Jago wasnt joking about the hogs. Even though they sounded like something out of a childrens 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 Declans skull making contact with the treads as his remains were transported down.
Micah returned to the table. Night-soil men said theyll take them. They wanted the money up front.
You took care of it?
Micah nodded. Theyre 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 Brams 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 Ive 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.
Wouldnt want to forget that, would we? Jago said sardonically as Hawkwood wiped the blade on the corpses sleeve before returning the knife to his right boot. All right, lads. Carry on.
Ned nodded to his companion and then caught Jaspers eye as they set off towards the stairs, the body sagging between them. Get em in, old son. Were going to need something strong after this. And dont give me that look. Its still your bloody round. We aint forgotten.
Shouldve got the night-soil lads to do the liftin and carryin, Jasper grated.
Then whatd the smell be like? Del said, over his shoulder. Dont want them tramping their shit all over the floor as well. Its bad enough as it is.
Jesus, its like listenin to a bunch of bloody fishwives, said Jago. If Id wanted this much witterin, Idve gone to Billingsgate. Just load the damned things on to the cart. The sooner theyre off the premises and headin downriver, the better Ill feel. And you, Jasper, get the drinks in; else I may decide they can take you with them. Youd make good ballast.
Turning to Hawkwood, he shook his head in resignation. Swear to God, its like herdin cats. Buttoning his shirt, he eased himself into a comfortable position. Right, thats the formalities over. I take it youre 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 hed dreamt the entire sequence of events.
I need your help.
Jago sat back, wincing as his injured shoulder made contact with the chair. Jesus, youve got a bloody nerve. Whats 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 ?
Jagos grin widened. Went to see Magistrate Read, didnt I?
And he told you?
Well, not in so many words. Wouldve been easier gettin blood from a stone. But seeing as Ive helped you and him out now and again in the pursuit of your official duties, he did let slip you were abroad on the kings 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 Hawkwoods face. Though, seeing as they aint declared peace and youve a couple more scars on your noggin, Im 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 Hawkwoods response, Jago eased himself into a more comfortable position and made a face. Thats 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 Jagos 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 sergeants 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 mans 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 countrys sprawling capital. Providing, that is, they didnt encroach upon a certain former army sergeants sphere of operations.
Not having met Del, Ned or Jasper before, Hawkwood assumed they were part of Jagos 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 Jagos 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 Runners 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 Jagos protection. Had that not been the case, his safety would not have been assured.
Unless Micah came to his aid.
Hawkwood didnt know a lot about Jagos lieutenant, other than the former sergeant trusted him with his life. Hed been a soldier, Jago had once let that slip, but as to where and when hed served, Jago didnt know, or else he knew but had decided that was Micahs 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 Hawkwoods shoulder and both times hed 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?
Jagos voice broke into Hawkwoods thoughts.
All right, so whats this all about?
A shadow appeared at the table and Jago paused. It was Jasper, bearing the drinks, which coincided with Ned and Dels return from their downstairs delivery.
Good lad, Del said, reaching for a glass. All that totin, Im bloody parched.
They might have been a couple of draymen dropping off casks of ale, Hawkwood mused, rather than drinking pals whod 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 wouldnt have the slightest notion that anything untoward had taken place, save, perhaps, for noticing a few more dark stains on the floor that hadnt 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 hed 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.
Its done, he said quietly.
Jago nodded. That case, me an is lordship here need a bit of privacy, which means were commandeerin the table. Del, you, Ned and Jasper take a look around. See if any more Shaughnessys are loiterin with intent. Dont 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 Hawkwoods direction. Del, somewhat inevitably, was the first to speak, though his face was unexpectedly serious.
Any friend of Nathaniels is a friend of ours. What you did tonight youll always be welcome here And then the irrepressible grin returned. Officer.
Jago shook his head. God save us. All right, bugger off. Ill see you at the Ark.
The three men turned away.
Oi!
They looked back.
You can take those with you. Dont 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.
Theyre 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.
Micahs 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 Jagos private stock that the landlord kept under the counter, which meant it was French, not Spanish. He wondered if Jagos 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. Theres been a murder.
In this town? Theres a novelty.
Any other night and Id think it was funny, too.
But it aint?
Not by a long shot.
Whichd also be funny by itself, right?
Not this time, Hawkwood said. This ones different.
3
It occurred to Hawkwood, as he stared down at the body, that the last grave hed 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 whod 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 Martyrs 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 Georges 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 grounds 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 hospitals 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 grounds general air of decay.