James McGee - Resurrectionist

Lomax looked sheepish, or at least as sheepish as a one-eyed man could. “Thought it might rain.”

Hawkwood grinned.

Lomax grinned back, his face contorting, then his good eye flicked sideways and he said, “My saints, lad, what are you planning to shoot? Elephants?”

He was staring at the weapon in Billy’s hands. Until then, it had been strung from a shoulder strap concealed beneath the youth’s coat. It was a severe-looking piece; compact, not much more than twenty inches in length, with a walnut stock and a brass barrel. The muzzle of the gun was slightly flared.

“Yous want to swap?” Billy asked.

Lomax stared at the gun, clearly giving the offer serious thought, but then he shook his head. “You probably need two sound hands. Am I right?”

Billy nodded. “She’s got a kick like a bloody mule, so she has, but anything you hit stays down.”

“I believe you,” Lomax said. He sounded almost wistful.

As well as the blunderbuss, Hawkwood saw that Billy, too, had a pistol tucked into his belt.

They were well armed, Hawkwood thought, but would it be enough? It would have to be, he decided. He retrieved his lantern and nodded towards the stairs. “All right, Billy. Take us up.”

Jago gripped the blackthorn cudgel, caught Hawkwood’s eye and grinned. “Just like old times,” he said softly.

“So long as the rest of it doesn’t turn to shit,” Hawkwood said, scraping the sole of his boot against the edge of the first step.

They ascended in silence and had climbed no more than a dozen steps before the lanterns picked up the outline of the trapdoor above them. The hinges, Hawkwood saw, appeared to be in good order and well oiled.

Billy paused and placed a finger to his lips. Then he reached out his hand to the side. It looked as if he was stroking the wall, until Hawkwood realized he was counting along the line of bricks. Suddenly, his hand stopped moving. He turned and nodded.

Hawkwood and Lomax drew their pistols and slowly eased the hammers back. Then they listened.

The seconds ticked by. Hawkwood wondered whether the chill on the stairs was real or if the anticipation of what might lie ahead was fuelling his imagination.

Then Jago tapped Billy gently on the arm. Billy pressed his fingers against the corner of one of the bricks. The brick shifted, allowing Billy to remove it. Placing the brick on the step beside him, Billy inserted his hand into the exposed cavity. He waited and watched as Jago reached up, braced himself, and placed his palm against the underside of the trapdoor. They listened again.

“Do it,” Jago said.

The sound of cogs slipping into place came from above. Hawkwood tensed. The noise sounded horrifically loud in the confined space. Billy withdrew his hand from the wall and Jago pushed hard against the trap. As it swung open, Hawkwood raised the light and he and Lomax thrust their way past, pistols at the ready, sweeping the cellar. Jago and Billy were less than a heartbeat behind. With the shadows retreating before the advancing lanterns, the first thing they saw was the pale face staring back at them from the darkness.

In the alleyway outside the Black Dog, Constable George Hopkins placed the watch back in his coat pocket and turned to the man standing beside him. He tried to ignore the dryness that had gathered at the back of his throat. “It’s time,” he whispered.

Micah nodded, buttoned his jacket to conceal the pistols in his belt, and pushed open the door. “Stay close,” he instructed.

Hopkins fastened his coat, turned his collar up, swallowed nervously and, cap in hand, followed Micah into the pub.

Their entry into the dingy, smoke-filled interior attracted little reaction. A few heads turned, but in the main they belonged to customers seated close to the door. The interest that was shown suggested irritation at the sudden cold draught, rather than suspicion at a stranger’s presence.

Not for the first time, Hopkins was struck by his companion’s composure. During their short acquaintance, he’d learned that Micah was a man of few words. It wasn’t that Jago’s lieutenant was surly, more that he saw no need for idle chitchat. So be it, Hopkins thought. What was important was that Jago trusted him and Captain Hawkwood trusted Jago. That was good enough for him; more than enough.

Which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t wondered about the relationship between the captain and Nathaniel Jago. Hopkins’s mind went back to the stories he’d heard about the Runner and his network of informers. From what he had seen, it was obvious that Hawkwood and Jago’s friendship was well established, and that Jago was far more than a petty eavesdropper whose loyalty was dependent on financial remuneration. As to the origins of the relationship, however, Hopkins could only speculate. He assumed the two men had been comrades-in-arms during the war — theirs seemed to be a bond that had been forged in shared adversity — but, as to the specifics, he remained ignorant. He wondered if there’d ever come a time when he had someone with whom to stand shoulder to shoulder, secure in the knowledge that his back was protected.

Micah led the way to a table in the corner of the taproom not far from the door and the two of them sat down. Hopkins placed his hat on his lap. He noted how Micah arranged his chair so that his back was to the wall, providing him with an uninterrupted view over the rest of the room.

“What now?” the constable asked.

Micah looked around, caught the eye of one of the serving girls, and beckoned.

“We wait,” he said.

“You can lower your pistol, Major,” Hawkwood said.

Judging from the expression on Lucius Symes’ face, death had come as a terrible surprise. The verger’s body was propped against the base of the wall, the head canted at an unnatural angle. His lower jaw hung open so that it appeared as if he was drooling, while his glazed eyes were fixed on some unidentifiable point in the far corner of the cellar. A grimy sheet covered his waist and lower limbs.

Hawkwood squatted down, braced himself against the stink coming off the corpse, and studied the dark weal that encircled the verger’s wattled neck.

“You know him?” Jago gazed down at the corpse.

The recognition must have shown on his face, Hawkwood realized. He stood up. “It’s Lizzie Tyler’s verger.”

“Hell of a place to end up,” Jago said.

They looked about them. The chamber bore a closer resemblance to a dungeon than the stock cellar in a public house. Benches ran along two of the walls while against another sat two large metal vats. The vats were raised off the cellar floor. Each one rested on a metal brazier. They reminded Hawkwood of the large cooking pots used in regimental kitchens. Affixed to the ceiling above each vat was a block and tackle, from which were slung a chain and hook.

Hawkwood approached the nearest bench. An assortment of bladed tools lay scattered across it: knives of varying lengths, saws and cleavers. There were more hanging from pegs along the wall. These weren’t carpenter’s paraphernalia, Hawkwood knew. He was looking at a butcher’s block.

The tools looked well used. The knife blades were heavily stained while the gaps between each saw tooth were encrusted with matter. Some of the blades showed tiny specks of rust.

Jago cursed. He had put his lantern down and placed his palm on the bench-top without looking. He lifted his hand away with another exclamation of disgust and wiped it on his breeches. Then, frowning, he rubbed his fingers and thumb together and held them up to his nose.

“Feels like tallow. Bloody odd smell to it, though.”

Whatever the substance was, the surface of the bench was coated with it. It gleamed like varnish in the lantern light.