The Reckoning
JAMES McGEE

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © James McGee 2017

James McGee asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Mark Owen / Arcangel Images

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2017 ISBN: 9780007320127

SOURCE ISBN: 9780007507665

Version 2018-07-03

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Historical Note

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by James McGee

About the Publisher

1

It was late evening and in the Hanged Man trade was brisk, which wasn’t surprising, given the weather outside. Rain had been falling on and off most of the day and there was nothing more welcoming on a wet winter’s night than a crackling fire to warm the bones, a swig of brandy to comfort the soul and perhaps a wager or two to while away the time.

The tavern was situated – some would say hidden – in an alleyway behind Buckbridge Street and thus it did not cater for what other, more salubrious, establishments might have termed a passing trade. The Hanged Man was for locals. It wasn’t somewhere you stumbled upon by accident.

The western end of Buckbridge Street was only a stone’s throw from Oxford Street; not in itself a notorious address, but it was the area that lay beyond the street’s eastern border, trapped between Broad Street to the south and Great Russell Street to the north, which deterred those citizens of a more upstanding character from venturing uninvited into its shadowy maw.

Covering close to ten acres, the St Giles Rookery was a fetid maze of crumbling tenements, roofless hovels, dank cellars, crooked passageways and rat-infested sewers. To law-abiding Londoners it was a filthy, festering sore; a canker eating away at the city’s heart. To its inhabitants – those who were seen as living on the more disreputable fringes of society – it was home. The Hanged Man was a refuge within a refuge.

On the ground floor, dense tobacco fumes rising from the tables had merged with the smoke from the hearth to form an opaque layer of fog which sat suspended between windowsill and ceiling. A hubbub of conversation and coarse laughter filled the room. In one corner, close to the fire, a fiddler – blind in one eye and seemingly oblivious to the din around him – was attempting to scrape out a tune on an instrument in dire need of a new set of strings. At his feet, a small wire-coated terrier rested its head on its paws, while his immediate neighbour, a drunken moll, sprawled half in and half out of her chair, her large, blue-veined breasts spilling like opened sacks of lard from her part-fastened bodice.

Reached by a staircase leading up from the back of the taproom, the first floor was noticeably quieter. At a table next to the rear window, a game of dominoes was in progress. Relaxed and unbothered by the sounds filtering from below, the four players studied the pattern of tiles laid out on the table before them; each man ruminating over his hand and the move he was about to make.

“Jesus, Del, you’ve been lookin’ at those bloody bones for ’alf an hour. How long’s it goin’ to take?”

The speaker, a balding, morose-looking individual with stubbled jowls and a silver ring in his right ear, rolled his eyes towards his other two companions in exaggerated disbelief.

“I’m thinkin’, ain’t I?” the player to his left protested. Of a similar age to the speaker, but with a fuller face and salt-and-pepper hair, he wrinkled his brow as he contemplated his remaining tiles and scratched his chin with the edge of a stubby thumb.

“Well, think faster. God knows, I ain’t gettin’ any younger.”

“You take your time, my son.” It was the bearded player to the speaker’s right who spoke. “Jasper’s only narked ’cos he’s down a bob. If he was up, he wouldn’t be botherin’.”

“Plus he wants us to forget it’s ’is round,” the player opposite Jasper murmured without raising his head. “Mine’s another brandy, when you’re ready.”

“Heard that,” the first speaker responded. “I’ll get ’em in soon as Del here makes up ’is mind.”

“You catch that, Del?” the bearded man said. “Best get a move on.”

“There,” Del said, as he slid his tile across the table and deposited it at the end of the row. “How’s that?”

Jasper stared down at Del’s contribution and then at his own instantly redundant counters. “Double three? Double three?”

“Make that two bob.” The bearded man – whose name was Ned – grinned as he added his own tile to the opposite end of the row. “I were you, I’d get the drinks in afore Del cleans you out. Mine’s a porter.”

As the player opposite him – stocky, broad-shouldered, with a craggy face and close-cropped, pewter-coloured hair – relinquished his remaining tile, Jasper snorted in disgust, regarded the man to his left with exasperation and muttered darkly, “One of these days. One of these bloody days …”

Placing his leftover tiles on the table he rose from his chair. “Right, I’m off to the pisser. Get ’em in. I’ll settle up when I get back.”

“Heard that one before,” Del chuckled as he totted up the score on a ragged scrap of paper. Calculations made, he began to spread the tiles face down in preparation for another game.

By which time Jasper was already out of earshot and heading for the back stairs.

“You want to watch it,” Ned warned. “You wind him up too hard and the bugger’ll snap. Seen Jasper when he snaps. Not a pretty sight. Last time it ’appened, he chewed a watchman’s ear off. He was spittin’ gristle for a week.”

“Nah,” Del said confidently. “Bark’s worse than ’is bite.”

“Tell that to the poor sod who lost ’is ear.”

As the two men traded quips, their companion, seated with his back to the window, remained silent, his right hand curved around his glass. From his posture and calm expression, he looked at ease with his surroundings, though as he surveyed the floor his watchful eyes told a different story. Raising his glass to his lips, his attention moved towards the table at the top of the stairs and the man seated there alone, reading a book.

Sensing he was under observation, the reader looked up and met the grey-haired man’s study with an even gaze. The connection lasted perhaps a second before the grey-haired man’s eyes moved on, scanning the room.

Forger Jimmy Radd was in his usual corner, one hand on his glass of rum, the other resting on the arm of a stick-thin moll with a strawberry birthmark just visible along the curve of her throat. At the counter, hunched in seats made from empty Madeira casks, cracksman Willy Mellows was in deep conversation with Abel McSwain, the local fence, while two tables away a bespectacled, scholarly dressed individual, known to all as The Padre – in reality a physician struck off for gross misconduct – was making notes in the margin of a well-thumbed, leather-bound copy of the Book of Common Prayer, interspersing his scribbles by taking measured sips from the glass of gin resting by his right elbow. Glancing sideways over the rim of his spectacles, he acknowledged the grey-haired man’s perusal with a small nod before returning to his jottings.

Tiles arranged to his satisfaction, Del sat back. “All set.” Frowning, he looked around. “Bugger not back yet? Got a nerve, tellin’ me I’m takin’ my time. All he ’as to do is shake it dry.”

“It was his round, don’t forget,” Ned said.

“Tight sod,” Del said. “In that case, mine’s a large one. That’ll teach him.” Del paused as he glanced over Ned’s shoulder. “’Old up, ’e’s here.”

Jasper’s head had reappeared at the top of the stairs.

“He don’t look too happy,” Ned observed.

It didn’t need a genius to see that Jasper did indeed look, if not in the best of spirits then certainly more than a little distracted. His ascent from the passageway leading to the outdoor privy was slow, almost hesitant.

“God’s sake,” Del muttered sotto voce, “now, what?”

As two men rose into view beyond Jasper’s left shoulder.

At which point Jasper was propelled forward by a hard shove in the back and the duo behind him stepped into plain sight.

Both were dressed for the weather, in wide-brimmed hats and long, calf-length riding coats, the collars turned up. Both coats hung open, revealing a pistol stuck in each man’s belt. The pistols were clearly back-up weapons, as each man hefted a thirty-inch-long Barbar blunderbuss which, prior to that moment, they had been concealing beneath the rainwear. As Jasper went sprawling, chairs toppled and customers scattered, only to become rooted as the gunmen brought their weapons to bear.

“Ah, shite,” Del said, the blood draining from his face.

The grey-haired man started to rise.

“Don’t you bloody move, Jago.”

The room fell silent, while from downstairs came the incongruous sounds of continued merriment and the rasping groan of a badly tuned fiddle.

The warning had carried a distinct Irish brogue. As his partner covered the room, the gunman who’d spoken stepped forward.

The grey-haired man looked quickly towards the table at the top of the taproom stairs. The lone customer was still seated, but this time his hands were palm down on the table beside his book and his jaw was clenched. The business end of a third Barbar nuzzled the back of his head. The weapon-holder stood behind him. He was dressed in similar fashion to his companions, in a long coat and a hat which cast his face in shadow. Above his clamped lips, the seated man’s eyes expressed silent apology. The grey-haired man’s gaze returned to the threat in hand.

“Told you I’d be back,” the first rain-coated man announced.

“So you did,” Nathaniel Jago said calmly.

“And that there’d be a reckoning.”

“As I recall.”

The gunman frowned. Tall, with a cadaverous face, a faint bruise was visible below his left eye.

“God save us, Shaughnessy,” Jago said softly. “I might have grey hairs but they ain’t affected my memory. Talking o’which, you remember what I said to you last time?”

A thin smile formed on the Irishman’s face. “Said you’d kill me if I showed my face.”

“Offer still stands.”

The gunman’s eyes flickered. The grin faded. “Think you’re king of the castle, don’t you?”

“An’ you got plans to the contrary, I take it?”

“Do it, Patrick,” the second gunman urged; the brogue as strong as his companion’s. “Bloody do it now.”

“What’s up, Declan?” Jago’s gaze flickered to the speaker. “Arms gettin’ tired?” He moved his gaze back. In the second it had taken to divert the first gunman’s attention, he’d already braced himself. His hands cupped the edge of the table.

“Going to enjoy this,” Shaughnessy gloated.

Made for close-quarter combat, the blunderbuss was a fearsome weapon and capable of inflicting appalling damage. From where Jago was standing, the muzzle looked as big as a howitzer. He wondered if the table top would absorb any of the gun’s load and if he’d be able to move in time. Unlikely, but it was worth a try. At this stage, anything was worth a try, to avoid the murderous hail that was about to be unleashed in his direction.

But it wasn’t Shaughnessy who opened the bidding.

As the Irishman’s trigger finger tightened, a sharp grunt and a clatter from the direction of the taproom stairs drew everyone’s attention. Shaughnessy pivoted, in time to see his companion sinking to the ground, hands clasped about his throat, blood spurting from between his fingers. As the body toppled, another figure moved into view. The Barbar, Shaughnessy saw, had changed hands.

With a curse, he turned back and fired.

The roar from the gun was deafening. A woman screamed. Downstairs, the music trailed off and the fiddler’s dog let out a shrill bark of alarm.

But by then Jago was already hurling himself aside.

Having anticipated the move, Del and Ned were also flinging themselves backwards. As the table went over, dominoes, coins of the realm, alcohol and broken glass flew in all directions. The table top did absorb a lot of the charge but it wasn’t enough. Jago, still travelling, felt the impact as shot scored across his right shoulder. The window took the rest. He heard the panes shatter as he hit the floor. And then he was rolling, or trying to.

Around him, panicking customers, undeterred by the second gunman’s threatening stance, were throwing themselves behind tables or towards the back stairs and sanctuary.

Jago’s legs were caught up in Ned’s abandoned chair. He kicked it away. His shoulder felt as if it was on fire. He looked up. Shaughnessy stood over him. The Irishman had drawn the back-up pistol from his belt. He levelled it, eyes black with rage.

Christ, Jago thought wildly.

The second gunshot was as loud as a whip crack.

Jago flinched and then watched in disbelief as Patrick Shaughnessy’s head snapped back, the air misting red as the body fell away.

Declan, who’d already turned to face the new threat, bellowed an obscenity at seeing his comrade cut down and brought his own gun to bear.

Which was when Jasper, who was still half-prone, rammed the edge of his boot heel into Declan’s left knee. It was enough to send Declan’s aim wide. Shot slammed into the rafters and then there was another ferocious roar and Declan went over backwards, the discharged weapon falling from his grip. Something warm and viscous landed across Jago’s left cheek. Wiping it off hurriedly, he stared down at his hand and the ragged piece of flesh adhering to it. His sleeves, he saw, were flecked with blood. Flicking the offending gobbet on to the floor, he raised his head cautiously as the echo from the guns died away.

It was hard to make out details. The room was filled with dissipating powder smoke and the sulphurous stench of rotten eggs, while the scene was more reminiscent of an abattoir than a public house. Around the room, people were slowly regaining their feet, transfixed by the carnage. Astonishingly, from below there came the screech of a fiddle starting up, indicating that, to the downstairs clientele, who’d only heard the gunshots and not witnessed the effects, it had sounded like just another drunken night in the Hanged Man.

Jago stood groggily, ears ringing. He stared down at the bodies and then at the two men who’d come to a halt beside him.

One was the former occupant of the far table who now held a discharged pistol. The second man, whose hands gripped the still-smoking Barbar, was taller and might have been mistaken for an associate of the dead men, for he, too, was dressed in a long military greatcoat. The difference was that he wore no hat, which, now that he had drawn closer, rendered his features visible, in particular the powder burn below his right eye and the two ragged scars that ran across his left cheek.

Jago stared at him. The other man gazed back, a grim smile on his face.

“Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” he said.

Several seconds passed before Jago found his voice.

“Nice to see you, too, Officer Hawkwood. It’s been a while.”

2

“So who were they?”

Hawkwood looked down at the body being hauled unceremoniously towards the back stairs by the boot heels, Del and Ned having taken a leg each. A trail of blood, black in the candlelight, marked their passage across the uneven floorboards.

Jago followed his gaze. “That one’s Patrick Shaughnessy. The one missin’ half ’is brains – good shot, by the way; those things have quite a kick – is his younger brother, Declan, who didn’t have that much reasonin’ power to begin with. The one who had the drop on Micah, I don’t know; never seen him before. Ne’er-do-well cousin, I expect. They tend to hunt in packs. Christ, go easy, Padre!”

The former physician’s name was Roper. His manner and the way in which Jago had summoned him to tend to his wounds indicated to Hawkwood that this probably wasn’t the first time his services had been called upon. There had been a faint tremor in the man’s hands as he’d helped Jago remove his bloodied shirt, which either suggested he was fearful of his patient or else he had an over-fondness for the Genever, which might have gone some way to explain why he was reduced to performing crudely lit examinations on the floor of the Hanged Man rather than by chandelier in a set of well-appointed consulting rooms in Berkley Square.

Jago winced as a pea-sized nub of black gravel was prised from the meat of his shoulder and deposited with a plunk on to a tin plate by his elbow. The physician was extracting the projectiles using a pair of tweezers he’d taken from a black bag that had been resting beneath the table he’d recently vacated. Some pieces of shrapnel had gone in deeper than others and among the paraphernalia set down were several rolls of lint bandage, two scalpels, scissors and a collection of vials with indecipherable labels which could have contained anything from laudanum to cold elderberry tea. If Hawkwood hadn’t known any better, it looked as though the former doctor had come prepared for surgery.

The room was gradually coming to order. Chairs and tables had been righted and free drinks dispensed. Conversations had resumed, albeit warily and with startled glances whenever somebody coughed or scraped a chair leg inadvertently. It was plain that around some tables nerves were still a tad jittery.

Despite the air of jumpiness, Hawkwood couldn’t help but consider the way in which most of those present seemed to have recovered from the shock of having had their evening’s drinking so startlingly interrupted. He knew the ways of the capital’s rookeries, of which there were several – nurseries of crime, as the authorities had christened them – and had meted out his own form of justice in their diseased enclaves often enough. Even so, the speed with which equilibrium had been restored in this particular hostelry spoke volumes for the manner in which the inhabitants of the rookeries went about their daily lives: their casual attitude towards death and summary justice, and their complete lack of faith in anything approaching legitimate authority; not one person had suggested calling the police. In this place, any support there might once have been for the forces of law and order had evaporated a long time ago.

Hawkwood studied the body of the second Shaughnessy brother, which wasn’t yet on the move. The shot from the Barbar – also loaded with gravel, he guessed – had torn into the dead man’s upper torso as effectively as grape cutting through a square of infantry. Death would have been close to instantaneous. If the brothers had just woken up together, either in Hell or Purgatory, they’d be wondering what had hit them.

“They seemed a tad annoyed,” Hawkwood said.

Jago grunted as another piece of gravel was levered out. “They were annoyed? State of my shirt; I’m bloody livid. Ruined my game, too; ’specially as I was up.”

“What were they mad about?”

“Idiots had ideas above their station. Thought they could work their way around the natural peckin’ order. I had to set them straight. They didn’t like being chastised. Patrick in particular.”

“Newcomers, I take it?”

St Giles was often the first port of call for the poorest of the Irish immigrants who came looking for a new start in a new city. Those inhabitants who’d failed to welcome the influx with open arms referred to it as Little Dublin.

Jago nodded. “They were warned. They didn’t listen.”

“There could be more of them.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. The buggers breed like rats. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“Be interesting to know how they came by the guns,” Hawkwood said, eyeing the three blunderbusses that were taking up space at the other end of the table. “These look like Post Office issue.”

“You askin’ as a police officer or a concerned citizen?”

“Both.”

The blunderbuss was the weapon of choice for mail coach guards, who were the only Post Office employees allowed to carry firearms. Designed to protect the cargo from interception by highwaymen, they had served their purpose well. There hadn’t been a serious attack on a mail coach for more than two decades.

“Money talks,” Jago said. “How many villains you know have been caught carryin’ an army- or navy-issue pistol? Bloody ’undreds, I should think. Scatterguns ain’t that hard to get hold of, you know the right person.”

“And you’d know that how?” Hawkwood said.

Jago grinned and tapped his nose with his left forefinger and then said, “Shit!” as another bit of gravel was extracted and dropped on to the plate.

Hawkwood counted them up. Five tiny olive-pit-sized fragments occupied the platter, while a couple of puncture wounds had yet to be probed.

Still, he thought, Jago had been lucky.

“You were lucky,” Hawkwood said.

Jago looked up at him. “Really? An’ how do you work that out?”

“You’re still here. You should be as dead as Shaughnessy, the range he fired from. I’m wondering if his powder was damp. Either that or it was low quality.”

“Tell that to the bloody window,” Jago said. “From where I was standin’, I’d say it was dry enough.”

“Nah, your man’s right. The bastard should’ve taken your head off. Good job you moved when you did.” Del, who’d arrived back with Ned, jabbed a thumb at Declan Shaughnessy’s lifeless corpse. “Else you’d’ve ended up like ’is nibs.”

“You’re a real comfort, Del,” Ned said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Only your missus,” Del retorted, grinning.

“There,” the physician announced. “Done – or as far as I can tell.” Putting down the tweezers, he cut off a length of lint. Taking one of the vials, he removed the stopper, soaked the lint with the contents and proceeded to dab the wounds, much to his patient’s further discomfort.

“Keep the area as clean as possible. If the wounds become inflamed, you know where to find me or else get another doctor to take a look. I’ve done the best I can but I may not have got them all.”

Using the rest of the lint, the physician began to fashion a bandage around Jago’s shoulder. His hands, Hawkwood saw, were now perfectly steady and the dressing was expertly applied. Roper was clearly no quack. The man may have lost his standing among his former peers and patients and been ostracized by the more reputable areas of society, but from what Hawkwood had seen, if he was now using his medical skills to aid the less fortunate in London’s back streets, the people of the rookery were lucky to have him.

Hawkwood watched as the physician restored his equipment to his bag before moving to attend to those customers who’d been caught in the crossfire. Thankfully, there weren’t many. Serious peripheral wounds had been prevented as most people had used the tables and furniture as cover. The majority of the injured were suffering from the effects of flying splinters and glass fragments rather than gravel pellets.

The landlord, a dour-looking character whom Jago had addressed as Bram, was already nailing boards over the broken window. He’d looked ready to take someone’s head off when he’d first inspected the damage, but a look from Jago and a promise of financial restitution had cooled his ire, as had an immediate contribution to the restoration fund following a search of the dead men’s pockets.

Jago grimaced as he eased his shirt back over his shoulder. “Wounds, my arse. Pin pricks more like. Typical bloody bog trotter. Had me in his sights and he still cocked it up.”

“Got the drop on Jasper, though,” Ned said, grinning. He lifted his chin. “Come on, Del. It’s Declan’s turn for the cart, and don’t forget his bloody hat.”

“Like you’d’ve fared any better,” Jasper countered. “Bastard crept up on me when I was takin’ a piss. I was distracted.” He watched as Del and Ned rearranged Declan’s ragged corpse into a manageable position for carriage before looking contritely towards Jago. “Sorry, big man; my fault they got up here.”

Jago shook his head. “Could’ve happened to any of us.”

“Not you,” Del said as he took hold of Declan’s right ankle. “If it’d been you in the pisser, he’d’ve shot you where you stood. You’d be dead and we’d be none the wiser as to who’d done it.”

“An’ you’d have split my winnings between you,” Jago said. “Right?”

Del grinned. “Too right. No sense in letting all that spare change go to waste.”

“Bastards,” Jago said, but without malice, as Ned and Del began to manhandle the second Shaughnessy brother towards the back stairwell.

“What’ll you do with the bodies?” Hawkwood asked.

Jago shrugged. “Give ’em to the night-soil men. Either that or feed ’em to Reilly’s hogs.”

Jago wasn’t joking about the hogs. Even though they sounded like something out of a children’s fairy tale, along with wicked witches, ogres and fire-breathing dragons, the animals were real. Reilly, a slaughterman with premises off Hosier Lane, housed the things in a pen at the rear of his yard, where, it was said, they were kept infrequently fed in anticipation of a time when their services might be required.

It was a prime, albeit extreme, example of the type of self-efficiency employed by the denizens of the rookery who over the years had devised their own unique methods for settling disputes and disposing of their dead. Admittedly, it was a practice frowned upon by law, but on this occasion, looking on the positive side, it did eliminate the need for an official report on the altercation.

A dull thudding sound came from the stairs. Hawkwood presumed it was what was left of Declan’s skull making contact with the treads as his remains were transported down.

Micah returned to the table. “Night-soil men said they’ll take them. They wanted the money up front.”

“You took care of it?”

Micah nodded. “They’re waiting on the last one.”

As if on cue, Del and Ned reappeared and moved to the third body, which was still lying at the top of the taproom stairs.

“Hope Bram’s got plenty of shavings,” Del muttered. “Makin’ a hell of a mess of ’is floor.”

Ned looked at him askance. “How can you tell? Years I’ve been coming ’ere, it always looks like this.”

“Just makin’ conversation,” Del said. “You ready?”

“Wait,” Hawkwood said. Kneeling, he withdrew the stiletto from the ruined throat.

“Wouldn’t want to forget that, would we?” Jago said sardonically as Hawkwood wiped the blade on the corpse’s sleeve before returning the knife to his right boot. “All right, lads. Carry on.”

Ned nodded to his companion and then caught Jasper’s eye as they set off towards the stairs, the body sagging between them. “Get ’em in, old son. We’re going to need something strong after this. And don’t give me that look. It’s still your bloody round. We ain’t forgotten.”

“Should’ve got the night-soil lads to do the liftin’ and carryin’,” Jasper grated.

“Then what’d the smell be like?” Del said, over his shoulder. “Don’t want them tramping their shit all over the floor as well. It’s bad enough as it is.”

“Jesus, it’s like listenin’ to a bunch of bloody fishwives,” said Jago. “If I’d wanted this much witterin’, I’d’ve gone to Billingsgate. Just load the damned things on to the cart. The sooner they’re off the premises and headin’ downriver, the better I’ll feel. And you, Jasper, get the drinks in; else I may decide they can take you with them. You’d make good ballast.”

Turning to Hawkwood, he shook his head in resignation. “Swear to God, it’s like herdin’ cats.” Buttoning his shirt, he eased himself into a comfortable position. “Right, that’s the formalities over. I take it you’re ready for a wet?”

“Brandy,” Hawkwood said.

Jago relayed the order to Jasper before turning back. “So, what can I do you for?”

It was such an incongruous question, coming in the aftermath of all that had ensued, that Hawkwood hesitated before answering, wondering if he’d dreamt the entire sequence of events.

“I need your help.”

Jago sat back, wincing as his injured shoulder made contact with the chair. “Jesus, you’ve got a bloody nerve. What’s it been? Three months without a word, and then you swan back in without so much as a heads-up to tell me you need a favour? Is that any way to treat your friends?”

“I just saved your life,” Hawkwood pointed out.

“Aye, well there is that, I suppose,” Jago conceded with a wry grin. “So, how was France? Heard you had a spot of bother.”

Hawkwood stared at him. “How in the hell …?”

Jago’s grin widened. “Went to see Magistrate Read, didn’t I?”

“And he told you?”

“Well, not in so many words. Would’ve been easier gettin’ blood from a stone. But seeing as I’ve helped you and him out now and again in the pursuit of your official duties, he did let slip you were abroad on the king’s business.”

“In France?”

Jago shook his head. “Guessed that bit, seeing as you speak Frog like a native and the last time I was involved you were hanging around with our privateer pal, Lasseur. Thought there might be a connection.”

Jago studied Hawkwood’s face. “Though, seeing as they ain’t declared peace and you’ve a couple more scars on your noggin, I’m guessing things might not have gone according to plan.”

Hawkwood looked back at him.

“Well?” Jago asked.

“Maybe later.”

“Which is a polite way of sayin’ I should mind my own business. All right, so how long have you been home?”

“Not long.”

“And what? This the first time you thought to drop by?”

“No. I tried to reach you a week back, but I was told you were away sorting out some business.”

Partially mollified by Hawkwood’s response, Jago eased himself into a more comfortable position and made a face. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

Hawkwood waited.

“A spot of bother with one of my suppliers. Had to make a visit to the coast to sort it out.”

“And did you?”

“Sort it?” Jago smiled grimly. “Oh, aye.”

Hawkwood bit back a smile of his own. In Jago’s language, “a spot of bother” could cover a multitude of sins, most of which, Hawkwood knew, stemmed from activities that were, if not strictly illegal then certainly open to interpretation when based upon the authorities’ understanding of the term. As for the remainder; they were entirely unlawful.

In the years since the two of them had returned from the Peninsula, Nathaniel Jago had made a point of steering his own unconventional career path. His experiences as a sergeant in the British Army had served him well, providing him with an understanding of both discipline and the need for organization, two factors which had proved essential in expediting his rise through the London underworld, a fraternity not known for its tolerance of transgressors, as had just been illustrated.

As a peace officer, Hawkwood had never sought to influence or curb his former sergeant’s more dubious pursuits. He owed him too much. Jago had guarded his back and saved his life more times than he could remember. That truth alone outweighed any consideration he might have for curtailing the man’s efforts to make a livelihood, even if that did tend to border on the questionable. Besides, it helped having someone on the other side of the fence to keep him abreast of what was happening in the murkier realms of the country’s sprawling capital. Providing, that is, they didn’t encroach upon a certain former army sergeant’s sphere of operations.

Not having met Del, Ned or Jasper before, Hawkwood assumed they were part of Jago’s inner circle. In the normal scheme of things, therefore, it was unlikely their paths would have crossed. Jago referring to him as Officer would have res-onated, though, so it said much for Jago’s status that none of them had raised an objection or even registered shock at his presence. That said, it was equally possible that their equanimity was due to the fact that he was alone and on their turf and at their mercy, should they decide to turn belligerent. For any law officer, the Rookery was, to all intents and purposes, foreign ground. There might as well have been a sign at the entrance to the street proclaiming Abandon hope, all ye who enter here; despite the authority his Runner’s warrant gave him, Hawkwood knew it held as much sway here as on the far side of the moon. But while he was here, he remained under Jago’s protection. Had that not been the case, his safety would not have been assured.

Unless Micah came to his aid.

Hawkwood didn’t know a lot about Jago’s lieutenant, other than the former sergeant trusted him with his life. He’d been a soldier, Jago had once let that slip, but as to where and when he’d served, Jago didn’t know, or else he knew but had decided that was Micah’s own business and therefore exempt from discussion, unless Micah chose to make it so.

He was younger than Hawkwood, probably by a decade, and, from what Hawkwood did know of him, a man of few words. There had been two occasions when, in company with Jago, Micah had stood at Hawkwood’s shoulder and both times he’d shown himself to be resourceful, calm in a crisis, and good with weapons; characteristics which had been even more evident this evening. What more was required from a right-hand man?

Jago’s voice broke into Hawkwood’s thoughts.

“All right, so what’s this all about?”

A shadow appeared at the table and Jago paused. It was Jasper, bearing the drinks, which coincided with Ned and Del’s return from their downstairs delivery.

“Good lad,” Del said, reaching for a glass. “All that totin’, I’m bloody parched.”

They might have been a couple of draymen dropping off casks of ale, Hawkwood mused, rather than drinking pals who’d just deposited three dead bodies on to a cart loaded with barrels of human waste.

Glancing around, it occurred to him that anyone walking into the room afresh wouldn’t have the slightest notion that anything untoward had taken place, save, perhaps, for noticing a few more dark stains on the floor that hadn’t been there before. Though, even as he pondered on the matter, these were being wiped away with wet rags and a fresh layer of sawdust applied.

It was uncanny, Hawkwood thought, how men and women, when surrounded by the most appalling squalor, swiftly become immune to the worst excesses of human nature. Here, where only the strongest survived, in a welter of gunfire, three men had died in as many seconds and yet, even before their bodies had been removed, the world, such as it was, had returned to normal, or as normal as it could be in a place like this.

He wondered what that said about his own actions. He was a peace officer, supposedly on the side of justice, and yet in the blink of an eye he’d knifed one man to death and shot the head off another. But then the Shaughnessys and their cohort had been prepared to murder in cold blood. Hawkwood had been a witness to that and he had acted without any thought as to the consequences. So had killing now become second nature? Was life really that cheap?

Micah reappeared.

“It’s done,” he said quietly.

Jago nodded. “That case, me an’ ’is lordship here need a bit of privacy, which means we’re commandeerin’ the table. Del, you, Ned and Jasper take a look around. See if any more Shaughnessys are loiterin’ with intent. Don’t want to be caught with our pants down again, do we?”

A pointed look towards Jasper prompted a quick emptying of glasses while three pairs of eyes swivelled in Hawkwood’s direction. Del, somewhat inevitably, was the first to speak, though his face was unexpectedly serious.

“Any friend of Nathaniel’s is a friend of ours. What you did tonight … you’ll always be welcome here …” And then the irrepressible grin returned. “… Officer.”

Jago shook his head. “God save us. All right, bugger off. I’ll see you at the Ark.”

The three men turned away.

“Oi!”

They looked back.

“You can take those with you. Don’t want ’em givin’ the place a bad name.” Jago indicated the Barbars, but then turned to Hawkwood. “Unless you want a souvenir?”

The offer was tempting. They were fine weapons; man stoppers.

“They’re all yours,” Hawkwood said.

The guns were collected and the trio headed towards the exit. Jago addressed Micah: “No more excitement tonight, all right?”

Micah nodded.

Jago winked. “Best reload, though, just in case.”

Micah’s mouth twitched. He looked off as Del, Jasper and Ned left by the back stairs and then his eyes returned to Jago and he nodded once more. Returning to his table, he took his seat, moved his discarded book to one side, and began to clean the pistol.

Jago turned to Hawkwood. “He scares me sometimes, too.”

Hawkwood took a sip of brandy, savouring the taste. He suspected it was from Jago’s private stock that the landlord kept under the counter, which meant it was French, not Spanish. He wondered if Jago’s trip to the coast had anything to do with his supply routes. Best not to enquire too deeply into that.

“Right,” Jago said. “Where were we?”

Hawkwood placed his glass on the table. “There’s been a murder.”

“In this town? There’s a novelty.”

“Any other night and I’d think it was funny, too.”

“But it ain’t?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“Which’d also be funny by itself, right?”

“Not this time,” Hawkwood said. “This one’s different.”

3

It occurred to Hawkwood, as he stared down at the body, that the last grave he’d looked into had been his own.

That had been in a forest clearing on the far side of the world. There had been snow on the ground and frost on the trees and the chilled night air had been made rank by the sour smell of a latrine ditch because that was what lye smelled like when used to render down bodies. The bodies in question should have been his and that of Major Douglas Lawrence, courtesy of an American execution detail. In the end, it had been Hawkwood and Lawrence who’d stumbled away, leaving four dead Yankee troopers in their wake and an American army in hot pursuit. It was strange how things worked out and how a vivid memory could be triggered by the sight of a corpse in a pit.

This particular pit occupied the south-west corner of St George the Martyr’s burying ground. Situated in the parish of St Pancras, the burying ground was unusual in that it was nowhere near the church to which it was dedicated. That lay a third of a mile away to the south, on the other side of Queen Square; not a huge distance but markedly inconvenient when it came to conducting funeral and burial services.

Also unique was the fact that, along its northern aspect, the graveyard shared a dividing wall with a neighbouring cemetery, that of St George’s Church, Bloomsbury, which made Hawkwood wonder, in a moment of inappropriate whimsy, if any funeral processions had inadvertently found themselves on the wrong side of the wall. There were no convenient gates linking the two burial grounds, meaning that any funeral party which turned left instead of right would have to reverse all the way back to the entrances on Grays Inn Lane and start all over again.

The burying ground’s southern perimeter was also determined by a wall, though of a greater height than the dividing one for it had been built to separate the cemetery from the grounds of the Foundling Hospital, a vast, grey building which dwarfed its surroundings like a man-o’-war towering above a fleet of rowboats. The rear of the chapel roof was just visible above the ivy-covered parapet, as were the chimneys and upper storeys of the hospital’s forbidding west wing.

The grave had been dug close to the wall, in the lee of a pointed stone obelisk, one of many memorials that had been erected among the trees. An inscription, weathered by rain and frost, was barely legible, save for the surname of the deceased – Falconer – but even those letters had begun to fade, a state which mirrored the burying ground’s general air of decay.

The overcast sky did little to enhance the wintry setting. It had been raining hard all morning and while the rain had eased to a thin, misty drizzle, leaving the grass and what remained of the winter foliage to shine and glisten; the same could not be said for the pathways and the rectangular patches of earth which showed where fresh plots had been excavated and the soil recently filled in. They had all turned to cloying mud, though, if it hadn’t been for the rain, it was doubtful the body would have been discovered.

The grave was the intended resting place of one Isaiah Ballard, a local drayman who’d had the misfortune to have been trampled to death by one of his own mules. The funeral service had been scheduled for late morning, after which the body was to be transported in dignified procession from church to burial plot, making use, somewhat ironically, of his soon-to-be equally redundant wagon.

It was a sexton’s responsibility to supervise the maintenance of the burying ground, including the digging of the graves; this particular one having been prepared the previous afternoon. The sexton, whose small stone cottage was tucked into the corner of the graveyard, had risen earlier and, in the company of two gravediggers, been making his final inspection to ensure that the interment ran smoothly.

The three men had arrived at the site to find that the mound of excavated soil by the side of the pit had been transformed into a heavy sludge. The deluge had also eaten away the edge of the grave and formed runnels in the sod down which small rivulets of rainwater were still dribbling like miniature cataracts.

On the point of directing the gravediggers to shore up the sides of the hole, the sexton’s eyes had been drawn to the bottom of the pit and a disturbance in the soil caused by the run-off. It had taken several seconds for him to realize what he was looking at. When the truth dawned, he’d raised the alarm.

When Hawkwood arrived, his first thought had been to wonder why the sexton had gone to all the bother. This was not because he viewed the examination of an unexpected dead body in a graveyard as an inconvenience, but because London’s burying grounds were notoriously overcrowded and, in the normal course of events, it wasn’t unheard of for the dead to be piled atop one another like stacks of kindling. Indeed, where the poor of the parish were concerned – to whom coffins were considered a luxury – the practice had become commonplace, which said a lot for the sexton’s integrity. It would have been easy for the gravediggers to have shovelled mud back over the body to hide it. No one would have been any the wiser.

Judging by the expression on the face of the constable standing alongside him, who’d been the first functionary called to the scene, Hawkwood wasn’t the only one harbouring reservations as to whether this was really the sort of incident that demanded the attention of a Principal Officer.

A constable’s duties rarely ventured beyond those carried out by the average nightwatchman, which in most cases involved patrolling a regular beat and discouraging the activities of petty thieves and prostitutes. So it wasn’t hard to imagine what was going through this particular constable’s mind. Uppermost, Hawkwood suspected, was likely to be the question: Why me? Followed closely by the thought: Oh, God, please not again.

The constable’s name was Hopkins. A year ago, the young recruit’s probationary period had come to an abrupt end on the night he’d accompanied Hawkwood and Nathaniel Jago in their pursuit of a crew of body-snatchers who’d turned to murder in order to top up their earnings. The chase had ended in a ferocious close-quarter gunfight. Throughout the confrontation the constable had proved brave and capable. He’d also displayed a commendable ability to look the other way when it came to interpreting how best to dispense summary justice to a gang of cold-blooded killers.

He’d filled out his uniform since Hawkwood had last seen him, though the shock of red hair was still there, poking defiantly from beneath the brim of the black felt hat, as was the pair of jug ears which would have put the handles of a milk churn to shame.

When Hawkwood arrived on the scene, the constable’s face had brightened in recognition. It was a light soon extinguished, however, for while he could be considered as still being relatively damp behind the ears, Hopkins was wise enough to know that in this situation, to smile at being greeted by name by a senior officer without the need for prompting would have been viewed as singularly inappropriate.

Squatting at the side of the trench, Hawkwood stared bleakly into its sodden depths. One good thing about the rain: it did help to dampen the smells; or at least some of them. Hawkwood didn’t know the burial practices followed in St George the Martyr’s parish. If it was like most others within the city, there would be a section reserved for poor holes: pits which were deep enough to hold up to seven tiers of burial sacks. Left open until they were filled to the brim, they allowed the stench of putrefaction to permeate the surrounding air. Nearby buildings were not immune and it wasn’t unknown for churches to be abandoned due to the smells rising from the decaying corpses stored in the crypts below them and for clergy to conduct funeral services from a comfortable distance. Hawkwood wondered if that was the reason for the burying ground’s estranged location. At the moment, the odours rising to meet him were of mud, loam, leaf mould and, curiously, fermenting apples. It could have been a lot worse.

The mud and the layer of dead leaves made it hard to distinguish details but then, gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to the lumpy contours at the bottom of the trench he saw what had captured the sexton’s and, as a consequence, the constable’s attention. Sticking out of the ooze was the torn edge of a piece of sacking. Poking out from beneath the sacking was not a stone, as he had first thought, but the back of a human hand. Close to it was what appeared to be a scrap of folded parchment. Concentrating his gaze further, he saw that it wasn’t parchment at all, but the edge of a cheekbone which had been washed by the rain. Following the line of the bone, the ridge of an eye socket came into view.

A child, he thought, straightening. Someone had placed a child’s body in a sack and tossed it into the trench. He gazed up at the Foundling Hospital’s wall and considered the permutations offered by its proximity. He turned back to the pit. Suddenly, the sack and the shape of the contents contained within it became more pronounced. Clumps of what he had thought were clotted leaves had materialized into what were clearly thick strands of long matted hair.

A female.

He addressed the sexton. “You’re sure it’s recent?”

The sexton, whose name was Stubbs, nodded grimly. “’T’weren’t there yesterday.”

A spare, slim-built man and not that old, despite a receding hairline, the sexton was using a stick to support his left leg. The stick probably explained the gravediggers’ presence. Traditionally, the sexton was the one who more often than not did the digging.

And they would have noticed a body in a sack, Hawkwood thought. Otherwise they’d have trodden all over it.

He turned to the two gravediggers, who confirmed the sexton’s words with one sullen and one nervous nod. Their names, Hawkwood had learned, were Gulley and Dobbs. Gulley, round-shouldered with a moody cast to his features, was the older of the two. Dobbs, his apprentice, looked sixteen going on sixty. Hawkwood assumed the premature ageing was due to him having seen the contents of the trench.

Not the most promising start to a career, Hawkwood mused. Then again, it was one way of preparing the lad for what the job was likely to entail, assuming he managed to see out the rest of the day. Not that he was the only one present who’d lost colour. Constable Hopkins was looking a bit pale about the gills, too.

“Why?” Hawkwood asked.

The sexton, realizing he was the one being addressed, frowned.

“You could have got them to cover it up,” Hawkwood said. “No one would have known.”

“I’d know. Seen enough poor beggars tossed in pits without it ’appenin’ on my own bloody doorstep. It ain’t right. It ain’t bloody Christian.”

Eyeing the cane, Hawkwood took an educated guess. “What regiment?”

The sexton’s chin lifted. “Thirty-sixth.” The reply came quickly, proudly.

“You served under Burne?” Hawkwood said.

The sexton looked surprised and drew himself up further. “That I did.” He threw Hawkwood a speculative glance, as if taking in the greatcoat for the first time. Though it had a military cut, it was American, not British made. “You?”

“The ninety-fifth.”

A new understanding showed in the sexton’s eyes. He studied Hawkwood’s face and the scars that were upon it. “Then you know what it was like. You’ll have seen it, too.”

Hawkwood nodded. “I have.”

The sexton brandished his stick. “Got this at Corunna. So, like I said, seen a lot of folk die before their time.” He stared down into the trench. “That ain’t how it’s supposed to be. She didn’t deserve this.”

“No,” Hawkwood said heavily. “She didn’t.”

The sexton fell silent. Then he enquired softly, “So?”

Hawkwood studied the lay of the body and took a calming breath.

Don’t think about it; just do it.

As if reading his mind, Constable Hopkins took a tentative pace forward.

Hawkwood stopped him with a look. “Any idea what you plan to do when you’re down there?”

Hopkins flushed and shook his head. “Er, no, s—, er, Captain,” the constable amended hurriedly, clearly remembering their previous association when he’d been warned by Hawkwood not to address him as “sir”.

“Me neither. So there’s no need for us both to get our boots wet, is there? We’re officers of the law. One of us should still look presentable.” As he spoke, Hawkwood removed his coat and held it out.

Managing to look chastened and yet relieved at the same time, the constable took the garment and stepped back.

The trench was around eight feet in length and wasn’t that deep, as Hawkwood found out when he landed at the bottom and felt the surface give slightly beneath him. The height of the trench should have been the giveaway. Most graves were close to six or seven feet deep. This one was shallower than that, which meant there was, in all probability, an earlier burial in the plot. And if there was one, the chances were there had been others before that.

The burial ground had been in use for at least a century and there wasn’t much acreage. That meant a lot of bodies had been buried in an ever-diminishing space. A vision of putting his boot through a rotting coffin lid or, worse, long-fermented remains, flashed through his mind, dispelled when he reasoned that Gulley – or more likely his apprentice – wouldn’t have been able to dig the later grave as the ground wouldn’t have supported his weight while he worked. Even so, it was a precarious sensation. As it was, the mud was already pulling at his boots as if it wanted to drag him under.

Planting his feet close to the corners of the trench, still not entirely sure what he expected to find, he bent down. The smell was worse at the bottom, a lot worse. He could feel the sickly-sweet scent clogging his nostrils and reaching into the back of his throat. Trapped by the earthen walls, the smell was impossible to ignore and would have been impossible to describe. Holding his breath wasn’t a viable option. Instead, he tried not to swallow. He looked up and saw four faces staring back at him. Bowing his head and adjusting his feet for balance, he eased the edge of the sacking away from the skull and used his fingers to scrape mud from the face. As more waxen flesh came to light the gender of the corpse was confirmed.

And it was a woman, not a child.

Plastered to the face, the original hair colour was hard to determine. Lifting it away from the cold, damp flesh was like trying to remove seaweed from a stone. The smell around him was growing more rank. He tried not to think of the fluids and other substances which, over the years, must have been leaching into the soil from the surrounding graves.

Lying on her left side, mouth partly open, it was as if she were asleep. The position of the hand added to the illusion. Unsettlingly, as he brushed another strand of hair from her brow, he saw that her right eye was staring blankly back at him. It reminded Hawkwood of a fish on a slab, though fish eyes were usually brighter. Removing the mud from her face had left dark streaks, like greasy tear tracks. There was a tight look to the skin but as his fingers wiped more slime away from the exposed flesh he felt it give beneath his fingertips.

Hawkwood was familiar with the effect of death on the human body. He’d seen it often enough on battlefields and in hospital tents and mortuary rooms. There was a period, he knew, beginning shortly after life had been extinguished, during which a corpse went through a transformation. It began with the contraction of the smaller muscles, around the eyes and the mouth, before spreading through the rest of the body, into the neck and shoulders and through into the extremities. Thereafter, as the body stiffened, feet started to curl inwards and fingers formed into talons. With time, however, the stiffness left the body, returning it to a relaxed state. From the texture of the skin, Hawkwood had the feeling that latter process was already well advanced. She had been dead for a while.

Using the edge of his hand, he continued to heel the mud away gently, gradually revealing the rest of the features. The dark blotches were instantly apparent, as were the indentations in the cheekbone, which beneath the mottled skin looked misshapen and, when he ran the ends of his fingers across them, felt uneven to the touch. Tiny specks in the corners of the eye were either tiny grains of dirt or a sign that the first flies had laid their eggs.

Hawkwood let go a quiet curse. There had always been the chance that the body had been left in the grave out of desperation and the worry – probably by a relative – of not being able to afford even the most meagre of funeral expenses. Had that been the likely scenario, Hawkwood would have been willing, if there had been no visible signs of hurt, to have left the corpse in the sexton’s charge with an instruction to place the body in the most convenient poor hole. But the bruising and the obvious fracture of the facial bones prevented him from pursuing that charitable, if unethical, course of action.

He probed the earth at the back of the skull on the off-chance that a rock or a large stone had caused the damage post-mortem but, as he’d suspected, there was nothing save for more mud.

He was on the point of rising when what looked like a small twig jutting from the mud caught his eye. He paused. There was something about it that didn’t look right, but he couldn’t see what it was. Curious, angling his head for a better look, he went to pick it up. And then his hand stilled. It wasn’t a broken twig, he realized. It was the end of a knotted cord. Her wrists had been bound together.

“What is it?” the sexton enquired from above.

Hawkwood sighed and stood. “We’re going to need a cart.”

“A cart?” It was Gulley who spoke. The question was posed without enthusiasm.

“It’s a wooden box on wheels.”

Hawkwood’s response was rewarded with a venomous look. It was clear the gravedigger had been resentful of the sexton’s act of civic duty from the start. Hawkwood’s sarcasm wasn’t helping.

“You do have a cart?” Hawkwood said.

“It’s in the lean-to.” Sexton Stubbs pointed helpfully with his cane towards the cottage and the ramshackle wooden structure set off to one side of it.

“One of you, then,” Hawkwood said, pointedly.

The directive was met with a disgruntled scowl. Mouthing an oath, Gulley turned to his protégé. “All right, you ’eard.”

Looking relieved to have been delegated, the young gravedigger turned to go, anxious to put distance between him and the pit’s contents. His commitment to the job looked to be disappearing by the second.

“Leave the shovel,” Hawkwood said. “You’ll get it back.”

The apprentice hesitated then thrust the tool blade-first into the mound of dirt.

“And bring more sacking,” Hawkwood instructed. “Dry, if you have it.”

He glanced towards the sexton, who nodded and said, “There’s some on a shelf inside the door. You’ll see it.”

With a wary nod the youth about-turned and hurried off through the drizzle and the puddles.

Hawkwood addressed the older man. “You have something to say?”

The gravedigger jerked his chin at the open trench. “Don’t see why we can’t leave the bloody thing down there. We throw in some soil, we can cover it up.”

“Her,” Hawkwood snapped. “Not it. And no, we can’t. Unless you’ve a particular reason you don’t want her brought up?”

The gravedigger’s jaw flexed.

Hawkwood felt his anger rise. “Had the idea you might make a few pounds, maybe? Got an arrangement with the sack-’em-up men for the one on top? Throw in this one and you’d make a bit extra? That it?”

It could also account for the shallowness of the trench, he thought, because it made the task of exhuming the bodies that much easier.

The look on the man’s face told Hawkwood he’d struck a nerve, but he felt no satisfaction, merely increasing repugnance. Gulley wouldn’t be the first graveyard worker who earned extra spending money by passing information on upcoming funerals to the resurrection gangs, to whom freshly buried corpses were regarded as regular income, and he wouldn’t be the last. Interesting, too, that Gulley had referred to the body as the “thing”, which was what the resurrection men called their hauls.

The expression on Hopkins’ face told Hawkwood that he wasn’t the only one recalling the run-in with the carrion hunters. Some of the darker memories from that experience had evidently been awakened in the constable’s brain; images that were best left undisturbed.

For a moment it looked as though the gravedigger was about to offer further protest, but Hawkwood’s expression and tone of voice must have warned him that an argument was futile and might prove detrimental to his own health.

It was then that the wisdom of what he was about to do struck Hawkwood forcibly and he cursed his rashness. It was too late now, though, for he had no intention of giving Gulley the satisfaction of knowing he might be dealing with a police officer who’d just made what could well turn out be a very unwise decision. But as he caught the sexton’s eye, he was rewarded with a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement, or it might have been gratitude.

Over the constable’s shoulder, he saw that Dobbs was on his way back, pushing a flat, two-wheeled cart before him, the sacking folded on top. The cart’s wheels had become clogged with mud, making progress difficult. The older gravedigger, Hawkwood noted, could see that his assistant was struggling but made no attempt to assist. By the time the cart rolled to a halt, the apprentice was perspiring heavily.

Hawkwood addressed Gulley. “Your turn. Get down here – and mind where you step.”

The gravedigger’s knuckles whitened against the handle of his shovel.

“You won’t need that,” Hawkwood told him.

Sensing tension in the air, the constable went to step forward again.

Hawkwood, wondering what assistance Hopkins intended to offer while still holding his coat, waved him away.

It took a further ten minutes to scrape away the mud and, with Gulley taking the feet and Hawkwood the torso, and with the apprentice Dobbs helping to take the weight, lift the sack and its contents up and out of the grave, though it seemed more like a lifetime. The mud was reluctant to release its grip and by the time Hawkwood and the gravedigger were helped out of the pit, their boots and breeches were wet to the thigh and caked in clay. Hawkwood had also been uncomfortably aware of the ominous creaking sounds that had come from beneath his and the gravedigger’s feet as they’d taken the weight of the corpse between them. It had been with great relief that he had stepped back on to solid ground.

“I want her delivered to the dead house at Christ’s Hospital,” Hawkwood instructed as the cadaver was placed on the cart and covered with the dry sacking.

“You know it?”

The constable nodded.

“For the attention of Surgeon Quill. He’s to expect me later.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good.” Hawkwood took back his coat, but did not put it on. “Dobbs can assist. Make sure the body’s covered at all times. I’m probably in enough trouble as it is; God forbid an arm should come loose and frighten the horses.”

Hawkwood knew that wasn’t likely to happen, but having the two men watch over their gruesome load was one way of ensuring it would arrive safely. The other reason for the precaution was that during the excavation it had become obvious that inside the sack the corpse was naked. A clothed cadaver being carted through the streets was bad enough. The ramifications, if the state of this one ever came to light, didn’t bear thinking about.

“You can’t do that!” Gulley protested.

Hawkwood spun back. “Of course I bloody can! I can do anything I want. I can even leave you in the damned hole if you don’t stop whining.”

Gulley bristled. “But there’s graves to dig!”

“Then do your own bloody digging! You’ve got a shovel. It’s not hard. You hold it at the thin end and use the other end to move the dirt.”

Gulley coloured under the onslaught.

Ignoring him, Hawkwood addressed the constable. “What the hell are you waiting for? Go.”

Jerked into activity, Hopkins swallowed and called Dobbs to him. As the cart trundled away, Hawkwood turned to the sexton. “When’s the funeral party due?”

The sexton drew a pocket watch from his jacket. “Not for an hour, yet.”

“Then you’ve time to make the site presentable?”

The sexton gazed about him. “Aye, reckon so.” He looked down at Hawkwood’s muddy forearms and clay-covered boots and breeches, and jerked his chin towards the cottage and the smoke curling up above the black-slate roof. “Got hot water on the fire, if’n you want to clean up.”

Hawkwood considered the filth on his hands and the activity they’d been engaged in. “It’s a kind offer, Mr Stubbs. I’m obliged.”

The sexton nodded. To the hovering Gulley, who’d retrieved his shovel and was holding it across his chest as if he was about to defend an attack on a bridge, he said, “I’ll be back soon as me and the officer here have concluded our business. Smartly now, Solomon, if you please. Don’t want to keep the widow waitin’.”

Before Gulley could reply, the sexton gestured to Hawkwood. “This way.”

Hawkwood was not surprised to find the interior of the cottage was as tidy as a barracks. Not that there was much to it. The ground floor consisted of a single room which served as both parlour and kitchen. The furniture was plain and functional. There was an oak table, a bench and small dresser in the cooking area and a settle that faced the open hearth, which was protected by a metal guard. The wall at the back of the hearth and the ceiling immediately above it was black with soot. Cord had been strung across the ceiling from which several threadbare shirts had been hung to dry. A set of stairs in one corner led to the first floor and the sexton’s no doubt equally neat sleeping quarters. Incongruously, a small writing desk sat against the wall opposite the fire. Above it was a shelf bearing half a dozen leather-bound volumes.

Asking Hawkwood to take a seat, the sexton poured hot water into a jug from a pot on the hearth and emptied the jug into a blue enamel basin which he placed on the table. A drying cloth and scrubbing brush were produced from a table drawer.

The basin had to be replenished twice, by which time Hawkwood had removed most of the dirt from his hands and arms and his skin was pink from the scrubbing. Cleaning the mud from his breeches and boots would have to wait.

The sexton took the basin outside and emptied it on to the ground. Returning, he set it on the dresser and from a cupboard beneath produced a flask and two battered tin mugs. Without asking, he poured a measure into each mug and handed one to Hawkwood.

“It’ll take away the taste of the pit.”

Hawkwood drank. Brandy: definitely not the good stuff, but the sexton was right. The smell of the grave had been so strong that by the time the body had been loaded on to the cart it did feel as though the back of his throat had become coated with the trench’s contents. Two swallows of the sexton’s brew and it felt as if his entire larynx had been cauterized. As cures went, it was eye-wateringly effective.

When his vocal cords had recovered from the shock, he asked the sexton if he’d heard or seen anything during the night.

Predictably, Stubbs shook his head. “Not a bloody thing. I tends to sleep right through. Might stir if a field battery was to open up by my ear, but that ain’t likely round these parts.”

And the rain would have covered most sounds, anyway, Hawkwood thought, as well as every other sign that might have pointed to whoever dumped the body in the pit. As for the place of entry, in retrospect it was ludicrous to think the corpse might have come from over the hospital wall, which meant access had either been made via the main gate or else the body had been carried over the dividing wall from the adjacent burial ground.

Which left him where? Maybe the body would provide the answer. Suddenly, Gulley’s argument was starting to make sense. Perhaps it would have been easier to have left the thing where it was.

The thing.

Dammit, he thought. Now I’m calling her that. He drained the mug.

Sexton Stubbs, he saw, was throwing him a speculative look.

“You’ve a question?” Hawkwood said.

The sexton hesitated then said, “Back there, the constable called you ‘Captain’. If’n you don’t mind me askin’, that mean you were an officer when you was in the Rifles?”

“Eventually,” Hawkwood said. “It didn’t last.”

The sexton turned the statement over in his mind. Emboldened by the cynical half-smile on Hawkwood’s face, he enquired cautiously, “You miss it?”

“The army?”

The sexton nodded.

“Sometimes,” Hawkwood admitted. “You?”

Hawkwood thought about the sexton’s admission when they were standing by the graveside. Stubbs had received his wound at Corunna. Hawkwood remembered Corunna; the epic retreat across northern Spain in appalling winter weather. Discipline had broken down, food had been scarce and the dead and wounded had been left by the roadside. When Moore’s army eventually reached the port, there was no sign of the transports that should have been there to carry them home. By the time the ships arrived, four days later, the French, under Marshal Soult, had caught up and the town was surrounded, forcing the British to take to the field.

While Hawkwood had been leading skirmish parties against French forward positions, the 36th Regiment, along with others, had been engaged in a decisive rear-guard action on the opposite flank. Moore’s army had saved the day, albeit at the cost of his own life, and the evacuation had been completed. The 95th and the 36th had been among the last troops to embark.

The sexton took his time answering. Swirling the dregs of the brandy around the inside of his mug, he tipped the drink back and placed the empty receptacle on the table. Drawing a sleeve across his lips, he looked Hawkwood full in the eye.

“Every bleedin’ day.”

4

Rumour had it that Quill had once served in the Royal Navy and that he’d been wounded in action at the Battle of Lissa while serving aboard HMS Volage under Phipps Hornby. Hawkwood had no idea if the rumours were true. From his own limited experiences of life on board a man-o’-war, he thought Quill did have the look of someone who might be at home between decks, though not as a surgeon; more likely as the captain of a gun crew. He had a bruiser’s stature. The shaven, bullet-shaped skull added to the mystique. It wasn’t hard to imagine him screaming orders, surrounded by sweaty, hard-pressed men ramming powder and shot down the barrel of a 32-pounder while enveloped in a world of fire, flame and flying splinters.

And yet, on the occasions that Hawkwood had visited him, there had been no visible sign of a wounding and he’d always appeared remarkably affable, which, given the nature of his work and the environment in which he laboured, was something of a miracle. Quill was the surgeon appointed by the Coroner to perform necropsies, usually whenever the circumstances of death were outside the ordinary. His place of work was a dead house.

Quill’s dead house was located in a dark and gloomy cellar – formerly a crypt – situated beneath an annexe of Christ’s Hospital. With St Bartholomew’s just around the corner, it was a convenient staging post for transferring bodies from hospital to grave. The authorities had been using it for decades, mostly because they hadn’t had to make any structural alterations.

Sleeves rolled up above his elbows, Quill was bent over one of his examination tables when Hawkwood arrived.

“Door!” he commanded with his customary opening brusqueness. He did not turn immediately, but when he did, he smiled upon recognizing his visitor. In the gloom, his breath misted as he spoke. “Officer Hawkwood! Hah! I was warned you’d be along.”

It was a macabre vision, for the surgeon’s hands were red with gore, as was the apron he was wearing. Hawkwood couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t seen Quill in his bloody apron and didn’t like to think what the rest of the stains might be. Beneath the examination table, the flagstone floor was slick with dark fluids.

“Warned?” It was all Hawkwood could do not to clamp a hand over his nose and mouth, for the smell was appalling; worse than anything at the burying ground.

Quill grinned. Clearly unmoved by the reek coming off the bodies around him, he also seemed unaffected by the cold. Beads of sweat shone across his bald pate and Hawkwood could have sworn there was steam rising from the apron. He’d seen similar sights when heat appeared to ascend from the innards of wounded and just-killed soldiers; and in Smithfield slaughterhouses, too, on market day. But these bodies weren’t warm; they were anything but. He decided it had to be a trick of the light.

“Good to see you again,” Quill said. “I take it you’re here for the St George’s cadaver?”

Hawkwood realized the surgeon was clasping a scalpel in his right hand. His stomach turned.

“I am.”

“I couldn’t have examined it where it was?”

“If you had,” Hawkwood said, “you’d have ended up like me.”

The surgeon studied the gap in Hawkwood’s coat and beneath it the stained breeches and boots to which the mud was still clinging.

“You think that would have made a difference?” Spreading his arms, the surgeon invited Hawkwood to inspect his apron.

“It was a burying ground. It was in the wet and I didn’t think it was a proper place to perform an examination.”

“There wasn’t convenient shelter nearby?”

Hawkwood thought about Sexton Stubbs’ cottage. “No.”

“And, in any case,” Quill said wryly, “you wanted it done directly.”

Hawkwood nodded. “Yes.”

Quill fixed him with an accusing eye. “You thought I would move your find to the front of the queue?”

The inference was clear. There were procedures when it came to performing necropsies. Surgeons like Quill worked for the Coroner, but the latter couldn’t act without permission from a justice of the peace. Since inquests were expensive, they were ordered only when there was evidence of violence or the cause of death was suspicious. However, if the death involved someone from the impoverished layers of society, many justices would rule an inquest unnecessary; thus there would be no crime to investigate. Hawkwood was relying on his past association with Quill in a bid to circumvent the system.

Hawkwood glanced around the room. It looked as though the surgeon was behind in his work. Below the curved roof, the walls were lined with bodies, awaiting either examination or dispatch to their place of interment. It wasn’t hard to see why Quill, despite their past dealings, might be irked by another one turning up unannounced.

But when he turned, the smile was back, which could only mean one thing.

“You’ve already taken a look,” Hawkwood said. “Haven’t you?”

Placing the scalpel on the examination table and removing a blood-stained cloth from behind his apron string, Quill wiped his hands. “As it’s you, I have – and it’s not pretty, though she was once, I think, poor mite.”

The surgeon moved to an adjacent table and then stepped aside to provide Hawkwood with a better view.

Covered to the neck by a grubby sheet, the body was lying on its side in almost the same position in which it had been found. Hawkwood thought about the dead woman’s naked state and the pit she’d been lifted from and how many bodies there might have been buried beneath her. Tied, thrust into a sack, cast down into a stranger’s grave and then covered with a filthy shroud that would have been used on God knew how many other remains; if ever proof were needed that the dispossessed were robbed of all dignity, even in death, this was it. The one redeeming feature, if it could be called such, was that the corpse’s eyes were no longer wide and staring, but half-closed. Presumably, Quill had taken advantage of the rigor leaving the body to make the adjustment. The cord, Hawkwood saw, had been cut from her wrists.

“You’ll appreciate it’s been only a short time since I took delivery,” Quill said, “and that my initial examination was somewhat cursory.”

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

“As you wish.” Tucking the cloth back into his apron, Quill placed both hands on the table and gazed down at the remains. “We have a young female – eighteen to twenty-five years of age or thereabouts. Cause of death: asphyxia … strangulation.” The surgeon paused, as if mulling over his diagnosis. “Probably.”

“Probably?”

“There is noticeable bruising under the throat, caused by some sort of ligature.” Quill pointed towards the corpse’s jawline. “Possibly the same cord that was used to bind her wrists and ankles.”

“Her ankles were tied as well?”

Quill shrugged philosophically. “Easier to fit her in the sack.”

There was less engrained dirt than Hawkwood remembered as he gazed down upon the remains. From the state of the water in a tin bowl placed by the corpse’s feet, Quill had already made a token effort to wipe the body down prior to his examination. As a result, the discoloration in the skin was even more pronounced than it had been when Hawkwood had observed it at the bottom of the pit.

“And if it wasn’t … strangulation?”

“There are several contusions, a fracture of the zygomatic – the cheekbone – as well as dislocation of the mandible. There is also damage to the left side of the skull. Here, you see?”

“She was beaten?”

“Severely, I’d say.”

“Beaten and throttled?”

“Yes. But then you’d already guessed that before you brought her up, am I right?” The surgeon eyed him perceptively.

“I thought it was a possibility, from the parts of her I could see.”

“Which is why you referred her to me.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“The constable described the circumstances in which she was found. Clearly she was not meant to be discovered.”

“Clearly,” Hawkwood repeated softly.

“If you’re wondering about the constable, by the way, I did ask him if he wanted to wait, but he declined; said he had to make his report. I believe this was his first visit to a dead house. He did well, considering, which is more than can be said for his companion. The poor boy had to be helped out.”

He meant Dobbs. At this rate, Hawkwood thought, the apprentice’s first day was likely to be his last.

“There is more,” Quill said.

Without ceremony, the surgeon folded the sheet back to reveal the top half of the body. There was a mottled tint to the pale dead flesh. Hawkwood wondered if it was due to the candle glow. The most noticeable aberration was the dark area of what looked like bruising along the left side of the torso. Hawkwood had to bend slightly to study it. “She was hit that hard?”

Quill shook his head. “It’s called lividity. When the heart stops beating, the blood settles into the lowest parts of the body. This indicates she was lying on her left side as she is now; as she was when they found her, yes?”

“Yes.” Struck by a thought, Hawkwood turned. “Might she have been alive when she was put down there?”

Quill considered the question. “From the state of her, I’d say whoever was responsible made sure she was dead before they put her in the hole.” The surgeon sighed. “A small mercy, I fear.”

Hawkwood stared down at the body.

“There are other injuries,” Quill said, and pointed to the area below the breasts.

Hawkwood looked. Because of the way the body was lying all he could see was the discoloration caused by the blood settlement. And then he saw the lesions.

“What are those?”

“Stab wounds.”

“Throttled, beaten and stabbed?”

“She died hard,” Quill said heavily. “I’ll have a better idea of their cause when the rigor’s left her completely. That will allow me a closer examination. Otherwise I’d have to break bones. I’d prefer not to do that if it can be helped. We’re almost there. An hour or two and I’ll have her properly laid out.”

Hawkwood couldn’t think of a single appropriate reply. He looked down at the body. “Was she violated?”

“As I said, I’ve yet to make a full examination. I will check, though.” The surgeon frowned. “Forgive me asking, but why this one?”

“This one?”

“Most would have left her there.”

Hawkwood turned. “Because a brave soldier didn’t think it right that someone tossed her into a hole without due ceremony, and I didn’t want the bloody resurrection men getting to her.”

Though they still might.

Quill grunted non-committally and then Hawkwood saw the surgeon’s eyes narrow. Taking the rag from his apron, Quill wetted it in the bowl and used it to gently rub the skin on the corpse’s right upper arm. “Now, what …” he murmured softly “… do you suppose this is?”

Hawkwood moved closer.

The pigment in the skin could easily have been mistaken for a consequence of what Quill had termed the lividity process, but as the damp cloth did its work and the dirt was wiped away, Hawkwood saw that it was something else. There was pigmentation but it had been there before the body had settled.

“I declare,” Quill said, straightening. “She has a tattoo. Looks like a flower; a rose, unless I miss my guess. Nicely wrought, too. See how the petals are drawn?”

Quill’s admiration for the ink-work made Hawkwood wonder again about the surgeon’s background and if he had indeed seen naval service. He eyed the man’s forearms. There didn’t appear to be any anchors or sea-serpents or salutes to Mother, though they could have been high up on Quill’s arms and hidden by the sleeves of his shirt. Maybe he had a large one on his back – HMS Volage under full sail, surrounded by mermaids.

“Intriguing,” Quill murmured, appearing not to have noticed Hawkwood’s surreptitious perusal of his anatomy.

“You mean, what sort of woman gets herself tattooed?” Hawkwood said.

“Indeed.”

“And what happened to her clothes?”

“Ah,” Quill said. “Now, that one I can answer. They were buried with her, at the bottom of the bag.” The surgeon jerked his head. “Over there, the small table in the corner.”

Crossing the room, Hawkwood found it hard to avert his eyes from some of the horrors on show. The space was not well lit and shadows were playing across the intervening tables, revealing a stomach-churning vista of part-opened chests, excised ribcages, and basins and weighing scales containing items of viscera that would have looked more at home on a butcher’s block. From the condition of the bodies on display, Quill liked to work on more than one at a time. Hawkwood couldn’t think of a single conceivable reason why that should be.

Arriving at the opposite wall, mercifully without losing the contents of his own stomach, Hawkwood examined the items to which Quill had referred. The bundle did not consist of much: a thin muslin dress, a cotton chemise, a pair of stockings and a pair of half-boots. The sacking had not protected them from the wet. All were soaked and heavily stained. The stench of the pit rose from them, though it was more than likely they had also absorbed some of the odours seeping from the walls and tables in Quill’s dead house.

Placing the clothing to one side, Hawkwood picked up the boots. They appeared to be of good quality, or at least they had been before the water had got to them; made from some kind of velvet material, with a small heel, not for walking but for evening wear.

“I don’t think she was a vagrant,” Hawkwood said, re-joining Quill at the examination table, one of the boots in his hand.

Quill looked down at the footwear and nodded in agreement. “I thought that, too. The clothes do not strike me as hand-me-downs. Indeed, the stockings would appear to be silk. Also, as you’ll have noticed, other than the water damage, all are intact, which suggests they were not removed from her by force. She disrobed prior to being attacked.”

He turned back to the body. “Notwithstanding her current condition, there’s no evidence that she was malnourished.”

Hawkwood did not reply. He focused his eyes on the tattoo. Quill followed his gaze. “The rose is significant, you think?”

“Maybe,” Hawkwood said, as a thought struck him.

Quill looked at him. “You’re asking yourself what sort of woman who’s young and pretty and who wears expensive clothes and removes them voluntarily, might carry a tattoo on her shoulder.”

Hawkwood considered the boot he was holding.

“I think we can both hazard a guess, don’t you?” Quill said.

Hawkwood nodded. “It’d be a place to start.”

Quill held out his hand. “Then I think you have your work cut out. Don’t let me detain you.”

Hawkwood passed the boot over. “I don’t suppose you can tell me when she might have been killed?”

Quill shook his head. “Not with any certainty. Rigor’s not a precise measure. It can take between two and twelve hours to take hold fully, but the process can also be slowed or accelerated depending on location and temperature.”

Hawkwood thought about the rain and the cold and the mud she’d been buried under. Mud had remarkable properties. It could both protect and preserve. He recalled the times on campaign when on cold nights he and Jago had smeared their blankets with clay; with straw bedding for a base, the mud had provided extra insulation against the cold and they’d generally passed the night in relative comfort.

He realized Quill was still talking.

“A body returns to its flaccid state after a further eighteen hours or thereabouts. I note the flies have started their work, but the eggs have yet to reach the larvae stage, which could be down to the temperature of the ground. Given that, and from her current condition and from what you and the constable have told me, I’d estimate she’s been dead for between twenty-four and thirty-six hours.”

Hawkwood absorbed the information.

“You really do end up with the most interesting ones, don’t you?” Quill murmured.

“It’s a curse,” Hawkwood said as he turned to go.

Quill smiled grimly. “You should have my job.”

“I’m sorry, but can you explain to me again why this is Bow Street’s case,” Hawkwood said, “and not the Garden’s?”

The “Garden” was Hatton Garden. St George the Martyr’s burying ground fell within the Hatton Garden Public Office’s area of jurisdiction, though only by the width of a few streets.

Chief Magistrate James Read turned away from the rain-spattered window, clasped his hands behind his back and raised his coat-tails to the fire. Late middle-aged and trimly built, with aquiline features and swept-back silver hair, the magistrate’s fastidious appearance exuded quiet authority. If he was irritated by the lack of grace in Hawkwood’s enquiry, he gave no outward sign.

“It was at Hatton Garden’s request.”

“Request?” Hawkwood said cautiously.

“For assistance; from Magistrate Turton.”

“Magistrate Turton has his own Principal Officers,” Hawkwood said, still unconvinced. “Why does he need us?”

“It would appear he has a shortage.”

“Of Principal Officers.”

“Correct,” Read said patiently. “He has six at his disposal. Four are engaged in investigations of their own and thus cannot be spared. The other two are confined to their beds because of illness; hence the request. And before you say anything, I confess that I, too, was somewhat surprised. However, as we are on Magistrate Turton’s doorstep, I saw no reason why we could not offer him assistance, on this occasion.”

Excluding Bow Street, there were seven other Public Offices located across the metropolis. Autonomous save in matters of staffing and the setting of annual budgets – for which the Home Department was responsible – each one operated independently from its neighbours. So much so, that it was almost a point of honour for offices not to exchange information. Requests for help, therefore, were rare. Requests for help from Bow Street were exceedingly rare.

“Besides,” Read continued, “an initiative has been issued; from the Home Department, from Mr Callum Day, the official conduit between this office and Whitehall.”

Hawkwood groaned inwardly. He’d never met Day, but the last time the Home Department had used its initiative, he’d ended up in France and, as a consequence, the other side of the Atlantic, an endeavour from which he was still smarting.

Leaving the fire and returning to his desk, the Chief Magistrate took his seat. “It has long been felt among certain circles that the fight against the criminal element would be better served if there was more cooperation between the Public Offices.”

James Read smiled thinly at Hawkwood’s less than overjoyed expression. “I can tell what you’re thinking. Nevertheless, I’m inclined to agree that there is merit in the idea and, in times of adversity, I see no reason why the parishes should not combine their resources. We are, in case you’ve forgotten, supposed to be on the same side.”

Read’s eyes flickered to the paperwork on his desk. One of the communiqués, Hawkwood saw, was affixed with a broken wax seal, upon which the indentation of the Home Minister’s office was plainly visible.

“Also …” Read said, “… it will give you something to do after your adventures abroad.”

Placing the Home Department correspondence to one side, the Chief Magistrate looked up. “And now that your curiosity has been satisfied, what can you tell me – besides the fact that we have a body … in a grave?”

Ignoring the Chief Magistrate’s mordant comment, Hawkwood nodded. “The burial plot was adjacent to the Foundling Hospital. I thought it might be a child, a cast-off.”

“But it wasn’t and you have another theory?”

“In as much as it’s not a child but a woman. Surgeon Quill and I think she may have been a working girl.”

Read frowned and listened as Hawkwood described the tattoo.

“You’re suggesting that if we can identify the victim through the ink-work, we may have a lead to her killer?”

“Yes.”

Lowering his forearms on to his desk, his fingers still laced, Read appeared sceptical. “If she is a working girl, I put it to you that you’ll have more than a lead, you’ll likely have scores of them.”

“There is that,” Hawkwood admitted.

“You have a means of establishing her identity?”

“I’m working on it.”

Read looked thoughtful.

Hawkwood recognized the look. “Sir?”

Read let out a sigh. “Murder’s a foul business, though, sadly, a far from uncommon occurrence, especially among the more – how shall I put it? – socially disadvantaged. And our resources are not infinite. Truth be told, they are anything but. So, given what we know, this could be a fruitless exercise. While the young woman’s death is undoubtedly a heinous crime, if I were to assign an officer of your experience to the case for a significant length of time it would seriously deplete our own resources. In short, therefore, while I’m willing for this office to render assistance to Magistrate Turton, I do not intend it to become our life’s work. It will be for a few days at the most. So use them well. I take it your strategy is to cultivate your informers who have access to the more shadowy areas of our city?”

He means Jago.

“It is.”

“Very well. But if nothing is forthcoming after what I consider to be an appropriate period, know that I will reassign you to more pressing duties and a lower-ranked officer will be delegated to continue the enquiry; that is, if Magistrate Turton remains short-staffed. Young Hopkins is proving to be a most capable individual and has, in fact, expressed a desire to become a Principal Officer. It would be a shame to discourage him from pursuing that ambition.”

“Indeed it would, sir.”

Hawkwood was rewarded with a sharp look. Then the Chief Magistrate nodded. “Keep me informed and do try not to tread on too many toes.”

“I’ll do my best.”

But if all else fails …

Reaching the door, he was about to let himself out when Read’s voice sounded again.

“Officer Hawkwood.”

Hawkwood turned.

“Regarding Surgeon Quill; I assume it was on your authority that the body was delivered to his dead house?”

“It was.”

“Rather presumptuous, was it not? You do know there are coroners and rules governing investigations into wrongful deaths?”

“I’ve always thought of them more as a set of recommendations than hard rules.”

The Chief Magistrate fixed Hawkwood with a flinty gaze. “Only when they suit you, you mean.”

“I used my judgement. If we’d gone by the book, by the time we’d found a coroner willing to drag himself from his bed, there would have been two bodies in the pit. There’s nothing worse than a confused coroner, sir. Take it from me.”

“By two, you are referring to the plot’s intended occupant.”

“The funeral party was already on its way. It would have been a bit crowded down there.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Chief Magistrate closed his eyes. Then, after letting go a sigh, he re-opened them and nodded in weary acceptance.

A knock sounded. Before Read could respond and Hawkwood move aside, the door opened and Bow Street’s Chief Clerk, Ezra Twigg, entered, bearing a note.

“My apologies, sir.” Twigg blinked owlishly. “I’ve a message for Officer Hawkwood, from Surgeon Quill. It’s marked ‘urgent’.”

“Speak of the devil,” Read murmured. He nodded at Twigg. “Very well.”

Twigg handed Hawkwood the note. Hawkwood opened it. The message was concise.

There is more,

Quill

Hawkwood folded the paper without speaking.

“Will there be a reply?” Twigg enquired.

“No,” Hawkwood said.

Read frowned.

“Quill’s completed his examination,” Hawkwood said. “I should go.”

“Oh, by all means,” Read said drily. “Don’t let us detain you.”

Ezra Twigg glanced towards the Chief Magistrate; when no further directive was forthcoming, he turned for the door. Hawkwood followed.

“Officer Hawkwood,” Read called again.

Curbing his irritation, Hawkwood turned and saw that the Chief Magistrate had left the sanctuary of his desk and resumed his pose in front of the fire.

The magistrate raised his chin. “There is one thing I neglected to mention.”

“Sir?”

James Read held Hawkwood’s gaze for perhaps three or four seconds. Then the corner of his mouth twisted to form an oblique smile.

“Welcome back.”

5

When Hawkwood re-entered the dead room, there was no shouted order to close the door and this time, when Quill turned to greet him, there was no humour in the surgeon’s expression, either. Instead, Quill’s face looked as if it had been carved from stone. The cellar appeared darker than it had before; colder, too, perhaps because of Quill’s less than welcoming disposition. The smell, though, was as bad as ever.

Taking his cue from the room’s chilly atmosphere, Hawkwood did not speak as he took the note from his pocket and held it up. Quill crooked a finger and, with a rising sense of dread, Hawkwood followed him across to the examination table.

The body was there, covered by the sheet. Wordlessly, Quill drew the material aside.

The corpse now lay on its back in the prone position, hands by its sides. This time the eyes were fully closed but it was not to her eyes that Hawkwood’s attention was drawn. It was to the dead woman’s abdomen and the trauma that had been inflicted upon it.

“They’re not stab wounds,” Hawkwood said cautiously. “They don’t look deep enough.”

“No,” Quill said. “I was mistaken. She was not stabbed.”

“Scratched, then.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I’m not with you.”

Quill reached for a candle. “Take this.”

Hawkwood took the light and held it above the body. Caught in a sudden draught, the candle flame fluttered and then steadied. He stared down at the wounds, which still looked nothing more than a series of random score marks angled across the surface of the skin. While they were not deep, they were not that shallow, either. They were the sort of cuts which, suffered singly, might have been caused by catching the skin on a rusty nail; quick to bleed but, by the same token, quick to close and form a scab. Lowering the flame, Hawkwood allowed his eyes to follow the progression of the wounds across the width of the body. Only then was he able to take in what Quill had seen.

The first letter that had been carved into the flesh was a sharp-angled . It had been made by two distinct strokes of a blade, as if the perpetrator had been trying to form a triangle and given up. The second letter had been made using the same principle, with the addition of a horizontal incision linking the two cuts to form an . The next was an , followed by a single vertical slash to represent an . There were three more letters, all rendered using a minimal number of strokes.

“C-A-R-I-T-A-S,” Quill said, “in case you were wondering.”

“I can spell, damn it!” Hawkwood stared at the cuts. “What I don’t know is what the hell it’s doing there. Is it even a word?”

Quill said calmly, “I believe it’s Latin.”

“Latin?”

“It means charity.”

Hawkwood turned.

Quill gave what could have been interpreted as an apologetic shrug. “Latin studies; one of the consequences of a classical education, though a necessity when considering a career in medicine.”

Hawkwood returned his attention to the body.

“This is not something I’ve come across before,” Quill said. “You?”

Hawkwood found his voice. “Not like this.”

“Like this?” Quill countered sharply.

“When I was in Spain, the guerrilleros used to mutilate the bodies of dead French soldiers as a warning to others.”

“They wrote messages in the flesh?”

“No, usually they’d cut something off. Noses, fingers, cocks. It scared the Frogs shitless.”

“I can imagine,” Quill said, adding pointedly, “Not quite the same though.”

“No,” Hawkwood agreed. “Not quite.”

Quill let out a sigh. “But bad enough.”

“Yes.”

Quill held Hawkwood’s gaze. His expression was even darker than it had been before.

“Did you find anything else?” Hawkwood asked, wondering what other horrors might be lurking.

“No,” Quill said. “Mercifully. She was not violated – not as we understand the term, at any rate, though my examination did reveal that she was no stranger to coition.”

There followed a moment’s pause then Quill chewed his lip and said pointedly, “Fore and aft.”

Offering a contrite shrug for having used the phrase, the surgeon made a face. “Your suspicions regarding her likely profession would, therefore, appear to have merit.”

“Then cover her up, for Christ’s sake.” Hawkwood stepped away from the table, allowing Quill to draw the sheet over the body. He turned back. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“No apology required,” Quill said.

“I want him,” Hawkwood said. “I want the bastard who did this.”

“Him?” Quill said.

“Him. Them.”

God help us if it’s a “her”. What kind of woman would do this to another?

“Ah, but it’s not just the ‘who’ though, is it?” Quill said. “It’s the rest of it. And I’m afraid I can’t help you with that conundrum. My responsibility extends only as far as determining the cause of death, not the persons or reasoning behind it. My domain is the ‘how’. The ‘who’ and the ‘why’ are your department.”

Thanks to Magistrate bloody Turton, and a sexton with a conscience, Hawkwood thought bitterly.

“That’s not to say I’m not intrigued, of course,” Quill added, “as a medical man. But it ain’t my field. You want an answer as to why someone should carve anything into some poor woman’s belly, you don’t need a surgeon; you need a mind doctor.” The surgeon cocked his head. “Know any mind doctors?”

Hawkwood stared at Quill. Quill stared back at him. “What?”

“As a matter of fact,” Hawkwood said. “I believe I do.”

It had been winter when Hawkwood had last visited the building and there had been a heavy frost on the ground. It was winter once again, or at least the tail end of it, and while the weather was not as harsh, it was immediately apparent that the intervening months had not been kind, for the place appeared even more decrepit and run down than it had before.

Segments of the surrounding wall looked as if they were about to collapse, while the trees, which, during the summer, would have formed a natural screen, appeared to be suffering from some form of incurable blight, with many of their lower branches having been lopped off by the neighbouring residents for use as domestic kindling. Moorfields, the area of open ground which fronted the building, had all the characteristics of a freshly ploughed pasture. Subsidence, having bedevilled the site for decades, had taken a more drastic toll of late and the ponds which had formed in the resulting depressions had almost doubled in size. Most of the iron railings that had once ringed the common land had disappeared.

The twin statues were still there, guarding the entry gates: both male – one wearing shackles, head drawn back; the other reclining as if having just awoken from a troubled sleep. Their naked torsos, stained black over the years, were splattered with ash and pigeon droppings. Steeling himself, Hawkwood ducked beneath them, crossed the courtyard and headed for the main door. Tugging on the bell pull, he waited. The eye-hatch slid aside and a pale, unshaven face appeared in the opening.

“Officer Hawkwood, Bow Street Public Office; here to see Apothecary Locke.”

“You expected?” a gravelly voice wheezed.

Hawkwood had anticipated the question and raised his tipstaff so that the brass crown was displayed. “I don’t need an appointment.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the hatch scraped shut. The sound of several large bolts being withdrawn was followed by the rasp of wood on stone as the door was hauled back. Hawkwood took a quick gulp of air and stepped through the gap. The door closed ominously behind him.

Welcome to Bedlam … again.

The last time he’d called upon Robert Locke, the apothecary’s office had been on the first floor. To get there, he’d been escorted through the main gallery, past cell doors that had opened on to scenes more suited to a travelling freak show than a hospital wing. The sight of distressed patients – male and female – chained to walls, many squatting in their own filth, and the pitiful looks they’d given him as he’d gone past, had stayed in the mind for a long time afterwards, as had their cries of distress at spying a stranger in their midst. He was considerably relieved, therefore, when, this time, the unsmiling, blue-coated attendant avoided the central staircase and led him down a dank and draughty ground-floor corridor towards the rear of the building, the uneven floorboards creaking beneath their combined tread.

While the route might have altered, the smells had not. The combination of rotting timbers, damp straw, stale cabbage and human sewage were as bad as he remembered and easily equalled the odours at the bottom of the grave-pit and the stench in Quill’s dead house. It was further indication – as if the exterior signs had not been proof enough – that Bethlem Hospital had reached its final stage of decomposition.

This time, there was no brass plate beside the door. There was only the word Apothecary scrawled on a piece of torn card looped over the doorknob. The attendant knocked and Hawkwood was announced. Hearing a small grunt of surprise, Hawkwood pushed past the attendant and very nearly went sprawling arse over elbow due to a metal pail that had been placed on the floor two feet inside the door. As entrances went, it wasn’t the most dignified he’d ever made.

Recovering his footing, he saw that the pail was one of several mis-matched receptacles that had been placed around the room in order to catch the rainwater that was dripping from the ceiling. An assortment of buckets, basins, pots and jugs had been pressed into service. Even as he took in the sight, there came the sound of a droplet hitting the surface of the water in one of the makeshift reservoirs, more than half of which were ready for emptying. A quick glance above his head at the spots of mould high in the corners of the walls and the dark, damp patches radiating out from the ceiling rose told their own depressing story.

“Officer Hawkwood?”

The bespectacled, studious-looking man who rose from behind his desk could have been mistaken for a bank clerk or a schoolteacher rather than an apothecary in a madhouse, though it was plain that, like the building in which he worked, Robert Locke looked as though he had seen better days. He appeared thinner than Hawkwood remembered and older, too, for there were lines on his face that had not been there before.

“Doctor,” Hawkwood said, as the apothecary advanced towards him, looking both flustered and, Hawkwood thought, more than a tad apprehensive.

Removing his spectacles – an affectation which Hawkwood had come to know well from their previous encounters – Locke wiped them on a handkerchief, slid them back on to his nose and turned to the hovering attendant. “Thank you, Mr O’Brien; that will be all.”

Dismissed, the attendant left the room. Locke, despite his obvious concern as to why Hawkwood might have returned, extended his hand. The apothecary’s grip was firm, though cold to the touch. Hawkwood wondered if it was a sign that Locke’s health was failing or a reflection of the state of the building which was disintegrating brick by brick around him.

“Come in, sir, come in,” Locke said. “Please forgive the accommodation. As you can see, there’s been little improvement since your last visit.” The apothecary offered an apologetic smile. “That is to say, there has been no improvement whatsoever.”

“You’ve changed offices,” Hawkwood pointed out.

“Well, yes, but that was a matter of necessity – the ceiling fell in upstairs.” Locke indicated the state of the decor above his head and the crockery at his feet. “I fear it’s only a matter of time before the same thing happens again. Mind where you step.”

“I thought you were moving to new premises,” Hawkwood said.

Locke sighed wearily. “Oh, indeed we were; or rather, we will be: St George’s Fields. The first stone was laid back in April, though God knows when it will be finished. In the meantime, you find us thus. Still sinking, but making do as best we can. Come, stand by the fire. It’s one of the few comforts I have left, though that might alter when we run out of wood, unless I start burning the furniture.”

Rubbing his hands together, Locke crossed to the fireplace and picked up a poker. Crouching down, the apothecary took two small logs from a stack at the side of the hearth and added them to the embers, allowing Hawkwood a bird’s-eye view of his frayed collar and the specks of dandruff adhering to it.

Stoking life into the flames, he laid the poker down and stood up. “So,” he said, turning. “What brings you back to our door? It seems only five minutes, but it must be … what? – a year or thereabouts since the affair with Colonel Hyde?” He threw Hawkwood a worried look. “I’m assuming this has nothing to do with those appalling events?”

“No,” Hawkwood said.

Strange, he thought, how previous cases came back to haunt you. It had been Hyde, a former army surgeon, whose escape from Bedlam and demand for bodies upon which to practise his skills had led to the confrontation with the murderous resurrection gang, an encounter from which no one had emerged untarnished.

Clearly relieved, Locke nodded. “I followed it all in the news sheets, of course; a foul business. When his crimes were finally brought to light, I did ask myself if there was anything I could have done differently that might have deterred him from his actions.”

“There was nothing anyone could have done,” Hawkwood said. “He was insane and he was clever. And now he’s dead and the world’s the better for it.”

“According to the newspapers, he died while resisting arrest.”

“Yes,” Hawkwood said.

After I ran the bastard through.

He found that Locke was regarding him closely. When he’d first called upon the apothecary, Hawkwood had thought Locke to be nothing more than a lickspittle, a petty official harbouring resentment towards his superiors for having left him in sole charge of a shambles of a hospital and a largely incompetent and uncaring workforce. Subsequent events had altered Hawkwood’s perception of the man, for it had been Locke’s knowledge of his former patient’s mental condition that had enabled Hawkwood to eventually track down the lunatic Colonel Hyde, and dispatch him to a place where he was no longer a threat to humanity: to wit, the fires of hell and damnation. A rapier thrust had been the method of execution, though that was just one of many details that had been omitted from the official report.

“So,” the apothecary prompted as his gaze fell away. “How may I be of service?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Hawkwood said, “and I need your advice in narrowing my search.”

Locke frowned. “Really? How so?”

“I’m investigating a murder.”

Taken aback, Locke’s eyes widened.

“A woman’s been killed. At the moment, she’s nameless.”

Locke blinked. “And what? You think she may have a connection with the hospital; a former patient, perhaps?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Locke looked even more nonplussed. “Then, forgive me, but why …?”

“The circumstances of her death are … unusual.”

The apothecary opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it abruptly. Clearly confused, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “We should make ourselves more comfortable.” Returning to his former position behind the desk, he settled himself and said, “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Locke remained silent as Hawkwood related the circumstances surrounding the finding of the body and its delivery to Quill’s necropsy room. When it came to a description of the mutilations that had been performed upon the corpse, the apothecary’s head lifted and he sat back. Taking out his handkerchief, he removed his spectacles and began to clean the lenses, his face still; his movements slow and deliberate.

Hawkwood waited. Several seconds passed before Locke tucked the handkerchief away and used both hands to position his spectacles back on the bridge of his nose. Blinking, he searched Hawkwood’s face. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll help me,” Hawkwood said.

“But of course. I’ll assist in any way I can, though I’m not sure how. What do you require?”

“When we were dealing with Hyde, I asked you what circumstances might have driven him to commit murder.”

Locke nodded. “I remember.”

“I’m hoping you can do the same again. I need to know what sort of person I’m looking for this time. I’m assuming it’s a ‘he’. If you can give me some idea of what might be going through the bastard’s mind, then maybe I can use the information to hunt him down.”

“Hunt?” Locke said cautiously. “You make him sound like some kind of wild animal.”

“He killed a woman and carved a word into her flesh. How would you describe him?”

Locke blinked. “From what I know, animals usually have a valid reason for killing: to survive; to acquire food or a mate; to establish their territory; or to protect their offspring. I think you’ll find that men kill for a far greater variety of reasons, most of them trivial – excluding war, of course … though even then, I wouldn’t swear to it.” Tilting his head, Locke fixed Hawkwood with a pointed look. “But I suspect that is something you are well aware of.”

The apothecary knew that Hawkwood had served as an officer in the Rifles and was, therefore, intimately familiar with the horrors of the battlefield.

“I was a soldier. It wasn’t my place to question the why. My duty was to take care of the how and the when.” Hawkwood smiled thinly at Locke’s bemused expression. “Forgive me; I had a similar conversation recently with the Coroner’s surgeon.”

Locke said nothing.

“With Hyde,” Hawkwood said, “I was sure we were dealing with a madman because he’d been locked up in this place, but you convinced me it wasn’t that simple. For a start, even though he was a patient here, Hyde did not consider himself to be mad.”

Locke spread his hands. “That is the nature of the sickness. I told you at the time, while other doctors consider madness to be a spiritual malaise, I believe it to be a physical disease, an organic disorder within the brain. It can affect anyone, from a soldier to a surgeon, from a kitchen maid to a—”

“King?” Hawkwood finished.

“Indeed.” Locke smiled faintly. “And while their behaviour may be unfathomable to others, within their own minds, they are being perfectly rational.”

“And Hyde didn’t think of himself as either sane or insane, because that was the nature of his delusion.”

“Correct.”

“When I asked you what made Hyde commit murder, you told me it was necessary to know how his delusion arose in the first place.”

“But of course. Without knowledge of a person’s history there is no way of determining what makes them commit irrational acts, which is why I’m unable to provide you with the information you require. You forget; Hyde was already known to us. We had both his medical and his army records, thus we were able to chart the course of his delusions. His crimes were not committed in isolation. They were part of a natural progression, stemming from his experiences during the war. There was a purpose to his actions; validity, if you will; at least in his mind. With regards to the individual you are now seeking, we have no point of reference, therefore I have nothing to chart.”

“We have caritas,” Hawkwood said, clutching at his remaining straw. “Does that tell us anything?”

Locke considered the question. “It implies the author is an educated man.”

“And?”

“His education may prompt him to believe he is of a superior intellect to those around him, which could mean he holds a position of authority. Alternatively, he could occupy a more modest position but believes he has been held back by those above him who, in his opinion, are his inferiors. Jealousy turns to resentment. Resentment turns to anger, anger to rage …”

“And rage to murder,” Hawkwood said softly.

“A simplistic rendering, but yes. Though, murder is not always born of anger. It is also an illustration of the control one person wields over another; a way of the killer showing that he has the power over life and death.”

“Like Hyde?”

The apothecary nodded. “Like Colonel Hyde. He decides who lives and who dies. In his own mind, he is the one before whom all others should bow down.”

“You’re not telling me he thinks he’s God?”

As Hawkwood absorbed that thought, Locke said, “Clearly, the word caritas holds a particular significance.”

“You mean why not ‘whore’ or ‘Jezebel’,” Hawkwood said.

Locke made a face. “Perhaps we should be thankful for small mercies. If I remember my scriptures, Jezebel was consumed by a pack of stray dogs. Had your murderer chosen that as his means of disposal, I doubt she’d have been found at all.”

Hawkwood was digesting that morbid titbit and wondering if it was the apothecary’s attempt at wit when Locke said, “From your description of the wounds, he is clearly prone to rage; yet methodical, too; capable of deliberation.”

“How can you tell that?”

The apothecary paused and then said, “Because it took thought to choose that particular word and it would have taken time to carve it into her flesh.”

Reaching for a pencil, Locke took a sheet of paper from the detritus on his desk and, employing a series of single strokes of the pencil, began to write. When he had finished, he held up the paper. Upon it was etched the word CARITAS.

“From your description of the wounds, he would have had to employ some eighteen separate cuts. Therefore he took his time. Ergo, he was not afraid of being interrupted.” Locke paused and then said, “As a matter of interest, were there any other similar cuts on the body, close to the same area?”

Hawkwood thought back. “One or two, yes, now you mention it.”

“More than likely they were practice cuts, to allow him to perfect his calligraphy.” The apothecary laid the paper on the desk and studied his penmanship. “One has to wonder who the message was for.”

“For?” Hawkwood said, still trying to come to terms with the fact that the killer had perfected his technique before committing himself to the final indignation.

“We must assume it was meant to be read. Otherwise, why take the trouble?” Locke looked up. “You are aware that caritas can have other meanings besides ‘charity’?”

“No,” Hawkwood said. “I wasn’t.”

“It can also mean ‘esteem’ or ‘virtue’. If she was a working girl, as you suspect, then the latter interpretation would be more apposite.”

“Because she’d be considered a woman without virtue? So this was what? Some kind of punishment?”

“Possibly, or a warning to those who would ply a similar trade. The killer is giving notice that this is the fate that will befall them if they do not change their immoral ways.”

“Well, if that’s his goal,” Hawkwood said, “he’ll have his work cut out, given the number of molls in this city.”

“So will you,” Locke observed. “Seeing as you’ll be the one trying to stop him.”

A faint, far-off scream made the apothecary cock his head. As he did so, a water droplet splashed on to his sleeve from the ceiling above. Cursing, he dabbed the offending spot with his handkerchief while a cacophony of hoarse cries began to spread through the building. It was as if the first scream had been a prompt. It sounded, Hawkwood thought, as though a pack of wolves had been loosed from a cage.

Taking the interruption as his cue, and struck by a sudden and overwhelming desire to escape the hospital’s oppressive atmosphere, Hawkwood got to his feet.

Locke rose with him. As he did so, the apothecary reached for the bell pull on the wall behind his desk and gave the cord a short tug. “I’m sorry I could not be of more help.”

Hawkwood shook his head. “On the contrary, you’ve confirmed what I’d already half suspected.”

Somewhere in the depths, he presumed a bell had rung and he wondered if the sound of it had been drowned by the noises that were beginning to echo through the corridors, among them the clatter of running feet.

At that moment, however, the door opened to admit the attendant who’d delivered him to Locke’s inner sanctum, causing Hawkwood to wonder if the man had been hovering outside throughout the entire course of his and Locke’s conversation.

“Second opinions are my speciality,” Locke said, smiling. “Should any further information come to light, my door will still be open.”

“If it hasn’t been consigned to the flames,” Hawkwood said.

Locke chuckled. “I’ll make sure it’s the last thing to go.” He held out his hand. “Mr O’Brien will show you out. It was a pleasure seeing you again … despite the circumstances.”

The smile was replaced suddenly by a more thoughtful expression. “I hope you catch him.” There was the merest pause then Locke said, “When you do run him down, it will be interesting to see if he also tries to resist arrest.”

Before Hawkwood could respond, the apothecary gave a quick, wry smile, nodded and turned for his desk, his hands clasped behind his back.

The attendant moved aside to allow Hawkwood to exit. It was as the door was closing behind him that the thought struck. Sticking out a hand to stop the door’s swing, he stepped back into the room. Locke was back behind his desk. He glanced up.

“There is one thing,” Hawkwood said.

Locke half rose.

“Something I forgot to ask.”

The apothecary nodded sombrely. “I know.”

“You know?”

Locke lowered himself into his chair. “It’s just occurred to you that the question you should have asked is not: will he kill again? The question is: has he killed before?”

“Yes.”

“Because if you are to prevent him from committing a similar crime, it is not the future you should concentrate upon, but the past. If you can establish a truth using that method, then you will have your point of reference from which everything else will stem.”

“So?” Hawkwood said. “In your opinion, could he have done this before?”

Gazing back at him, Locke removed his spectacles and the handkerchief from his sleeve and began to clean each lens with slow, circular motions. After several seconds of concentrated thought, he put away the handkerchief, placed the spectacles back on the bridge of his nose, and stared at Hawkwood.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Almost certainly.”

6

“That’s it?” Jago said, unable to hide his disbelief. “You want to know if any working girls have gone missing? You’re bloody joking, right? Know how many there are in this city? Bloody ’undreds – hell, thousands, more like. And you want to track down one of them?”

“I don’t need to track her down. I know where she is. She’s on a slab in a dead house; what’s left of her. What I don’t know is her name. I’m hoping it’s Rose.”

“Because of a tattoo? Jesus, that’s a bloody long shot.”

“You may be right. Most likely you are right, but that doesn’t mean I have to send her to Cross Bones to be tipped into another bloody ditch.”

Jago frowned. “So, what the hell makes this one so special? Bawds and pimps beat their molls all the time. Kill ’em too, when they’re in the mood.”

“Not like this,” Hawkwood said.

Jago sat back. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

Hawkwood described the scene in Quill’s dead house.

Jago remained silent throughout the telling. He winced at the mention of the carved wounds. “Jesus,” he muttered finally.

“Quill asked me the same question,” Hawkwood said.

“What? Oh, you mean, why this one?”

Hawkwood nodded. “I told him it was because one of John Moore’s veterans didn’t think it right that someone tossed her into a hole without due ceremony and I didn’t want the bloody resurrection men getting to her.”

“Sounds good enough to me,” Jago said.

“There is another reason,” Hawkwood said.

“Which is?”

“The bastards who put her there thought they could get away with it. They’re mistaken.”

Jago sighed and sat back. He stared into his drink and then looked up. “You want me to ask Connie if she’s heard anything.”

Hawkwood nodded.

“You do know the old one about needles and haystacks, right?”

“You’re all I’ve got,” Hawkwood said.

Jago gave a wry smile. “Now, where’ve I heard that before? All right, I’ll ’ave a word. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. It’s likely you’ll never know who she was. She’ll be just another nameless lass set for a pauper’s grave.”

“She’s somebody’s daughter.”

“Who you think might be a moll, which means there’s a good chance she’s either been disowned or discarded.”

“Even so,” Hawkwood said.

After a second’s lapse, Jago acknowledged Hawkwood’s response with an understanding nod. “Aye, even so.”

Jago lay with his arm around Connie Fletcher’s shoulder. Her head rested on his chest, her ash-blonde hair loose about her face.

“Need to ask you something,” Jago said.

“You want to go around again?” Connie chuckled throatily as she ran her lips across the still raw wounds in his shoulder. “I’ll be gentle.”

Jago gasped as her hand began to slide south beneath the bedcover. “Bloody hell, woman, give us a chance. I ain’t caught my breath from last time.”

Connie removed her hand with an exaggerated sigh and snuggled closer. “All right, what then?”

At the angle they were lying, Jago couldn’t see Connie’s face, but he sensed she was still smiling. It made him wonder if she was expecting the question, the one that tended to end up with a ring and the services of a vicar. He felt a twinge of guilt. He’d been with Connie longer than he’d been with any woman, but marriage? Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Connie’s too, he suspected, even though they’d never discussed the possibility. He waited until his pulse had settled down and then said, “There’s been a killing. Captain’s investigating. He reckons she might have been a workin’ girl.”

Connie lifted her head. “Why’s that?”

“She was young, she weren’t dressed in rags and she has – had – a tattoo.”

The bedcover slid away as Connie sat up. “That’s his definition of a working girl? Someone who’s young, dresses decent and has a tattoo? He needs to get out more.”

“How many ladies you know have tattoos?” Jago asked.

“Can’t say as I know that many ladies,” Connie said deftly. Then she frowned. “Hang on. What about my tattoo? What’s that make me?”

Jago gazed back at her. “You don’t have a tattoo.”

Connie raised one eyebrow. “Might have.”

“No,” Jago said. “I’d have found it. Trust me.”

“Just checking,” Connie said, patting his chest. “But it proves that not every working girl has one.”

Jago pulled his head back to look at her. “You still see yourself as a workin’ girl?”

“Well as sure as God made little green apples, I’m no lady.”

“You’re my lady,” Jago said.

Connie smiled. “Good answer, but I was a working girl, before I went into management, which doesn’t say much for your theory, now, does it?”

“All right, point taken. But like I said, it weren’t my theory.”

“Which means it’s just as likely there are proper ladies out there who do have tattoos.”

Jago realized he’d been outsmarted. Connie’s still-arched eyebrow and her naked breasts swaying enticingly in front of his nose weren’t helping.

“What kind of tattoo?” she asked, after a considered pause.

“A rose.” Jago tapped Connie’s upper right arm. “On her shoulder. Told him the chances were slim to none, but the captain thinks it could be her name.”

Connie went quiet.

“What?” Jago said.

She stared at him, her face suddenly serious. “You’re sure it was a rose?”

Jago frowned. “I’m pretty sure the captain knows what a rose looks like. Why? You saying you might’ve known her?”

“I’m saying if her name was Rose, it’s more likely it was a coincidence.”

Jago sat up. “Sorry, girl, you’ve lost me.”

Connie shook her head. Her eyes held his. “A rose tattoo doesn’t have to mean it’s her name. Chances are it was an owner’s mark.”

“Come again?”

Connie didn’t reply but waited for the penny to drop.

“She was branded,” Jago said.

“It’s why some people call them stables.” Anger flared briefly in Connie’s eyes.

“So who owns this one?”

“Those of us in the know call her the Widow.”

Jago grimaced. “Cheery. I can see how that’d draw the customers in.”

Connie’s mouth moved, but if it was meant as a smile, there was no humour in it.

“Well, she doesn’t call herself that. Her real name’s Ellie Pearce. Doesn’t like to be called that either, though. These days, she goes by Lady Eleanor Rain.”

“Does she now? Well, I suppose it’s a tad more swish than Lady Ellie. So, what’s her story? She got a tattoo?”

Connie ignored the quip. “Supposedly started out with her ma. The old girl ran a business over in Half Moon Alley.”

“You mean it was a knocking shop. Nothin’ like keeping it in the family.”

“Well, she might have turned a trick or two in her younger days, but Ma Pearce was more purveyor than prossie.”

“What’d she purvey?”

“Perfumes, powders and oils, machines – you name it.”

“Machines?” Jago said, startled. “What sort of machines?”

Connie gazed back at him despairingly, dropped her eyes towards his crotch and then rewarded him with a look.

“Ah, right, understood; that sort. Bloody glad you and me don’t bother; all that fiddling around. Mood’s bloody gone by the time you’ve tied the damned thing on. Talk about a passion killer. Sorry, you were sayin’?”

“Word was that her mother used to pimp Ellie out to help pay the rent when business was slack.”

“Wouldn’t’ve thought that kind of business was ever slack,” Jago murmured, earning himself another reproving look.

“It happens. Anyway, supposedly, she took to it like a duck to water; went independent and started charging from a room above the Rose Inn over on Chick Lane.”

“Nice neighbourhood.”

“Nice for her. Made enough she was able to persuade the landlord to rent her a couple more rooms round the back. Started out with three molls, I think it was. That close to Smithfield, they weren’t short of customers.”

Customers who weren’t particular about their surroundings, Jago thought. On market days, the gutters in the adjacent lanes ran red with the blood and offal that seeped out of the nearby slaughterhouses.

“Wasn’t long before she’d earned enough to move to better premises. I don’t recall where; Holborn, maybe. That’s when she branched out. Found herself a rich patron – Sir Nicholas Rain. Bedded and wedded the poor bugger, wore him out; inherited when he died – hence the new name – and used the legacy to expand her business. I heard most of her early clients were swells she’d met through her husband: gentlemen of the nobility and so forth. Never looked back since.”

A retort hovered on Jago’s lips but was quelled when Connie continued, “Likes to dress her girls in the latest fashions. Her promise is they’ll satisfy all desires – and I do mean all. Her speciality’s organizing tableaux. I heard the Rites of Venus is one. She’ll arrange for half a dozen virgins to lose their cherries in front of an audience. When that’s over, the spectators are allowed to join in; so long as they pay, of course.”

“Of course,” Jago said drily.

“Earned herself a fortune, by all accounts; bragged it’d take a working man a hundred years to earn what she’s managed to put away for her rainy day.”

“She sounds … enterprisin’. And all her girls carry the brand?”

Connie nodded. “A rose. That way, anyone trying to muscle in knows they’re already spoken for.”

“Any idea where she’s set up her stall now?”

“Last I heard, she has a fine townhouse up near Portman Square.”

“Nice,” Jago said. “That way she gets the majors and the marquesses.”

Portman Square lay to the west, to the north of Oxford Street, within an area containing some of the largest private houses in London. It was also close to Portman Barracks, one of the many London barracks used in rotation by an assortment of cavalry and infantry regiments, among them the Foot Guards who were responsible for protecting the Royal Family.

“Calls it the Salon. Landed on her feet, did our Ellie.”

“As opposed to her back, you mean. Don’t like her much, do you?”

Connie made a face. “Don’t know her well enough to make that judgement. Can’t fault her ambition, though; she came up the hard way – yes, you can smile – saw an opportunity and took it. If I was honest, we’re probably a lot alike, though neither of us’d care to admit it.”

“Reckon you just did,” Jago said. “Well, I ain’t sure how much that’ll help, but I’ll pass it on; give the captain the heads-up.”

“Yes, well, when you do, you tell him to tread softly. Our Ellie has influential friends.”

“Can’t say as that’ll stop him askin’ awkward questions,” Jago said doubtfully.

“No,” Connie conceded. “I don’t suppose it will.”

“Want me to go with you?” Jago asked.

“To a knocking shop?”

“Don’t think they call it that. Connie tells me it’s a salon.”

“It’s still a knocking shop,” Hawkwood said. “Calling it a salon just means it’s got carpets on the floor instead of sawdust.”

“You want me to tag along or don’t you? Guard your back?”

“It’s not my back I’ll be worried about. No, I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll cope. How’s the shoulder, by the way?”

“Hurts when I laugh.” Jago grinned.

They were seated at the window table on the first floor of the Hanged Man. Both men had their backs to the newly replaced glass with the table between them and the room.

“In case we ’as to hide behind it,” Jago had quipped when they’d sat down.

Hawkwood doubted lightning would strike twice in the same place in the space of a few days, but as it was Jago’s home patch he wasn’t going to argue with the former sergeant’s logic. There was no sign of Jasper, Del or Ned, but Micah was there, seated at the table at the top of the stairs, and Hawkwood had to admit to himself that the young man’s quiet presence was surprisingly reassuring.

“Any more Shaughnessys turn up?” he asked.

Jago took a sip from his mug and shook his head. “They have not. I’ve put the word out, but nothing’s come back. With luck, if there were any hangin’ round, they’ve buggered off back to the bogs. Still keepin’ my eyes open, though. Can’t be too careful and I did suggest that if Del or any of the others wanted to take a leak, they should piss in pairs just in case.”

Jago grinned as he topped up Hawkwood’s mug from the bottle by his elbow. “Connie said the Widow knows people and I should warn you to watch your step.”

“Don’t I always?”

Jago snorted. “You expect me to answer that?”

Hawkwood smiled thinly.

“Suit yourself,’ Jago said. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t go talking to any strange women.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, that’s the sole purpose of my visit.”

Jago winked and took a sip from his glass.

“By the way,” Hawkwood said, “in all that excitement, I forgot to ask: did you and Connie ever buy yourselves that carriage?”

“Carriage?” Jago blinked at the sudden change of subject.

“I’ll take that as a no, then. What happened? Before I went away, you were thinking of buying a horse and gig so that you and Connie could ride around Hyde Park and mix with the swells.”

“Ah, that.” Jago stared at him. “Remind me again; how long is it you’ve been gone?”

“Three months.”

“Well, that explains it.”

“You mean there was a change of plan?”

“Not certain there ever was a plan, as such; more like a bloody stupid idea.” The former sergeant smiled ruefully. “Be honest, can you see me and Connie swannin’ round the park in a carriage?”

“Connie, maybe,” Hawkwood said. “Not you.”

“I’ll tell her you said that, she’ll be tickled pink.” Jago frowned. “What made you think about Connie and carriages?”

Hawkwood did not reply.

“What, you getting maudlin in your old age?” Jago asked. Then his chin lifted. “Ah, don’t tell me; you and Maddie had words? Is that it?” Jago nodded to himself as if everything had suddenly been made clear, then tilted his head enquiringly. “What’d she say when you got back?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” Hawkwood said.

Maddie was Maddie Teague, landlady of the Blackbird tavern. Three months before, when Hawkwood had been preparing to leave for France with no expectation of an imminent return, Maddie had asked him if she should keep his room. Her green eyes had transfixed him when she’d posed the question. She’d tried to make light of her enquiry, telling him it had been made in jest, but he’d read the concern in her face and her genuine fear for his safety.

Hawkwood had smiled and told her that she should keep the room, but they’d both known there was no guarantee that he’d make it back. Despite that, there had been no whispered endearments, no lingering embrace. Instead, Maddie had stepped close and tapped his chest with her closed fist before resting her palm across his cheek. She had then asked him how long she should wait for news.

“You’ll know,” Hawkwood had told her.

“Then don’t expect me to cry myself to sleep,” she’d retorted, but she had not been able to hide the catch in her voice.

It had been a cold and damp morning when the mail coach deposited Hawkwood at the Saracen’s Head in Snow Hill. The 270-mile journey from Falmouth had taken four days. If he’d travelled by regular means it would have taken a week. It was the same route by which the news of Nelson’s death at Trafalgar had been conveyed to the Admiralty by Lieutenant Lapenotière, commander of the schooner HMS Pickle; or so Hawkwood had been informed by the clerk at the Falmouth coaching office. Lapenotière had supposedly made the journey by post-chaise in thirty-eight hours. Having no urgent dispatches to deliver, Hawkwood had been forced to settle for a slower ride. When he alighted from the un-sprung coach for the last time, it had felt as if his back had been stretched by the Inquisition. He wondered if Lapenotière had suffered from the same discomfort.

The Blackbird lay in a quiet mews off Water Lane, a stone’s lob from the Inner Temple. It was a short walk from the Saracen’s Head and the route had taken him down through the Fleet Market. It had felt strange, making his way past the shops and stalls, because even at that hour of the day they were crowded and after being surrounded by wide open seas and even wider skies during the crossing from America, the hustle and bustle of London’s congested streets, while instantly familiar, had come as something of a shock, as had the smells. After the clean air of New York State’s lakes and mountains and the bracing bite of the North Atlantic winds, he’d forgotten how much the city reeked. At the same time, it felt as though he’d never been away.

The Blackbird’s door had been open, in readiness for the breakfast trade. Maddie’s back had been to him. Her auburn hair tied in place with a blue ribbon, she’d been directing the serving girls as they’d flitted between the tables and the kitchen, taking and delivering orders. Hawkwood had waited until Maddie was alone before he’d enquired from behind with a weary voice if there were any rooms to be had. Maddie had turned to answer, whereupon her breath had caught in her throat and her eyes had widened.

The sound of her palm whipping across his left cheek had been almost as loud as a pistol shot. Breakfast diners within range had looked up and gaped; more than a few had grinned.

Hawkwood hadn’t moved as the burning sensation spread across his face.

Maddie Teague had stared up at him, her eyes blazing. Then, as quickly as it had flared, the anger left her and her face had softened.

“You could have written,” she said.

“On the bright side,” Jago said, chuckling. “She could’ve been carryin’ a bowl of hot broth or a carvin’ knife.”

“Lucky for me,” Hawkwood said.

“You made up, though, right? She didn’t stay mad?”

“No,” Hawkwood conceded. “She didn’t.”

“There you go then.” There was a pause before Jago added, “She asked if I’d heard from you.”

Hawkwood stared at him. “She never mentioned that.”

“Sent me a message. I called round; told her I hadn’t heard but I’d make enquiries.”

“That’s when you went to see Magistrate Read.”

“It was. He told me that, as far as he knew, you were still alive and that if anything did happen, he’d get word to me.”

“And you’d pass the word to Maddie.”

Jago nodded.

“She was angry,” Hawkwood said.

“Women are funny like that,” Jago replied sagely. “I told her not to worry; that no news was good news. Can’t say she was convinced. Think she was all right for the first month. After that …” Jago shrugged and then brightened. “I did put in a bid. Told her if anythin’ were to ’appen, and if she had trouble makin’ ends meet, I wanted first refusal on your Baker.”

“That was gallant. How did she take it?”

“Not well. Told me I’d have to join the bloody queue.” Jago’s face turned serious. “You do know that, if you hadn’t turned up, she’d have waited. There’s no one else. There’s plenty who’d like to step up but, until she heard otherwise, it’d be you she’d be holdin’ out for.”

“I told her she’d know if anything had happened,” Hawkwood said.

“Reckon we both would,” Jago said sombrely, and then he grinned once more. “So I’d still be in the queue for your bloody rifle. I’d raise a glass, too, though, for old time’s sake. You can count on that.”

“I’m touched,” Hawkwood said.

“Aye, well, you’d do the same for me, right?”

“Depends,” Hawkwood said.

“On what?”

“On whether you had anything worth leaving.”

“Jesus, that’s harsh.”

“The rifle would have been yours anyway,” Hawkwood said. “I’d already left provision.”

“Now I’m touched,” Jago said. “Mind you, the times I’ve watched your back, it’s the least you could do. And so’s you know, if I had bought a horse and carriage, I’d have left you them in my will.”

“You would, too, just to be bloody awkward.”

Jago grinned. “And then I’d come back to see the look on your face.”

Emptying his glass, he placed it on the table and looked up. “So, when you plannin’ on visiting the Widow?”

“Soon as I finish my drink.”

Jago raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Dutch courage?”

Taking a last swallow, Hawkwood pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “You ever hear of a black widow?”

“Don’t ring any bells. She a coloured girl?”

“No. It’s a type of spider.”

“A spider?” Jago said doubtfully.

“After she’s mated, she eats the male.”

Jago’s mouth opened and closed. Dropping his gaze, the former sergeant stared down into his own glass as if something might be concealed within it before lowering it slowly to the table.

He looked up. “Any of them around here?”

Hawkwood smiled grimly. “Could be I’m about to find out.”

7

Outwardly, there was nothing to distinguish the house from its neighbours. Not that Hawkwood had been expecting any sort of sign above the door. There might have been only a mile or so separating them but the square was a world away from the stews of Covent Garden and the alleys of Haymarket, where, for a pint of grog and a few pennies, you could negotiate a quick fumble in a doorway with a pox-ridden hag who was as likely to rob a man blind as to roger him senseless. Pennies bought you nothing here. The Salon provided for a far more affluent clientele, which meant there was no requirement for it to advertise. Its word-of-mouth reputation was enough, as was the locale.

Bounded on all quarters by three- and four-storeyed townhouses, the centre of the square had been laid out in the style of a formal garden, patterned with winding pathways, ornamental shrubbery and several tall plane trees, all protected by a palisade of wrought-iron railings that looked newly painted. In the far corner, on the square’s north side, could be seen the boundary wall of an imposing brick mansion set back from the street, more evidence that the further west you lived, the more affluent you were likely to be.

Traffic was light. A couple of carriages clattered past, harnesses clinking, followed by a trio of riders dressed in smart dragoon uniforms, while a handful of pedestrians picked their way carefully around the carpet of horse droppings that smeared the road. The smell of fresh dung lingered on the damp afternoon air.

Watching them trying to negotiate passage on to cleaner ground, Hawkwood wondered idly how many of the square’s residents were aware of the goings on inside this particular house. Most of them, he suspected. And how many of them had visited the premises? More than might be imagined, he was prepared to wager.

Approaching the black-painted front door, a quick glance at the windows above him revealed the drapes on the upper floors to be fully drawn. It was one indication that he’d come to the right address. In lower-ranked brothels, working girls used the windows to display their wares, leaving little to the imagination in the process. In contrast, the houses at the upper end of the scale masked their entertainments by shielding the view from the street.

Hawkwood pulled on the bell handle and waited. He sensed he was being perused for he’d seen the spyhole in the door. Debating whether or not to wipe his boots against the backs of his breeches, he thought, to hell with it. He’d had the breeches cleaned after his graveyard jaunt and he was damned if he was going to dirty them again that quickly. If whoever was studying him through the woodwork chose not to open the door because of his less than pristine appearance, he could always hammer on it with his tipstaff and yell, “I demand admittance in the name of the law!” It wouldn’t be pretty but it would be a very effective means of gaining entry, because the occupants wouldn’t want that sort of commotion on their doorstep. It would lower the tone of the neighbourhood.

He was reaching for his tipstaff when his summons was answered.

The manservant, a thickset, competent-looking individual in matching grey jacket and waistcoat, looked Hawkwood up and down, paying close attention to his greatcoat and his boots. When he glanced over Hawkwood’s shoulder towards the street, Hawkwood wondered if he was searching for the carriage that had dropped him off.

“I walked,” Hawkwood said, “all the way from Bow Street. I’m here to see the lady of the house, and don’t bother asking if I have an appointment.”

Because I’ve had enough of that.

At the mention of Bow Street, the manservant’s gaze flickered. The raised eyebrow that had been there when he’d opened the door was replaced by a new wariness.

Hawkwood sighed and took the tipstaff from his coat. “That would be sooner, rather than later.”

The manservant’s jaw flexed. “Name?” he enquired, stepping aside to allow Hawkwood entry.

Hawkwood resisted the urge to wipe the supercilious expression from the manservant’s face, gave his name and fixed the man with a look. “Yours?”

The manservant hesitated and then squared his shoulders. “Flagg.” Adding, somewhat reluctantly, “Thomas.”

Through what sounded like teeth being gritted, the manservant instructed Hawkwood to wait. Then, turning, he strode across the hall to a closed door, knocked and entered the room beyond, leaving Hawkwood to mull over a noticeable bulge in the back of the manservant’s jacket. A small cudgel stuck handily in the waistband, Hawkwood guessed; definitely not a pistol, which would have been harder to conceal.

Ellie Pearce – or Lady Eleanor, as she was choosing to call herself these days – clearly took the matter of personal security very seriously. Hardly surprising; most establishments of this sort – regardless of their status – employed protection in one form or another, some more covertly than others. Even girls working the street tended to have a pimp hovering nearby, though their presence had more to do with ensuring the safety of their investment than guaranteeing the girls’ welfare.

The manservant’s absence provided an opportunity to take in the interior of the house, which was as tasteful as the exterior had suggested it might be.

Given the greyness of the day, the lobby should have been cast in a sepulchral gloom, but by the strategic use of candles set in mirrored alcoves, the entrance hall was cast in a warm and welcoming glow. It was a far cry from the cheaper East End houses, which were apt to equal Smithfield on market day for both noise and activity. The main cause for the rowdiness was alcohol. In the rougher parts of the city, the only businesses that outnumbered the brothels were the gin shops.

Such was the ambience created here that a casual entrant could well have missed the more intimate items of décor that suggested the Salon might be something other than a comfortable family residence. These were in the form of porcelain statuettes set in niches around the walls depicting nude male and female figures entwined in a variety of sexual acts. The theme continued up the main staircase, which rose in a graceful sweep towards the first-floor landing, with each tread accompanied by a rising gallery of pencil-drawn images that were so graphic they made the cavorting figurines on the ground floor look positively chaste.

Somewhere above him, a door opened and closed softly, while from the ground floor, behind a door adjacent to the one through which the manservant had disappeared, there came the sound of a pianoforte, accompanied by a short and equally melodic burst of female laughter.

As if the laughter had been a signal, the door across the hallway opened and the manservant reappeared. He looked no happier than he had before as he caught Hawkwood’s eye, signalling that despite his own reservations and the state of the visitor’s wardrobe, the man from Bow Street had been granted an audience.

“Not your day, is it, Thomas?” Hawkwood murmured as he pushed past and entered the room. He didn’t wait for a reaction but felt the manservant’s eyes burning into the back of his neck as the door closed behind him.

By their ages, the two women could have been taken for mother and daughter, though it was the older one who was closest to the description given by Connie Fletcher. Connie had intimated that she and the Salon’s proprietress were around the same age. Connie, Hawkwood knew, was still on the good side of forty, though only by a year or two. What struck Hawkwood, as the former Ellie Pearce turned to greet his entrance, was that it wouldn’t have mattered whether she’d been a park-walker touting her wares behind the wall in the Privy Gardens or a costermonger’s wife; like Connie, she would still have turned heads. The thought occurred that maybe he should have cleaned his boots, after all.

It was her eyes as much as her profile and her smooth, near-porcelain skin that drew the attention. Deep indigo, framed by prominent cheekbones and what looked to be shoulder-length black hair drawn up and secured at the nape of her neck by a silver clasp, they regarded Hawkwood in frank appraisal, suggesting she was not best pleased by having her afternoon interrupted at the behest of an unknown and, more germanely, uninvited public servant.

In contrast, her younger companion, who was also slender but with blonde ringlets and clearly less reserve, greeted Hawkwood’s entrance with an openly suggestive grin.

“Officer … Hawkwood, was it? You must forgive Thomas his manners. He tends to be over protective when it comes to gentlemen visitors he does not know. Even now, I suspect he is listening without, ready to spring to my aid.”

There was not the slightest trace of Half Moon Alley in her voice. The refined, almost seductive tones could have belonged to any London society hostess.

“Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.”

Surprised by Hawkwood’s dry riposte, Eleanor Rain frowned, while the younger woman clapped her hands and beamed as if she had just been gifted with a new puppy. “Oh, I like the look of this one. Can we keep him?”

The older woman held Hawkwood’s gaze for several seconds before turning and addressing her more forward companion. “Thank you, Charlotte. You may leave us.”

Pouting prettily but without protest, the young woman made for the door, taking time to mime Hawkwood a kiss as she wafted past, while allowing her thigh to brush the back of his left hand and the faint scent of jasmine to linger enticingly in her wake.

Eleanor Rain waited for the door to close before moving to a low, loose-cushioned sofa against which rested a small table, upon which was a tray bearing a China-blue tea service. Taking her seat, she brushed an imaginary speck of lint from her sleeve and regarded Hawkwood with cool detachment.

“How curious; I’m trying to recall the last time a representative of the constabulary came to call, but I declare it’s quite slipped my mind. Though, of course, members of the judiciary are always dropping by.”

The emphasis placed on the word “members” had been deliberate. It was her way of telling him that she regarded his visit as no more than a distraction and that, as a person of little consequence who could not possibly understand innuendo, his presence would be tolerated only for as long as it took him to state his business.

Hawkwood nodded. “After a hard day on the bench, no doubt.”

In the ensuing pause, the ticking from the clock on the mantelpiece sounded unnaturally loud.

Until that moment, Hawkwood had been having difficulty equating the woman seated before him with the Ellie Pearce who’d earned her living servicing a parade of men in the back room of a Smithfield public house, but as her expression changed in the face of his rejoinder he saw caution in her eyes and a growing realization that it was not just her own appearance that might be proving deceptive.

Her swift recovery also told him that this was a woman who was unashamedly aware of the effect her looks had on the opposite sex. If she’d been in the trade for as long as Connie had hinted, the half-smile she now offered in acknowledgement of his response would be as much a part of her repertoire as the way she held herself and her penetrating and provocative gaze.

Similarly, the dress she wore, while appearing simple in cut, served to add to her allure. Cream, with an ivory sheen and inset with fine blue stripes that matched the colour of her eyes, the high waist and hint of décolletage artfully accentuated her shape, with the clear intention of making life a little more interesting for aficionados of the female form.

Her choice of jewellery was as understated as her attire. A blue gemstone the size of a wren’s egg hung from a silver chain about her neck, the jewel resting above the gentle swell of her breasts. She wore a ring set with a smaller, similar-coloured stone on the third finger of her right hand, while her left wrist was encircled by a delicate bracelet, also made of silver to match the clasp in her hair and the fine linkage at her throat.

Leaning forward, she reached for the teapot, the motion deepening the shadow at her neckline, as she had known it would.

Hawkwood recognized it as part of a strategy designed to remind her visitor of his true place. Seated, she was Lady Eleanor Rain, granting him an audience. Standing, he remained the underling, the minion who, even though he was an officer of the law, meant there was not the slightest chance he would be invited to take tea. Tea was expensive – the caddy would be hidden away under lock and key – and the idea that she would consider sharing such a valuable commodity with someone she saw as being beneath her station was unthinkable.

He watched as, with precise, almost sensual deliberation, she proceeded to pour herself a cup, using a strainer to catch the leaves. When the cup was three-quarters full, she laid the strainer to one side. Adding neither milk nor sugar, she lifted both cup and saucer from the tray and cradled them in her lap.

Raising the cup to her lips, she took a small sip. Returning it to the saucer with exaggerated finesse, she straightened and regarded him expectantly. “Perhaps you should explain why you are here?”

Hawkwood, tiring of the game, decided to dispense with the niceties.

“I’m here to enquire if any of your girls are missing.”

It was not what she’d been expecting. Taken aback by the bluntness of Hawkwood’s response, she stared up at him. “Missing? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“A body’s been found.”

“A body?”

“A young woman.”

“I see. Well, that is distressing, but what makes you think she might be associated with my salon?”

“She had a rose tattoo on her upper arm. I’m told you’re familiar with such a mark.”

She stared at him without speaking.

Hawkwood matched her gaze. “Or have I been misinformed?”

He watched the indecision steal across her face, quickly replaced by a more guarded look, which did not make her any less attractive. Two more seconds passed. Then, lifting a hand from the saucer, she made a dismissive gesture. “An affectation; nothing more. A mark of quality, if you will.”

“Like Mr Twining’s tea?”

She blanched. Then, collecting herself once more, she looked up. “Do you have a description of this unfortunate young woman?”

“Petite, brown hair, blue eyes and young, as I said. We believe she was in her early twenties.”

Even as he uttered the words, Hawkwood knew the description was a poor one as it probably covered half the molls in London; a fact mirrored by Eleanor Rain’s less than engaged expression.

“And how did she die?”

“Painfully. Beaten and throttled, then tied in a sack.”

No point in mentioning the mutilation. It was always best to hold something back.

For the first time a look of genuine shock distorted her features. “Murdered,” she said softly.

“I doubt it was suicide.”

She coloured. “No, of course not. Forgive me, it’s …”

Returning the cup and saucer to the tray and placing her hands together on her lap, in a more composed voice, she said, “My apologies. It is difficult to gather one’s thoughts after being told of such a thing.” She drew herself up. “I can assure you, however, that all my ladies are accounted for.”

Hawkwood nodded. “I’m relieved to hear it. Though ladies do come and go, do they not?”

She frowned, as if the idea had not occurred to her. “They do, but surely I cannot be expected to account for the whereabouts of those who might have chosen to leave my employ.”

“That’s true. So has anyone flown the nest recently?”

“They have not.”

The answer came sharply but then she took another breath and in a considered tone said, “May one enquire when the killing took place?”

“We believe death occurred a day ago; perhaps two.”

“Where?”

“That we don’t yet know. I can tell you where she was found: in a grave, in St George the Martyr’s burying ground.”

“A grave?” she said, puzzled. “Then how …?”

“An open grave.”

Hawkwood watched her as the image ran through her mind.

“And she has lain there unseen until now?”

“Yes.”

“All that time? How terrible.”

“Murder usually is,” Hawkwood said.

Her chin lifted. Then, fixing him with a conciliatory look, she said, “And it is your task to discover who was responsible?”

“It is.”

She nodded. “Could the perpetrator strike again?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“So until you find him, we are all of us at risk.”

“I can’t say you won’t be. We don’t yet know his motive.”

“You’re saying she could have been killed for who she was, rather than for what you think she was?”

“Yes.”

“And a rose is not an uncommon adornment. She could just as easily be a washerwoman as a whore.”

“She could.”

Her eyes clouded. In that instant Hawkwood caught his second glimpse of the woman behind the mask; a woman who, by force of will, had managed to haul herself out of the gutter and into the privileged ranks of society, all the while knowing and resenting the fact that there were elements of her previous life still buried deep within her that she would never be able to erase.

There was fear there, too, he suspected; fear that, one day, someone would confront her and remind her of her former existence. It was the most vulnerable chink in her armour and she was wondering if this was the moment that weakness was about to be exploited. The sudden flare in her eyes was a warning sign that she would defend her reputation to the hilt if she felt it was about to be challenged.

“Which is why we need to confirm her identity,” Hawkwood said, and watched as the fire died away.

“Because, whatever their reasoning, the sooner you find the person who killed her, the safer we all will be?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am sorry I’ve kept you from your task and that your journey here has been wasted.”

“Not at all. All enquiries are useful.”

Acknowledging Hawkwood’s response with a small – possibly appreciative – nod, she said, “I will, of course, enquire of my ladies if they have heard of or know of anything that could assist your investigation.”

“That would be most helpful. Thank you.”

“It is the least I can do.” She paused again and said, “And if I should come into possession of information which might be relevant, how may I notify you?”

“Through Bow Street Magistrate’s Court.”

“Yes, of course.”

As if in need of some activity to fill the subsequent pause in the conversation, she retrieved her cup and took an exploratory sip. Finding the brew had grown cold, she wrinkled her nose and returned both cup and saucer to the tray, leaving a faint smear of pink lip salve along the cup’s rim.

Hawkwood judged this the opportune moment to take his leave, but as he turned to go she said suddenly, “When Thomas announced you were from the Public Office, I confess, you are not what I was expecting. I apologize if my manner was less than courteous. You are a Principal Officer … what they call a Runner, yes?”

Hawkwood wondered where this was going. “We prefer the former, but yes.”

She permitted herself a smile. “Duly noted. It has been my experience that most Public Office employees look incapable of breaking into a brisk walk, let alone a run, whereas you look, if I may say so, rather more … capable. You have the air of a military man. Would I be right in thinking you have fought in the service of the king?”

“I was in the army.”

“I thought as much. I made a small wager with myself when I saw the scars on your face and the cut of your coat. It is military-issue, is it not?”

“It is.”

“You look surprised. Did you think I was uninformed about such matters? If I were to name every colonel who sought sanctuary within these walls, we would be here until Easter. I believe I could also name not only every regiment in the British Army, but every fourth-rater in his majesty’s navy, given the number of admirals that have raised their flags in my establishment. Not to mention magistrates, ambassadors, assorted aristocrats, clergymen and all but two of Lord Liverpool’s cabinet. You were an officer, yes?”

Hawkwood didn’t get a chance to respond.

The smile remained in place. “In this profession, if you learn one thing, it is how to read men. Your attire betrays you. Your outer wear may have seen better days, but your boots are of good quality, as are your jacket and your waistcoat, from what I can see of them. It is also in the way you carry yourself.”

The blue eyes narrowed. “You would not have moved from colonel to constable – my apologies, to Principal Officer. That would be too far a step down, I think. Too old for a lieutenant, so you were either a captain or a major.”

Tilting her head, she went on: “You look like a man who is used to command and yet you have little respect for authority. I suspect you came up through the ranks and proved yourself in some engagement, therefore I choose the former. You were a captain. Am I right?”

“And there was I, thinking I hadn’t made a good impression,” Hawkwood said.

The frown returned. “Yes, well, in that you are not wrong. Your manners could certainly use improvement. An officer you may have been, but you display the attitude of a ruffian. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Once or twice.”

“Or perhaps it is a deliberate strategy, like the employment of sarcasm,” she countered tartly.

“It comes in useful when I don’t have a pistol to hand.”

Unexpectedly, the corner of her mouth dimpled once more and her gaze moved towards the clock on the mantelpiece. Turning back, she said, “Yes, well, unfortunately, much as I’ve enjoyed our conversation, I see time is against us. I have an evening’s entertainment to arrange, so you must forgive me.” She gazed at him beguilingly. “Unless there is anything else you wish to ask?”

“Not at this time. I may need to call on you again at some date.”

She inclined her head. “Of course.”

Hawkwood was about to turn for the door, when she said quietly, “I think, perhaps, I should like that. Despite your questionable manner and the reason for your visit with all this talk of graveyards and murder, you have enlivened what would otherwise have been an exceedingly dull afternoon.”

Her eyes held his. “I have the distinct feeling that there is more to you, Captain Hawkwood, than meets the eye. I suspect that, were I to scratch the surface, I would unearth all manner of interesting truths. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“I have no idea,” Hawkwood said, “though, curiously, I was thinking exactly the same thing about you.”

She continued to regard him coolly for several seconds. “Then, perhaps, if your investigation allows, you might consider visiting in a more … private capacity?”

“On my salary? I doubt it.”

“Then you do yourself a disservice. Attendance is not solely dependent on the depth of one’s purse. If you were to attend, it would be at my invitation.”

She let the inference hang in the air between them.

“I wouldn’t want to lower the tone,” Hawkwood said.

She smiled, more warmly. “Oh, I think you’ll find we cater for most persuasions. Who knows? You might even see something you like. And as I mentioned earlier, you would be in excellent company. Our evening soirées are extremely popular.”

“I’m sure they are.”

Raising her hand, she caressed the jewel at her throat. “Well, then, will we see you again?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps? That sounds like a man contemplating retreat. I do hope we haven’t frightened you away.”

“I’d prefer to call it a strategic withdrawal.”

She bit back a smile. “In order to advance again at a more opportune moment?”

Before he could reply, she rose sinuously. “If that is your intention, I should probably summon reinforcements. Before I do, though, let me give you this.”

From the white marble mantelpiece she took a small silver box. Opening it, she removed what looked like a deck of playing cards. Selecting a card, she held it out. “Should you decide to call.”

There was no script. One side of the card was plain and coloured black. When Hawkwood turned it over he saw that the face side was embossed with the image of a red rose on a white background.

She picked up a small hand-bell from the table. At the first ring, the door opened. Flagg stood there, poised and looking not a little disconcerted to find that Hawkwood was still standing and in one piece.

“Madam?”

“Thomas, if you would be so kind as to show the officer out. We have concluded our business. Oh, and treat him kindly, otherwise we might not see him again. And that, I think, would be rather a pity.”

Ignoring the manservant’s baleful look, she inclined her head. “Until next time.”

Hawkwood slid the card into his waistcoat pocket, by which time she was already turning away. As dismissals went, it was hard to fault.

“Ever wear a uniform, Thomas?” Hawkwood asked, as the manservant walked him through the lobby to the front door.

The reply was a borderline grunt. “East Norfolk, First Battalion.”

Hawkwood nodded. “Thought as much; seems there’s a lot of it about.”

The manservant frowned but did not respond. He remained silent as he let Hawkwood out.

A light drizzle had begun to fall. As the door closed behind him, Hawkwood turned up his collar and walked away into the rain.

Wondering what Eleanor Rain had been hiding.

8

“This one’s new,” Maddie murmured softly, running her fingers along the line of puckered flesh. “Or is it because you have so many now, I’m losing count?”

The furrow followed the curve of Hawkwood’s left bicep, as if a spindly grub had burrowed beneath the skin. A musket ball had grazed him as he was leading a Mohawk raiding party against an American advance column which was attempting to seize a British-controlled blockhouse on the Lacolle River, five miles north of the Canadian border. It had been a foolhardy enterprise from the outset, though the mission had been deemed a success because it had delayed the column long enough to allow British forces to launch a counter-attack. Victory, however, had come at a heavy price. All but three of Hawkwood’s war band had died and the survivors – Hawkwood, Major Douglas Lawrence and the Mohawk war chief Tewanias – had all received wounds.

Almost two months had passed since the engagement. The injuries – including the cut on his forehead and the bayonet graze on his thigh – had healed well, a process aided by native poultices and the attention of the surgeon on board the Royal Navy frigate that had transported Hawkwood from Quebec to Falmouth. Other than fresh scar tissue and the odd twinge from the damaged arm muscle, everything was back in working order, save for when Maddie went exploring and memories were reawakened.

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