James McGee - Resurrectionist

Like Lomax, they were wearing neck cloths tied around their lower faces, but the protection this provided against the foul stench was marginal, which was to say non-existent. And, as they had soon discovered, the smell wasn’t the only horror that lay in wait for them. The body that had been discovered earlier and which was now with Surgeon Quill had already provided ample proof that the Fleet’s reputation as a communal midden was well deserved. In the dark, dank and dripping tunnels the evidence was even more explicit.

The glutinous stains that ran along both sides of the tunnel extended well above waist height. It was an indication of how high the water level could rise after a heavy rain or if there was a blockage further downstream, hindering the flow. All around them, the brickwork was black with effluence that had been marooned by the retreating tide. It hung in globules, as thick as pitch, and oozed down the walls leaving slug-like trails in its wake.

Their path, which was not much more than a narrow ledge, was swirling with overflow. Each man had lost his footing at least once and had only been saved from sliding over the edge into the noxious soup by the prompt action of one of his companions, who’d been able to reach out a steadying hand.

Upstream, the underground channels were a lot narrower, Jago told them; during times of flooding the water would fill the tunnels in the upper reaches almost to the roof. The former sergeant had grinned. “It’d be like tryin’ to crawl up a cow’s arse.”

A colourful turn of phrase, but it hadn’t been hard to picture the image.

“Christ,” Lomax said again. “I was over in St Pancras barely two months back and there were lads bathing. You wouldn’t think it was the same bloody river.” He stopped suddenly and peered ahead. “Jesus, is that what I think it is?”

Hawkwood raised his lantern and followed Lomax’s gaze. The tunnel had widened, as had the ledge upon which they were walking. Blocks of heavy stone lay scattered around them in the mud and shit. They were obviously very old and circular in shape, probably the ruins of a roof column. Lying next to one of them, half covered by a moraine of black sludge, was what appeared to be part of a ribcage and a partially submerged human skull.

“One way to get rid of the old man,” Jago said, without breaking stride. “A knock on the head when he’s drunk, open the trapdoor and Bob’s your uncle. Guarantee that ain’t the first poor bugger that’s been tossed down the well. God knows what else has been thrown down here over the years.”

Hawkwood thought about the two men who’d waylaid him by Holborn Bridge, the spider hand clutching for purchase and the black mud closing relentlessly over the pale-skinned face of his attacker. The body would be down here somewhere. It might even be close to where they were now walking. There was a possibility, Hawkwood supposed, that it would find its way eventually to the Thames, but he doubted it. Most likely it would get caught against some obstruction, and there it would remain until it had been stripped of flesh and reduced to spikes of bone, entombed in darkness until the end of time.

It occurred to him, given his new-found knowledge, that it had probably been either Sawney or the Dog’s landlord, Hanratty, who’d set the duo on to him. Maybe Lucius Symes had spotted him and slipped them the word. The verger was going to be doing some serious talking once he caught up with him.

They moved on without speaking. The only sound was the splashing of their boots as they made their way along the tunnel. A few yards ahead, Billy’s lantern drew them further into the sewer.

Billy Haig looked about seventeen, though Hawkwood suspected he was probably around the same age as Hopkins. His fair hair and blue eyes no doubt stood him in good stead with the girls. The ready smile would help, too; though the shrewd look he’d exhibited when the introductions had been made had also hinted at a maturity his boyish appearance belied. Hawkwood had wondered about his inclusion — Micah’s stoic presence had not been open to question — but when Jago announced that Billy had once been a runner for Hanratty and knew the layout of the Dog, the reason for the youth’s selection became clear. Though that hadn’t been the only reason why Jago had enlisted Billy’s help. The lad, it transpired, had also enjoyed the favours of Molly Finn and would therefore be able to identify her.

The lantern suddenly came to a halt. Mindful of the slipperiness underfoot, the three men moved forward cautiously.

Billy was pointing to one side. Set into the tunnel wall was a dark, rectangular recess. There were stone steps, Hawkwood could see, rising into the blackness.

“This is it,” Billy said softly. Holding the lantern up, he inclined his head towards a faint mark scratched into the brickwork by the side of the opening. It was in the shape of a diagonal cross. It looked as if it had been made some time ago. Without the aid of the lantern it was doubtful they would have spotted it, but Billy had known what to look for. Beneath the lower legs of the cross were scored, equally roughly, two letters: BD.

Most of the access points had signs, Billy told them. It was one of the few ways people were able to find their way around the subterranean passages.

“What’s up there?” Jago asked, nodding towards the steps.

Billy lowered his neck cloth, grimacing at the smell. “Trapdoor.”

“How the devil do we get in?” Lomax asked. “The damned thing’s bound to be bolted.”

Billy shook his head. “Levers, both sides. But you’ve to know where to look.” He grinned and tapped the side of his nose.

“See?” Jago said, clapping Billy on the shoulder. “Told you he wasn’t just a pretty face.”

“’Tain’t the only trap, neither,” Billy said. He jerked his thumb towards the tar-black ooze. “There’s another one further up. Opens directly over the water. Hanratty uses it to get rid of unwanted merchandise.” The corner of Billy’s mouth twitched. “If yous know what I mean. Saw him drop a fellow called Danny McGrew through it once. Can’t recall what the poor sod had done to deserve it, but the last anyone saw of Danny was the back of his arse as he went to meet his maker.” Billy looked suddenly pensive. “Not a quick way to go, I’m thinking.”

While Billy pondered the circumstances of Danny McGrew’s undignified exit, Hawkwood lowered his mask and looked around. He wasn’t expecting witnesses, but it paid to be sure. “Check your weapons.”

Placing his lantern on the ground, Hawkwood drew the pistol from the holster on his belt and by the guttering light checked the flint, frizzen and powder. He pulled back the hammer to half-cock and released it gently back to the un-cocked position. Replacing the gun in the holster he did the same with his second pistol. As well as the firearms, he also had the knife in his boot and his tipstaff.

The others followed suit. Jago, who had supplied the guns, was similarly armed, save for a stout blackthorn cudgel. The sound of hammers being drawn and reset filled the enclosed space, sharp and precise in the darkness.

Lomax had just the one pistol, tucked into a chest holster for ease of access. His other weapon was a short-bladed sword, secured in a scabbard against his right hip. Hawkwood was curious to see how Lomax was able to check the pistol one-handed, but it was clear from the way that Lomax tucked the barrel of the gun under his right armpit and removed the oiled leather cow’s knee from around the lock with his good hand, that the former cavalry officer was in no need of assistance. Lomax, sensing he was being observed, looked up and chuckled. “What? You afraid I’ll drop the bloody thing?”

“Wouldn’t have asked you along if I’d thought that,” Hawkwood said. He eyed the cow’s knee as Lomax tucked it into his pocket.