James McGee - Resurrectionist

Hopkins put an arm under Hawkwood’s shoulder. “Sorry, s-, Captain. I forgot.” The constable stared at Hawkwood, taking in the blood on his face and the dark drips pooling on the cobblestones from the end of the coat sleeve. “You’re wounded!”

“I know,” Hawkwood said wearily. “And it bloody hurts.” Hawkwood leant back against the wall. “What brings you here?”

“You’re bleeding, Captain. You need a physician.”

“I’ve had enough of bloody physicians,” Hawkwood snapped. “I’m up to my arse in bloody physicians. Did you see where the bastard went?”

Hopkins shook his head. “He’s disappeared. Who was it?”

“Colonel Titus bloody Xavier bloody Hyde,” Hawkwood said, and winced as the pain streaked along his arm and up into his shoulder.

The constable’s eyes grew wide. He stared in dismay towards the alley that had swallowed Hawkwood’s attacker. “I should have gone after him.”

“No you bloody shouldn’t,” Hawkwood said. “We’ll find him. I asked what you were doing here.”

“I came to fetch you, Captain. Orders from the Chief Magistrate.” The constable paused. “They’ve found another body.”

The corpse was wedged in the angle between two trusses spanning the Fleet. The thick timber beams had become a necessary feature of the Ditch. Held in place by wide metal brackets affixed to the brickwork on the opposing shores, they prevented the walls of the slums that lined the riverbanks from collapsing into the mud-black water.

Hawkwood knew the body would not have been left on the beam intentionally. More than likely it had been heaved from the bank in the hope that the river would take it into its stinking embrace, sucking it into the honeycomb of sewers, rat-runs and underground waterways that flowed beneath the city’s streets. The ebb tide and the cessation of the rain had resulted in a considerable lowering of the water level, leaving the cross beams and their grisly decoration exposed for all to see.

They were growing careless, Hawkwood thought.

He watched in silence as the body was dragged up to the top of the bank. It had not been a job for the faint hearted. The constable who had lowered himself on to the beam in order to get a rope round the corpse had, more than once, come close to losing his footing and pitching into the effluence flowing turgidly beneath him. The condition of the corpse had not helped. Even from where he was standing, and in the rapidly disappearing light, Hawkwood could see the gaping wound in the dead woman’s belly and the places along her arms and legs where the flesh had been removed. The constable had lost the contents of his stomach within seconds of sitting astride the beam. He was ashen faced as he followed the corpse up to solid ground and the look he gave Hawkwood, who had directed him to retrieve the remains, left no one in any doubt what he thought.

There were a few onlookers, though not enough to constitute a crowd. Gawpers were a fact of life when a dead body was involved, even though corpses were not an uncommon sight. In this instance, a carved-up female cadaver had been enough to set tongues wagging more than usual; so much so that some upstanding citizen — a rare creature in this neck of the woods — had gone looking for a constable rather than abandoning the thing to its fate in the vague belief that the river would rise once more and drag it back down into its stinking depths.

Hawkwood flexed his left arm and winced as pain flared. There had been no time to get the wound seen to. Fortunately, the bleeding had stopped. The gash along his cheek was still weeping thin, watery tears of blood, but was not as serious as it felt or looked. It would heal quickly and, like the sword wound, would join the legion of other scars that crisscrossed his war-torn body. Hawkwood knew he’d been lucky. A heavier blade would have gone much deeper and probably taken his eye out. Though that wasn’t to say that the cut didn’t sting like a bastard.

He thought about the wound in his arm and wondered what had possessed him to attempt such a gamble. Then he decided not to think about it. He was still alive, that was what mattered. He looked down at his coat. It had saved him, but it was looking the worse for wear. He thought about Hyde; the arrogance, the swordsmanship and the speed at which the man had fought. This was definitely no imbecile, but a man who, until the final seconds when Hopkins had appeared on the scene, had displayed calmness and a clear sense of purpose. This was a killer who was determined and, as Hawkwood had nearly found out to his cost, very dangerous.

I wanted to take a good look at you, Hyde had informed him. It wasn’t the words that worried Hawkwood so much as the knowledge that Hyde knew who he was. How? And how had the colonel tracked him down?

A shout from the riverbank interrupted his thoughts. It was Hopkins, indicating that the corpse was viewable. Hawkwood walked over to take a look. There was no question it had been subjected to the same form of mutilation as the others, as Surgeon Quill would doubtless verify. He stared down at the grey, splayed limbs.

“Small world,” a voice said behind him.

Hawkwood turned and stared at the tough, broad-shouldered man who had spoken, taking in the powerful frame, the short, gunmetal-grey hair and the hard, craggy features.

“Jesus!” Nathaniel Jago said, staring at Hawkwood’s face. “Looks like you’ve been in the bloody wars.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Hawkwood said. “I’ve sent messages.”

“Have you now? I’ve been away.”

Hawkwood raised an eyebrow.

“Takin’ care of some business. Only got back this morning.”

Hawkwood’s eyebrow remained raised.

“You don’t want to know,” Jago said, and grinned.

Hawkwood knew Jago’s commercial interests were many and varied; the majority of them bordering, if not crossing, the frontiers of illegality. Probably best if he didn’t delve too deep, he thought.

Jago indicated the body and grimaced. “That ain’t a pretty sight.”

“No,” Hawkwood agreed. He looked at the big man. “I didn’t take you for a lollygagger.”

Jago shook his head, his face at once serious. “I’m not. Thought it might be someone I’m looking for; a friend of a friend.”

Hawkwood waited.

“There’s a lady I’ve been seeing. A workin’ girl of her acquaintance’s gone missing and I put the word out. I was told a body had turned up, female. Thought I should take a look, just in case.”

“It’s not the one you’re after?” Hawkwood said.

“Not even close. This one’s been dead a while.” Jago frowned. “What’s your interest?”

“It’s not the first,” Hawkwood said.

Jago looked at him.

“It’s why I’ve been trying to get word to you. I was hoping you might be able to help me with some information. I need help, Nathaniel.”

This time, it was Jago’s turn to lift an eyebrow.

“What do you know about the sack-’em-up brigade?”

“Ah shite,” Jago said.

They were in Newton’s Gin Shop, facing each other across a dirty table at the back of the room.

Hawkwood had left Hopkins in charge of the corpse, which would be delivered to Quill’s cellar. Two other constables were engaged in tracking down witnesses. Hawkwood knew it would be a miracle if they came up with anything. The locals may have objected to a nude and mutilated corpse appearing on their doorstep, but no one in their right minds would have considered pointing the finger, even if the cadaver had been heaved into the river to the accompaniment of a twenty-one-gun salute.

Newton’s had all the ambience of a night-soil barge, but it was the closest refuge where they could talk without fear of being overheard. It wasn’t that the place was empty — it wasn’t — but it attracted the sort of clientele who were certain to be far too drunk to listen to, or even care about, anyone else’s conversation. Besides, Jago knew the owner, who had cleared a table for them and awarded two full mugs, on the house. Both men viewed the mugs’ contents with suspicion and immediately pushed the drinks to one side.