The Reckoning
JAMES McGEE
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
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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 authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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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 wasnt 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 winters 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 wasnt somewhere you stumbled upon by accident.
The western end of Buckbridge Street was only a stones throw from Oxford Street; not in itself a notorious address, but it was the area that lay beyond the streets 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 citys 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, youve been lookin at those bloody bones for alf an hour. How longs 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.
Im thinkin, aint 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 aint gettin any younger.
You take your time, my son. It was the bearded player to the speakers right who spoke. Jaspers only narked cos hes down a bob. If he was up, he wouldnt be botherin.
Plus he wants us to forget its is round, the player opposite Jasper murmured without raising his head. Mines another brandy, when youre ready.
Heard that, the first speaker responded. Ill 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. Hows that?
Jasper stared down at Dels 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, Id get the drinks in afore Del cleans you out. Mines 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, Im off to the pisser. Get em in. Ill 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 buggerll snap. Seen Jasper when he snaps. Not a pretty sight. Last time it appened, he chewed a watchmans ear off. He was spittin gristle for a week.
Nah, Del said confidently. Barks 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 mans study with an even gaze. The connection lasted perhaps a second before the grey-haired mans 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 mans 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 Im takin my time. All he as to do is shake it dry.
It was his round, dont forget, Ned said.
Tight sod, Del said. In that case, mines a large one. Thatll teach him. Del paused as he glanced over Neds shoulder. Old up, es here.
Jaspers head had reappeared at the top of the stairs.
He dont look too happy, Ned observed.
It didnt 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.
Gods sake, Del muttered sotto voce, now, what?
As two men rose into view beyond Jaspers 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 mans 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.
Dont 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 whod 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 mans eyes expressed silent apology. The grey-haired mans gaze returned to the threat in hand.
Told you Id be back, the first rain-coated man announced.
So you did, Nathaniel Jago said calmly.
And that thered 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 aint affected my memory. Talking owhich, you remember what I said to you last time?