themselves abandoned and ignored by both.
Many had turned to petty crime. Sometimes it fell to Hawkwood to apprehend them. Where possible, he was inclined to turn a blind eye and let them go with a warning. Transportation or a spell in Newgate seemed poor reward for a man who, having been maimed in the service of his country, had been forced into stealing a loaf of bread or a half-side of bacon because he couldn’t afford to put food on his family’s table. More than once he had thought,
Hawkwood had been fortunate. Thanks to character references and recommendation, albeit unconventional in nature, he had secured employment and a roof over his head, and for that he was thankful. Had that not been the case, it was more than likely, instead of sharing a warm bed with Maddie Teague, he would still have been shivering by a
The fire in the grate was, therefore, a welcome sight and Hawkwood mouthed a silent prayer of thanks for Maddie’s thoughtfulness. He could no longer hear the rain outside, though the steady drip of water from the gutter on to the windowsill was like the slow ticking of a mantelpiece clock.
He saw that the girl, Daisy, had even provided him with a jug of hot water to wash. It had been a kind gesture and he made a mental note to thank her. He was drying himself when a knock sounded at the door. Hawkwood slipped on his shirt, and went to investigate.
“Would the gentleman like his bed warming?” Maddie Teague asked. The light from the sconce-mounted candle in the hallway outside the door made her eyes dance.
“What with?” Hawkwood asked, eyeing the glasses and bottle of brandy balanced on the tray in Maddie’s hands. He looked up at her face and waited.
Maddie smiled. She reached up with one hand, pinched out the candle flame between finger and thumb, and walked past him into the room.
“Me,” she said.
It had been afterwards, lying naked, the blanket thrown over them to keep the chill at bay, that he had told her about his visit to the Dog and the attack on the bridge. His explanation had been prompted by Maddie’s enquiry about the stains on his coat that, in the dark, had escaped his notice. There had been blood on the hem; probably from the man whose nose had been shattered by Hawkwood’s tipstaff. So much for my powers of observation, Hawkwood had thought.
“If they weren’t footpads,” Maddie said, “who do you think might have sent them?”
“I don’t know,” Hawkwood said.
“Will they send someone to try again, do you think?”
“Maybe.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know that either,” Hawkwood said. “Not until it happens.”
“But you’ll deal with them?”
“Yes.”
“You sound so certain.”
“It’s what I do,” Hawkwood said. “It’s what I’m good at.”
He looked at her. Maddie turned her face away quickly. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ve breakfasts to prepare. If I leave those girls alone for five minutes, Lord only knows what mischief they’ll be up to.”
“Maddie …” Hawkwood said.
She shook her head and got up from the bed. Without turning, she said, “Next time it might be someone better.”
“Then I’ll be careful.”
Hawkwood watched her as she dressed. He wasn’t sure what was the more alluring, Maddie removing her clothes or putting them back on. There was a natural grace to her movements that was a constant source of wonder to him, no matter what she happened to be doing at the time.
She sensed his eyes upon her, turned and wiped her cheek. “What?”
Hawkwood said nothing. He looked at her and shook his head wordlessly.
Maddie walked back to the bed and sat down, her face serious.
“You said you thought the reason the second man attacked you after you’d told him you were a police officer was that he might not have believed you.”
“It’s possible,” Hawkwood said, shrugging. “I didn’t think about it at the time. It was only when you and I were talking that it occurred to me.”
“Well, perhaps you should think again.”
Hawkwood looked at her. Maddie’s emerald eyes gazed back at him, moving over his face.
“Did it ever occur to you that, if they weren’t footpads and somebody did hire them to attack you, the reason he still tried to kill you after you’d identified yourself was that he was more fearful of the person who sent him than he was of you?”
With that, Maddie stood, secured her fiery mane in a clasp at the back of her neck and left the room without a backward glance.
But she did so gracefully.
The cellar lay in semi-darkness and was as cold as a cavern. Formerly a church crypt, it was situated below an annexe of Christ’s Hospital, in an alleyway off Newgate Street. Because of its proximity to both Christ’s and St Bartholomew’s and, more importantly, because its stout doors made it impregnable to the resurrection gangs, the authorities had been using it as a mortuary for a number of years.
The flagstone floor was uneven and covered with a grainy black residue. Hawkwood assumed most of the stains on the floor were congealed blood, accumulated over God knew how long. As for the rest, he tried not to think about it. He was more than familiar with the sweet, sickly odour of death, but in the enclosed space the smell of body fluids and decaying flesh was overpowering, somewhere between overripe fruit and rotting meat. Looking around at the cellar’s contents, he decided he’d seen cleaner field hospitals.
With its low curved roof, rough brick walls and encircling ring of dark alcoves, the only difference between the crypt’s previous function and its current one was the condition of the occupants.
The walls of the alcoves were lined with narrow ledges. In the past, they’d have held coffins. Now, they were the resting places for corpses awaiting either examination or burial. The crypt had become a waiting room for the deceased; a dead house.
The main central space was being used as the examination and dissection room. In the middle of the floor were four wooden tables. Upon each of them lay a body, covered by a coarse sheet. The sheets were filthy and encrusted with gore, as was the apron of the surgeon, who, in response to Hawkwood’s arrival, did not bother looking up from his task but instead gave a brusque instruction to close the door.
Hawkwood did as he was bid.
The man in the apron still did not look up, but continued probing the body in front of him. “Good man. You are …?”
Hawkwood told him.
“Ah, yes, Hawkwood. Come away in! I’ll be with you momentarily. Name’s Quill, by the way. You’re looking a bit doubtful. You were expecting someone else perhaps? I’m afraid my predecessor has the gout. You’ll have to make do with me.” With that, the speaker finally raised his head.
Hawkwood found himself looking at a man whose stature suggested he might have been more at home running a boxing booth at a country fair than wielding a surgeon’s knife. His head, which was bullet-shaped and completely shaved, gleamed with sweat, while the blood-smeared pinner he was wearing was more reminiscent of a Smithfield slaughter yard.
Hawkwood had indeed been expecting someone else. The usual surgeon, McGregor, a large, vain, overbearing man, did not like dealing with subordinates – a category which included Runners – so Hawkwood had not been looking forward to the meeting. Seeing this new face was like taking in a breath of fresh air, which, given the circumstances, was a commodity somewhat in short supply.
The surgeon put down his knife, stepped away from the table, and wiped his hands on a cloth tucked into the apron strings. He crooked a finger at Hawkwood, beckoning him over.
“It appears you’ve been busy.”
Quill drew back the first sheet. It was the remains of the porter, Doyle. In the darkness of the crypt, the
