lose any sleep over it. His attackers had dealt the hand. Unhappily for them, it had been Hawkwood holding the trump cards.
He closed his eyes. There were too many damned ifs and buts floating around in the broth.
And it had been a long day – two grisly murders, one suicide and a visit to a madhouse; not exactly commonplace, even by a Bow Street officer’s standards. It was late, he was soaked through and bone-tired. A good night’s sleep wouldn’t come amiss. That way he’d be refreshed and ready to resume the investigation in the morning.
His decision made, Hawkwood tossed the hook over the rail into the Ditch and continued on his way; a dark figure disappearing into a darker night.
8
Sawney was at his usual booth, counting the night’s earnings. A jug of porter and a wooden platter of bread and cheese stood by his elbow, but they remained untouched while he did his sums. His sallow face was drawn in concentration. His lips moved in soundless calculation.
It was a little after eight o’clock and the Dog was almost empty, save for a trio of brawny, bloodstained Smithfield porters who’d stopped in for breakfast, while over by the hearth a couple of exhausted whores, dresses askew, were sleeping off the exertions of the night before. A fire had been newly lit and the taproom stank of smoke and grease, sawdust, stale sweat and beer.
They’d offloaded three of the five corpses from the cellar, the two males and the boy. The males had gone to Guy’s. The boy’s cadaver had been delivered to a private anatomy school over on Little Windmill Street. They’d received a fair price for the two males – nine guineas for the pair – but it had been the child’s corpse that had seen the best return. Smalls – children – sold according to height; six shillings for the first foot and ninepence an inch for the rest. The boy had been tall for his age, added to which he’d suffered from a deformed foot. Anatomists paid extra for abnormalities, so Sawney had made eight guineas from the child alone. He’d even found a buyer for the teeth he’d extracted from that bugger, Doyle. A dentist over on Dean Street had taken them off his hands. There had been some minor haggling, but the final price had been acceptable to both parties.
All things considered, they’d turned a tidy profit.
Sawney’s thoughts turned to the female cadavers. They had been promised to an anatomist over on Chapel Street, but Sawney had decided to hold off in the hope of driving the price up further. It was a pity they hadn’t been pregnant.
Pregnant females were at a premium. The only legitimate source for bodies was still the gallows, but the law drew the line at hanging pregnant women. As a result, condemned female prisoners would often try to get themselves knocked up by fellow inmates in the hope of cheating the hangman.
Sawney reckoned he had maybe another twenty-four hours before the smell down in the cellar got too strong to bear. The Dog reeked bad enough as it was but rotting corpses had an aroma that was unmistakable. He was reminded of St Clement Dane’s church, where the crypt had held so many rotting bodies the congregation couldn’t hear the hymns for the buzzing of the flies and people had fainted in the aisles from the smell.
On second thoughts, Sawney decided, maybe he’d take the Chapel Street offer after all, move them that night, cash value notwithstanding. Get them out of the way. Of course, if he did hang on and the bodies went off in the meantime, they could always render them down. There was more than one way of skinning a cat. Ha ha.
Sensing a brooding figure behind his shoulder, he looked up. Taking this as an invitation, Hanratty slid on to the opposite bench, a concerned look on his rough-hewn face.
Sawney frowned. “What?”
“They’ve found Jem Tate’s body. It was stuffed down an alley off Thieving Lane. He was missing his boots, shoes and breeches.”
Sawney was silent. The evening’s takings were temporarily forgotten.
“How’d he die?”
“His face was stove in. Wrist was broke, too.”
Sawney absorbed the information. “What about Murphy?”
Hanratty shook his head. “Ain’t no sign of ’im.”
Sawney gnawed the inside of his cheek.
Hanratty leaned close. Shadows played across the crown of his head. His face was seamed and coarse, his jowls were shaded with stubble. “Chris’sake, Rufus, I told you it was a mistake sending them after a Runner. I bloody
Sawney stopped chewing. His eyes hardened. “And I recall you tellin’ me that Tate and Murphy were good men.”
Hanratty sat back. “So they were.”
“Not bleedin’ good enough, though,” Sawney grated. “Were they?”
Hanratty coloured. “Maybe Murphy got him.”
“Maybe,” Sawney said. “So why hasn’t he reported back?”
It was Hanratty’s turn to chew his lip. “P’raps ’e’s hurt, gone to ground somewhere.”
“All right, so if they took care of ’im, where’s the bastard’s corpse?”
“I told ’em to toss ’im into the Ditch. The rats’d pick his bones clean in a couple of days. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe they got ’im.”
“Maybe,” Sawney said cautiously.
Dumping a body in the Fleet was a tried-and-tested and very efficient means of disposal. If you didn’t want to risk doing it in the open, there were plenty of access points throughout the Warren; hidden trapdoors and flagstones that could be lifted to allow unwanted items to be consigned into the black mire. The Fleet was London’s equivalent to the River Styx, except there was no Charon to ferry the shades of the dead to the afterlife, just the rats.
“What’ll we do?” Hanratty fixed Sawney with an anxious gaze.
Sawney thought about it. “Nothing.”
Hanratty blinked. A nerve flickered at his throat. It looked as though a worm had burrowed under his flesh and was trying to escape through his skin.
“Tate’s dead,” Sawney said. “And Murphy’s absent without leave. Neither of ’em is talkin’. Far as you an’ me is concerned, if any other Charleys come callin’, we know nothing. None of my lot’ll talk. Tate and Murphy were working for themselves. There’s nothing to link ’em to us.”
“Their names are in my ledger,” Hanratty said.
“So cross ’em
Hanratty thought about it, eyes narrowed. Sawney waited. He could have sworn he heard wheels turning. Finally the publican nodded. “That might do it.”
“Course it will,” Sawney said. “We got a good arrangement here, you an’ me. I ain’t about to see it swept downriver by some nosey lawman.”
“What about Tate and Murphy?”
“What about ’em? We know Tate’s no threat, not now he’s been stripped bare.”
Sawney spoke the truth. Unless there had been witnesses who could prove otherwise, as far as anyone else was concerned, Tate could have been the victim of an unexpected assault himself. There’d been any number of luckless souls who’d been murdered for their boots, shirt and breeches on the banks of the Fleet. Could be, someone had seen Tate coming out of the Dog on payday and thought he’d still have money in his pocket.
“And Murphy?”
“If the useless bugger does show ’is face, your boys can deal with him. In fact, it might be worth our while them makin’ a few enquiries to see if he ’as turned up somewhere – discreetly like.”
Hanratty nodded, his mind clearly more at ease. “Aye, they can do that.”
“And while they’re at it, see what they can find out about this bleedin’ Runner, just in case he’s still around. What did Symes say he was called? Hawkwood, was it?”
“Consider it done.”
