James McGee - Resurrectionist

“You know what they say,” Jago replied, “about dogs shitting on their own doorstep. Maybe they had something special in mind that they couldn’t do with someone closer to home.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Me neither.”

“It’ll be two against seven, you know. Hanratty and his boys will side with Sawney; bound to.”

“So we get ourselves a little help. Even the odds,” Jago said. He grinned wolfishly.

“You do realize I’m a peace officer. It’s my duty to act within the boundary of the law.”

“Course it is,” Jago said, his tone serious. “So how many do you think we’ll need?”

“Another two at least, maybe three,” Hawkwood said. He could see that Jago was concerned about something. “What?”

“They’ll have to be bloody good. The Hanrattys are hard bastards and this crew of Sawney’s sounds useful.”

Hawkwood knew what Jago was implying. This wasn’t a job for the average constable, and use of fellow Runners meant the involvement of officialdom and that was going to take time, which both of them knew they didn’t have.

“You got anyone you can call on?” Jago asked.

“Other than you, you mean?”

“Hell, you’ve always got me,” Jago said. “Fact of life. Same as I’ve always got you.”

Hawkwood allowed himself a smile but the question made him think. With the exception of Jago, the list of suitable candidates with the necessary expertise was depressingly small.

“I’ve got one,” Hawkwood said. “Maybe.” But there was no guarantee the person he had in mind would want to be involved.

“Up to me then,” Jago said. “You got a problem using some of my boys?”

“Not if they’re good.”

“Oh, they’re good,” Jago said. “Wouldn’t be with me otherwise.”

“All right,” Hawkwood said. “Let’s do it.”

“Best get goin’ then.” Jago got up from the table and quartered the room. His gaze alighted on a table by the door where Micah was sitting patiently, a mug in his hand. Jago gave a silent indication that he and Hawkwood were leaving. Acknowledging the gesture, Micah drained his mug, stood up and waited until they had joined him.

The three men walked to the door to find that evening was upon them. The drop in temperature as they emerged from the warmth of Newton’s was enough to make them wince. Jago looked up at the night sky. “Likely there’ll be snow by morning.”

Micah didn’t answer and Hawkwood saw no reason to argue. He turned up his collar.

“Captain?”

Hawkwood felt Jago stiffen. Micah moved closer to Jago’s side, Hawkwood turned and stared at the hovering constable.

“I thought you were escorting the body to the surgeon. Why are you still here?”

Hopkins hesitated, made unsure by Hawkwood’s tone. “Waiting for orders, Captain. Wasn’t sure if you’d need me again. I sent the body off with Constable Tredworth. Thought I’d better wait for you.” The constable’s eyes darted sideways towards Jago and his lieutenant.

Jago gazed back at Hopkins with an amused expression on his face. Micah maintained an impassive silence. If anything, he looked vaguely bored.

“Did you now?” Hawkwood stared at the constable, taking in the slim frame, the less than flattering uniform, the ears and the mop of hair jutting from beneath the ridiculous hat. In the few days he’d worked with Hopkins, Hawkwood had found himself quietly impressed by the young officer’s attitude. George Hopkins might not have had the chance to grow into his uniform, but Hawkwood sensed he’d matured in other ways. There was certainly a new awareness in his expression that had not been there before. Perhaps the events he’d been witness to had given the constable a sudden understanding of his own mortality.

Hawkwood could see that Jago was looking at him questioningly. He knew Jago well enough to know exactly what his former sergeant was thinking. He wondered if he would come to regret his next decision.

“Meet back here?” Jago said, as if it was already a foregone conclusion.

Hawkwood thought about it a bit more. Finally he nodded. He looked at Hopkins. “You’re to arm yourself, and you tell no one. You understand?”

“Yes, s-, Captain.”

“It’d be best if we use the back entrance,” Jago said, “so’s not to alarm the citizenry. What time?”

Hawkwood made a calculation.

“Don’t be late,” Jago said to both of them, and winked.

Hawkwood entered the taproom of the Four Swans in Bishopsgate and paused to let his eyes grow accustomed both to the dim lighting and the pall of tobacco smoke that hung over the tables like a heavy sea fog. The place was busy, as usual. The clientele was a mixture of regular drinkers who considered the inn their home from home, and those who were passing through. Most of the latter were travellers who were either recent arrivals from the early-evening coach or those who were awaiting its departure on its onward journey. The inn provided a very good supper and empty seats were generally hard to come by. Standing on the threshold, Hawkwood looked towards the booth in the far, dark corner, where he knew, almost certainly, one chair would be vacant.

The candle on the table was worn down almost to a stub. The man occupying the corner of the booth, his right side tucked in against the wall, was seated in shadow. He was eating his way through a bowl of thick stew. At his elbow rested a half-full pewter tankard.

“How’s the mutton?” Hawkwood asked.

The man turned his head slowly and looked up. “Wouldn’t know. I chose the beef.”

Hawkwood slid into the booth and extended his left hand. “How are you, Major?”

Major Gabriel Lomax put down his fork and extended his own left hand to meet Hawkwood’s. “I’m well, Captain. Yourself? Still hunting vermin?”

“It’s a full-time job.”

“Isn’t that the God’s honest truth?” Gabriel Lomax said, and grinned. Or rather he gave an approximation of a grin. Lomax was a former cavalry officer. Like Hawkwood, he was a veteran of Talavera, but though he’d survived the battle, he had not escaped injury. Trapped under the weight of his dead horse, the former dragoon had fallen prey to the fires that had ravaged the battlefield in the aftermath of the fighting. He’d been rescued from beneath his roasting mount by a French officer who’d seen his plight, but not before the flames had taken their dreadful toll. The right side of Lomax’s face, from eyeline to throat, looked as if it had been scourged with nails. The black patch he had taken to wearing did little to conceal the ruin that lay beneath it, a fissured crater crisscrossed with scar tissue. When Lomax attempted a grin only the left side of his face showed any animation. The effect was that of a grotesque, lopsided mask. The fires had also transformed Lomax’s right hand into a twisted claw. It was rare, therefore, that Gabriel Lomax didn’t end up spending the evening in a corner seat at a table by himself. Invalided from the army, the cavalryman had put his experience to good use. These days, he commanded armed horse patrols, protecting travellers and coaches on the King’s highways in and around London.

“Good God!” Lomax said when he saw the livid scar on Hawkwood’s cheek. “I know I have the devil’s own job shaving, but at least I’ve a bloody excuse!” He peered closer, recognizing immediately the cause of the gash. “Ah, my apologies. I trust, in that case, the other fellow came off worse?”

“Not yet,” Hawkwood said. “But he will.”

Lomax drew back, his good eye glinting perceptively. “Of that, I have no doubt. So, tell me, what brings you to my table on a cold night like this? Wait, you’ll have a glass to ward off the chill? A brandy, perhaps? French, not Spanish,” he added conspiratorially.