James McGee - Resurrectionist

“What do you want with those bastards?” Jago asked.

Hawkwood told him.

When he’d finished, Jago announced, “Reckon I’ll have a drink after all.” He turned and summoned the proprietor. “You can take that swill away — ” Jago nodded towards the untouched mugs. “Bring us the good stuff. Leave the bottle.”

When the drink arrived, Jago did the honours. Taking a swallow, he drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “So you think they’re providing your lunatic doctor with stolen bodies? Catch them and you might catch up with him.”

Hawkwood nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”

“Maybe if you wait long enough, he’ll have another go,” Jago said drily. He shook his head like a disappointed parent. “Jesus, I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

Hawkwood smiled grimly, and flinched as the muscles in his jaw tugged at the nerves running along the line of his injured cheek. “So, do you know anybody?”

“Maybe,” Jago said warily. “The buggers don’t exactly advertise. It’s all done on the nod. You got any kind of description?” The big man paused and stared over Hawkwood’s shoulder, towards the door. His eyes narrowed and he nodded imperceptibly.

Hawkwood turned. A man was pushing through the room towards them. Hawkwood recognized him as one of Jago’s cohorts; he went by the name Micah. He stopped by the table, gave Hawkwood the once-over and leaned down to Jago’s ear. “There’s a moll outside.”

“Be surprised if there weren’t,” Jago said, “state of this neighbourhood.”

The messenger ignored the comment. “She says it’s to do with the information you were lookin’ for.”

Jago considered the implications, then looked towards the door and nodded. “All right, bring her in.” He addressed Hawkwood. “Won’t take long.”

Jago watched his lieutenant retreat, then sighed. “Like as not, it’ll be another waste of time. That’s the trouble. Offer a bit of a reward and every drunk and ’is flea-bitten hound comes staggerin’ out o’ the woodwork.”

But Jago was wrong. It wasn’t a drunkard or his dog, it was exactly as Jago’s man had described, a moll — and not just any moll.

“Bloody hell,” Hawkwood said.

“What?”

“I know her.”

Jago stared at the woman being escorted towards the table. He looked back at Hawkwood in awe.

“No,” Hawkwood said wearily. “I meant I’ve seen her before.”

“Thank Christ for that. For a moment, you had me worried. You want to bugger off before she gets here?”

“No need.”

It was too late anyway.

Having accompanied the woman to the table, Jago’s man departed.

She was clearly apprehensive. Her face was flushed. Her hands were shaking. Jago looked up, his face neutral. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Lizzie… Lizzie Tyler.” As she spoke, the woman’s gaze moved to Hawkwood. For a second she showed no sign of recognition and then her eyes widened. She looked around quickly.

“So, Lizzie,” Jago said, ignoring the startled expression. “I hear you might have some information for me. That right?”

The moll turned back and her gaze moved inevitably to Hawkwood’s face. Hawkwood read the questions in the woman’s eyes. There was no small measure of fear there too. It was the fear of an informer being seen by the informed upon. It was unmistakable, and he knew his freshly scarred cheek wasn’t helping matters.

“It’s all right, Lizzie,” Jago said. “Don’t mind him.” Jago pushed back the spare chair and nodded towards Hawkwood. “He might look like ’e’d slit a nun’s throat for a ha’penny, but he’s harmless. Anything you say to me, you can say to him and it won’t get past these four walls.”

The woman paused, clearly having second thoughts and yet knowing it was too late to back out. Finally, after taking another furtive survey of the room, she sat down, her bosom wobbling. The chair gave a sharp creak of protest.

“You want a drink, Lizzie? You look as though you could do with one.” Jago pushed his own mug across the table. “There you go; get that inside you.”

The big woman stared at the mug before reaching out a hesitant hand and raising the drink to her lips. She took a deep swallow. Then, looking faintly embarrassed by her actions, she lowered the mug to the table.

“So?” Jago prompted.

Lizzie took a deep breath. “I heard you was lookin’ for Molly Finn?”

“That’s right. You know her?”

Lizzie nodded.

“And you’ve seen her? Recently?”

A moment of hesitation, followed by another quick nod.

“Where?”

“The Garden. She was lookin’ for business.”

“When was this?”

“This mornin’. Early.”

Hawkwood was astonished. Jago’s intelligence network was even more impressive than he’d realized. The word could only have been on the streets a matter of hours and information on the girl’s whereabouts had already filtered back. He wished his own cadre of informers were as swift to respond, though he suspected that Jago’s methods of inducing people to heed the call were probably more persuasive than his own.

“Anyone with her?” Jago asked.

A significantly long pause was followed by a sideways glance in Hawkwood’s direction.

“Sal Bridger, the little cow.”

“Who’s Sal Bridger?”

Hawkwood sat up in his chair.

“What?” Jago said, catching the movement. “Wait, don’t tell me — her too?”

Hawkwood looked at Lizzie. “Young? Black hair, blue eyes?”

Lizzie said nothing. The expression on her fleshy face was enough.

Hawkwood nodded. “We’ve met.”

Jago looked at Lizzie. “She a workin’ girl, too?”

“That’s right.”

Jago stared at Hawkwood askance. “I can see we need to have a serious talk about the company you’re keepin’.”

Lizzie frowned. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a girl tryin’ to make a livin’.”

“Never said there was, Lizzie. So, what is she? Independent?”

Lizzie nodded again.

“And you saw her with Molly?”

“It was underneath the arches, by the edge of the square. Molly was by herself. Didn’t seem to be ’avin’ much luck. Then I saw Sal turn up, and the next thing the two of them are skippin’ off together. Arm in arm, they were, twitterin’ like lovebirds.”

“You didn’t see where they went, or if they met anyone?”

“No.”

Jago looked thoughtful. “Tell me about this Sal Bridger.”

“She’s a vicious little tyke.”

“Is that so?”

“Reckons she owns the world, don’t she? Always has to ’ave her own way.” Lizzie nodded her head at Hawkwood. “She ’ad you in ’er sights. That’s why I ’ad to back off. Rules the roost, does Sal, especially in the Dog. She’ll go for anything if she thinks someone else is interested. No offence,” Lizzie added hurriedly.

“None taken,” Hawkwood said.

“Don’t matter if it’s a porter or the boy who empties the piss-pots; if it’s got a cock, she’ll go for it. Not that she ain’t had her share of swells, mind. There’s always one or two that come around looking for a bit of rough. I remember there was a lawyer once, and a vicar. From over Cripplegate way, he was.” Lizzie screwed up her face. “No ’ang on, he weren’t a vicar, I’m forgettin’ myself. He was a verger. In fact, she’s still seein’ to him, I reckon,’ cos he was in there the night you came around. I remember ’e was coming through the door as I was goin’ out. Not that he saw me. Probably wouldn’t ’ave remembered me anyway, despite us ’avin done it a few times. Mind you, that was when I wasn’t carryin’ as much meat as I am now. He likes ’em slim. Him and me used to have some good times a while back, until Lady Muck turned up. Sal’s got the looks, I can’t deny that…” Lizzie paused in her monologue, caught by the look on Hawkwood’s face. “What?”