It was an unfortunate fact that accommodation, no matter how squalid, did not come free, and with the long winter nights drawing in, Lizzie had no intention of walking the cold, dark streets any longer than she had to.
There had in the past been times when, finding herself a copper or two short of the rent, Lizzie had been obliged to pay in kind for the roof over her head. But her landlord, an odious individual by the name of Miggs, whose rat-infested dosshouse nestled on a corner of Field Lane, had chosen to interpret this arrangement as his personal conjugal right. And that was an option Lizzie had no wish to pursue. A lady had her dignity and a right to a man’s respect, after all, even if she was a whore.
So, Lizzie had taken to plying her trade among the public houses and grog shops around Smithfield and Newgate, enduring humiliation, insults and beatings in a continuing struggle to keep the cold and Landlord Miggs at bay and her lice-ridden head above water.
The advantage of catering for gin-guzzlers was that, more often than not, once they got you into the alley, rammed up against the wall, they were too far gone to do the business. If she was particularly inventive, a girl could wrap the tops of her thighs round a man’s cock and, by dint of a little panting and moaning, fool him into thinking that he had outperformed Casanova himself. And in that particular sphere of deception, Lizzie Tyler was as adept as a conjurer’s assistant. Whether the customer could rise to the occasion or not, money still had to change hands. But so far all Lizzie had managed out of this pair was a leery smirk and two swallows of rotgut. So, even as she submitted herself to their unco-ordinated fumbling, Lizzie was on the lookout for an alternative source of remuneration, just in case.
One customer had caught her attention. She’d seen him enter the tavern a while earlier. Tall and dark-haired, he was wearing a long black coat over a shabby grey jacket and what looked like a pair of old military breeches. The yellow seam down each leg was faded and worn. His boots, she noticed, also looked old but appeared to be of good quality, which struck Lizzie as odd, given the run-down appearance of the rest of his attire. In her time as a moll, she had seen a variety of men and a bewildering array of footwear from, it had to be said, just about every conceivable angle; it was Lizzie’s avowed opinion that you could tell a lot about a man by the boots he wore. And this one intrigued her, seated alone in a booth on the opposite side of the room, his back to the wall, his face now cast in semi-shadow. She’d seen the way he carried himself and the scar below his eye, which, along with the remnants of uniform, suggested he was most likely a wounded veteran, down on his luck, who’d come to the pub looking for employment. Given that the Black Dog doubled as a house of call, it seemed the most obvious explanation.
If you required the services of a professional, a lawyer or an actuary, you paid a visit to Lincoln’s Inn or Bartholomew Lane. If you had need of someone at the tradesman’s end of the job market – a tailor, shoemaker, or perhaps a weaver – you went to the Green Dragon. If you wanted someone more menial – a chimney sweep, rag picker or suchlike, there was the Three Boys. But if you were seeking someone for the really dirty jobs – a gravedigger or a shit shifter on one of the night-soil barges – then chances were you’d find him in the Dog.
Lizzie eyed the tall man and wondered what sort of work he was after. Already two or three of the other girls had sidled up to his table, jiggled their titties and trailed a hand across his shoulders, in a less than subtle attempt to engage his interest. All of them had received the same response. A brief dialogue had ensued, followed by a shake of the head and an intimidating look that said,
A sharp tweak of her right nipple jerked Lizzie out of her reverie. The drunk at her elbow was trying to cadge another free feel. Lizzie decided she’d had enough. The charade was over.
“That’s it, darlin’,” she snapped, slapping the hand away. “You want Lizzie to take you to paradise, you gotta pay the fare.” She turned to the second man. “You, too, sweet’eart. What’s it to be? Lizzie ain’t got all bleedin’ night.”
Both men blinked myopically. Lizzie sighed and looked across the room. The dark-haired man was still seated by himself, nursing a mug. Lizzie considered her options, which were not numerous. Well, she thought idly, it might be worth a try …
Hawkwood sensed he was being watched. He raised the mug to his lips as if to take a sip and quartered the room. It was the plump moll in the corner. He watched as she slapped away the roving hands of her table companions and registered the speculation in her gaze as her eyes met his.
Ignoring her come-on, he lowered the mug and looked around. Similar scenes were being enacted around the room. The molls were out in force. They had good reason to be. It was Saturday evening and it was payday.
In a partially curtained-off alcove, beyond a low archway to the left of the counter, a small knot of poorly dressed men was lining up before a bald, unsmiling, bullet-headed man seated at the pay-table. In front of him sat a ledger and a sack of coin. Behind him stood two younger men, well built, in waistcoats, with the sleeves of their shirts rolled up to display an impressive expanse of well-toned muscle. Each was armed with a thick wooden cudgel.
Hawkwood watched as one by one the waiting men stepped up to the table to sign or make their mark, in exchange for coin. Having collected their earnings, they made straight for the counter and the gin, their faces etched with a combination of resignation and despair. Hawkwood had seen the same haunted look in the eyes of French prisoners of war. It was the look of defeated men with uncertain futures.
The bullet-headed paymaster was called Hanratty and it was his alehouse. The men guarding his back were his sons. Hanratty had been landlord of the Dog for longer than anyone could remember, and the Dog had been an employment agency for a good deal longer than that.
Although the Dog catered for a variety of low-ranking occupations, its primary source of labour derived from its geography. The pub was less than a stone’s throw from Smithfield. It was inevitable, therefore, that it also catered for the meat market. Hanratty had been a butcher before he became a publican and he still had contacts in the trade, so if you had need of porters, butcher’s boys, tripe-dressers, and the like, the Dog was your first port of call.
Acting as middleman between masters and workers, Hanratty ran his labour exchange with a rod of iron. It was an effective and – for the canny publican, at least – a very lucrative arrangement.
For the men seeking employment, there was a price to pay. If you wanted work, you had to sign on. If there was no work to be had, Hanratty would give you credit to buy food and victuals – but only at the Dog. When he found you work, Hanratty would pay the wages on the employer’s behalf – first deducting any money he was owed. Too bad if the debt exceeded the wage, which it usually did. Whichever way a man turned, Hanratty had him by the balls. The pale, drawn faces coming away from the pay-table said it all.
For most of them, the only way to alleviate the misery, even if it was just for an hour or two at the end of the day, was drink. Hanratty always made sure he had an abundance of that particular panacea in stock. And it was no coincidence that wages were paid in the evening.
If it wasn’t drink, it was likely to be whist or cribbage. A number of games were in session that evening, and a couple of tables along several punters were engaged in a noisy round of dominoes. The click-clack of tiles slamming on to the tabletop accompanied the raucous laughter of the players.
Hawkwood viewed the proceedings with weary fascination. Cards and alcohol: an unholy alliance if ever there was one. It was a bad combination even in the rich gaming clubs along St James’; in this neighbourhood, it was a licence for trouble. Especially if there were molls on tap as well. But Hanratty had his boys on hand in case things got rowdy. If a man was foolish enough to start anything, he’d be taken outside into the alley and shown the error of his ways. A harsh enough punishment in itself, but not as bad as having your name removed from the ledger. Once your name was scratched out, you didn’t earn. And if you didn’t earn, you starved. So did your family.
It was Hawkwood’s first visit to the Dog, though it wasn’t his first visit to a house of call. There were a dozen similar establishments within a square-mile of the market and the Dog was the fourth on Hawkwood’s list following the gravedigger’s tip-off that Edward Doyle, the man hanged in Cripplegate and currently occupying a cold dissection room, may have frequented one of the Smithfield watering holes. So far, however, he hadn’t discovered a damned thing.
Hawkwood could think of three reasons for his lack of success: genuine ignorance, concern over self- incrimination, and fear of reprisal. There had been more than a hint of the latter in the responses he’d received, even though his enquiries had been covert. It probably meant that word of the crucifixion had spread and people were too scared to point the finger.
All he could do for the moment was continue working his way down the list of taverns in the hope that something would eventually present itself to him. That didn’t mean, of course, that he couldn’t indulge himself in a
