said. “It’ll cost you extra, and it won’t be pennies.”

Hyde nodded. “I understand. I’ll pay you twenty-five guineas, and no questions will be asked. It will be at your discretion.”

Twenty-five guineas. Three months’ earnings for the average working man; the equivalent of six or seven retrievals — not counting pregnant women, children, and cripples, of course.

Sawney stared at the doctor, at the sharp widow’s peak and the dark, raptor’s eyes. The seconds ticked away; one, two, three…

“Thirty,” Sawney said, and waited.

Hyde reached into his apron strings and took out the cloth. He began to wipe his hands as he had done before. “Half the payment now, half on delivery.”

Sawney let out a slow breath, and nodded.

“I’m relying on you, Sawney. It’s important that I complete my work. An early delivery would be appreciated.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sawney said, thinking that maybe he should have asked for more. He noticed the doctor’s hands were turning raw from the chafing of the rag. “What about the last one? You goin’ to ’ang on to the remains, or do you want ’em taken away?”

“My space is limited. I’d like it removed.”

Knew I shouldn’t have asked, Sawney thought, and wondered why he had.

“I’ll send someone round.”

“There is one other thing,” Hyde said.

“What’s that?”

“I mentioned before that there are those who would view seekers of the truth, such as myself, as dabblers in necromancy. It’s come to my attention that they may have enlisted the services of a base member of the constabulary. While I’m sure a man in your line of work is adept at avoiding the attention of the authorities, I would urge you to be extra vigilant, especially given the terms of our intended transaction. Though, as someone who managed to evade the clutches of the army provosts for so long, I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty maintaining your anonymity.”

Sawney had no idea what necromancy was — probably another word for trading in the dead, he guessed — so he just nodded. “Don’t you worry, I won’t have no problems giving the Charleys the slip. They couldn’t find their own arses in the dark if they used both hands. Do you know the bugger’s name?”

“Hawkwood.”

Sawney didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He knew the shock was written across his face.

Hyde’s fingers stilled. “You know him?”

Deny everything, was Sawney’s immediate instinct, but it was too late for that. “Yeah, I know ’im, sort of. But he ain’t no Charley. He’s a Runner.”

“Indeed.” Hyde’s eyes darkened. “You’ve had dealings with him?”

“Indirectly,” Sawney said cautiously. “He crossed paths with some business associates.”

“Recently?”

“Recent enough.” Better not to mention Tate or Murphy, Sawney thought.

“How much of a nuisance is he likely to be?”

Sawney hesitated and then said, “Word is he’s former military, and a bastard.”

“Really?” Hyde fell silent. His expression was noncommittal.

“How come you know about him?” Sawney said.

“What?” Hyde snapped out of his reverie. “Oh, just some information that happened to come my way.” Hyde tucked the cloth back into his apron and rose to his feet. “Wait here.” He left the room.

Sawney got up and moved quickly to Hyde’s black bag, opened it and peered inside. Three seconds later the phial containing the clove oil was in his pocket. He closed the bag and sat down.

Hyde returned carrying a small cloth pouch. There was a dull chink as he placed it in Sawney’s palm.

“I assumed you’d prefer coin of the realm.”

“That’ll do nicely,” Sawney said, getting to his feet. He opened the bag’s drawstring and tipped the money into his palm. It was a fair weight, and immensely reassuring. Coinage was always best. Easier to divide up, easier to spend. Notes could be a bugger. Besides, you started flashing paper money around and you were asking for trouble. Especially given Sawney’s haunts.

Sawney poured the money back into the bag. “So how come you picked the name Dodd?”

“Why not?” Hyde said, unsmilingly. “It’s as useful a name as any.”

Sawney absorbed the reply. “S’pose so.” There didn’t seem anything else to add. He slipped the bag of coin into his pocket. There was an awkward silence. “Right then. Time to go to work.”

Sawney paused when the doctor laid a hand on his arm. A fresh light shone in Hyde’s eyes.

“No need to leave just yet. This Hawkwood fellow — tell me what you know about him. He sounds most intriguing.”

It was early morning when Hawkwood climbed the front steps of number 4 Bow Street and made his way up to the Chief Magistrate’s office on the first floor.

Twigg was at his desk in the ante-room, head bowed and scribbling, when Hawkwood entered. He looked up, peered through his spectacles, and frowned in mild annoyance. “Could’ve wiped your feet.”

Hawkwood glanced down at his boots. They were wet with slush from the melted snow that had fallen during the night. Looking behind him, he saw the tracks he’d left across the wooden floor.

“You’d have made someone a grand wife, Ezra,” Hawkwood said. He grinned at the clerk’s pained expression. “How about if next time I take them off and carry them upstairs with me?”

The corners of Twigg’s mouth drooped. “Oh, very droll, Mr Hawkwood. You ought to be on the stage.”

Hawkwood started to remove his coat, but Twigg shook his head. “He’s not here.”

Hawkwood raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

Twigg sighed and passed Hawkwood the note. “He left a message. You’re to attend him directly. Caleb’s waiting with his carriage downstairs.”