James McGee - Resurrectionist

Hawkwood looked down. Beneath the bench, a shallow drainage channel had been cut into the stone flags. He followed its line to the point where it disappeared into a recess in the corner of the cellar floor. The flags around the edges of the channel were black with residue. A cold feeling began to work its way through his bones.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Lomax said hoarsely.

Hawkwood turned. Lomax had picked up Jago’s light and was peering into one of the vats. Suddenly he straightened, turned away quickly and, without warning, vomited against the cellar wall.

Billy, who’d been examining the contents of the other bench, looked up and stared. Hawkwood and Jago exchanged glances. They approached the vat. At first sight the vessel appeared to be empty save for a thick layer of congealed fat which had accumulated at the bottom and around the sides of the vat’s interior. Both men recoiled at the smell. Small wonder Lomax had thrown up, Hawkwood thought. He could feel himself beginning to gag. Then he saw it. At the bottom; an object caught in the grease. He lowered the lantern and heard Jago suck in his breath.

It was the bottom segment of a human jawbone.

“Mother of God,” Jago breathed. “What is this place?” He turned. “Billy, get your arse over here. When you ran for Hanratty, did you know about this?”

But Billy wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on the contents of the second worktop.

“Billy?” Jago said again. Then he looked over Billy’s shoulder and went quiet.

Billy was backing slowly away from the bench.

Curious, Hawkwood followed the youth’s transfixed stare.

Candles. Dozens of them; some loose and scattered in disarray, others tied together in bundles. Alongside them were coils of candle thread and a stack of rough wooden moulds. Further along the bench was what looked like a pile of small wax tablets.

Hawkwood knew the look in Jago’s eyes would haunt him for a long time to come. Cautiously, he moved to the second vat. Bracing himself, he peered over the rim. From what he could see it contained only dirty water. A thin oily scum floated on the surface of the liquid, like lather in a laundry tub. Hawkwood examined the vat’s exterior. Its base was blackened and pitted by heat, like that of its twin. Remnants of ash coated the floor of the brazier beneath it.

“Tell me you didn’t know about this, Billy,” Jago said.

Over by the wall, Lomax wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared around him in disbelief.

Billy shook his head. His face was white. “I didn’t. Swear to God. It was only a cellar. Hanratty used it for his kegs and contraband. It was one of my jobs — stacking the booze. There was none of… this.”

Jago nodded towards the verger’s body. “You think that’s what they planned to do with him? Render the poor bugger down to soap and candles, and sell him on street corners? Sweet Mary, what have we gotten ourselves into?”

No one answered. They were too consumed by the horror they were seeing.

Hawkwood found his voice. “If you were wondering what sort of men we were going to be up against, Major; now you know.”

At first, Lomax just looked back at him, saying nothing. Then he gave a brief nod of understanding. Both of them knew there was nothing more to be said.

Hawkwood turned to Jago and Billy. “We’ve work to do.”

The way out was via a door at the top of a flight of wooden stairs. Without any expectations, Hawkwood tried the latch and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t open. Whoever had turned the room into a slaughterhouse wouldn’t want to be disturbed or see their handiwork discovered.

Jago took the set of lock picks from his jacket. “What’s on the other side, Billy?”

“Passageway. There’s another cellar leading off it. Then there’s stairs leading up to the next floor. I did hear there are more passages towards the back; and tunnels joining all the other houses in the street. Dunno if that’s true. There are places I never got to see. I can get you inside, but after that it’s up to yous all.” He stole a glance at the dungeon behind them, crossed himself and shuddered.

There was a dull clunk from inside the lock. Jago gave a grunt of satisfaction. Returning the lock pick to his waistcoat, he retrieved his lantern from Lomax and reached for the latch.

The passage was unlit and empty. The stone floor indicated they were still some way beneath the pub. It also suggested the foundations were very old and constructed long before the Dog had been built.

Jago caught Hawkwood’s eye. His expression was grim. Hawkwood knew what Jago was thinking. If Molly Finn was here, what were the chances of finding her alive? The girl’s only hope was if they’d taken her for recreational purposes and weren’t finished with her yet. Otherwise they’d probably dispose of her the way they had Lucius Symes.

They checked the second cellar anyway, just in case. This time there were no surprises, though Hawkwood suspected that the markings on some of the casks might well have sparked interest from the Revenue men. Other than the trapdoor through which the unfortunate McGrew had been dispatched, there was nothing else of interest.

Leaving the cellar behind, they proceeded along the passageway and paused at the foot of the stairs.

“Watch your backs,” Hawkwood said, thinking, even as he uttered the words, that it was unnecessary advice.

They began to climb.

Declan Hanratty had just released himself from his breeches when the interruption occurred. The moll, whose name was Sadie, was bent forward, head down, gripping the edge of the table, her skirt up over her rump, when she felt Hanratty’s weight shift.

For what we are about to receive, she thought wearily and, hearing the grunt behind her, braced herself. When nothing happened, her second thought was that he was taking his bloody time, which wasn’t like the Declan she knew and despised. It took a second for her to realize that Declan’s hands were no longer around her waist. She looked back across her shoulder, fully expecting to see him hunched over, about to change grip, only to discover that wasn’t the case at all.

Declan was still there, but from the expression on his face it was obvious sex was no longer uppermost in his mind. The new focus of his attention was the pistol pressed against his forehead, and the man holding it. The man was tall. He was dressed in a long, dark coat. It was his face that made Sadie catch her breath. Two scars marred his left cheek. One was small and ragged and looked old. The other was fresh and raw and weeping blood. A second man, with a hard face and pewter-coloured hair, was alongside, a finger on his lips. His pistol was pointing at Sadie’s chest. He took his finger away. “No screamin’. Understand?”

Sadie nodded mutely, her heart beating fast.

“Good girl. Now pull your skirt down. I think young Declan’s lost his appetite.”

Sadie did as she was told, hands shaking. She noticed that the pantry door — which had been propped open, Declan having been in too much of a hurry to close it — was now pulled shut.

The grey-haired man took hold of her arm. When he spoke, his voice was calm; almost reassuring. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Sadie told him.

“All right, Sadie, you stand there and be quiet. We just want a few words with young Declan here.” The speaker turned to his companion. “He’s all yours.”

The dark-haired man’s face grew hard. The smaller scar on his cheek whitened. “I’m looking for Sawney and Sal Bridger,” he said, grasping Declan by the collar and placing the muzzle of the pistol squarely against Declan’s brow.

Declan screwed up his face. “What?”

“You heard.”