church’s wall. The reverberations were coming from inside.
“Hope that’s not Sal sleepin’ on the job,” Lemuel Ragg whispered.
Samuel let go a snort of laughter, quickly suppressed by the warning look on Sawney’s face.
“I heard that,” Sal said softly. She emerged from the open doorway, a shawl over her shoulders, and stuck out her tongue. “Cheeky sod.”
Sawney said nothing but looked past her into the hut. There wasn’t a great deal to see; a small, rough wooden table and an upturned keg for use as a chair. On the table sat a lantern, an earthenware jug and a grubby square of muslin, upon which rested a slab of sweaty cheese, a bruised apple and a hunk of dry bread. Seated on the keg, wedged against the wall, head tipped back, mouth open, was a beery-looking man with a pockmarked face, bushy side-whiskers and bad teeth. Sawney gazed down at the snoring man with contempt. The man’s breeches were open, he noticed. His eyes moved to the side. Resting against the wall, butt to the floor, was a rusting musket. Next to it was a small cudgel and a rattle.
Sal shook her head. “Good as gold. Didn’t take long. The grog was enough. I didn’t even ’ave to show my titties.”
“Showed you ’is gun though, did ’e, Sal?” Peering over Sawney’s shoulder, Lemuel Ragg leered suggestively. “’Ave a big barrel, did it?”
“At least ’e’s got a gun, Lemmy,” Sal said, and winked.
Lemuel’s face flushed red. His jaw tightened. His brother sniggered.
Sawney looked at Sal and nodded towards the sleeping man’s lap and the unbuttoned trouser flap. “Been practising,’ ave we?”
“Don’t need the practice.” Sal ran her tongue along her teeth. “You should know. But I do like to keep my hand in.” She grinned wickedly.
Sawney felt his loins stir.
“Should I do ’im, Rufus?” Lemuel had the razor in his hand. His thumb played a silent tattoo along the side of the open blade.
Sawney shook his head. “Not this time. Let the bugger dream. He’ll wake up with ’is buttons open and he’ll remember Sal and think he had a really good night. He doesn’t know we’ve been here. No one does. Might as well keep it that way.”
“Spoilsport,” Ragg muttered, putting the blade away.
“Take this,” Sawney said, passing him the canvas roll. “Maggsie and I’ll deliver the goods. We’ll see you back at the Dog. And you –” he turned to Sal “– keep your bleedin’ ’ands to yourself.”
“Only ’til you get back,” Sal said, thrusting out her chest and pouting prettily.
Lemuel beckoned to his brother, who was taking a piss against the outside wall of the hut. Samuel shook himself dry, wiped his hands on his breeches and trotted over to join them. Sal blew Sawney a kiss and then headed off with the Raggs in the direction of Church Street and Seven Dials.
Sawney and Maggett watched them go. Maggett adjusted the sack on his shoulder, hawked up a gobbet of phlegm, and spat into the dirt. “Dunno why you let ’er talk to you like that, Rufus. It ain’t respectful.”
Sawney waited until Sal and the brothers had been swallowed up by the darkness then turned to Maggett and grinned. “’Cos she’s got the face of an angel and an arse like a peach, Maggsie. Now stop moanin’ like an old woman, we’ve still got an errand to run.” He nodded towards the sack. “An’ mind you don’t go dropping the merchandise. Our man’s paid good money for that, an’ from what I know of ’im so far, best not to keep him waiting.”
They didn’t have far to go. Which was just as well because two men walking in the dead of night, one of them with an oddly bulging sack over his shoulder, might have attracted some unwelcome attention. True, there were not many people on the streets and those that were about were more than likely involved in dubious activities of their own, but the last thing Sawney needed was a run-in with an enthusiastic member of the Watch or a constable hoping to make his mark in the annals of criminal detection. So they stayed in the shadows and by using the maze of side passages and alleyways that crisscrossed their route, they were able to arrive at their destination without incident.
Crouched beneath an archway, the two men waited. Everything looked quiet. Somewhere, out of sight, a dog barked. Instinctively, they shrank back. The commotion passed and peace resumed.
With its plain front door and peeling facade, the four-storeyed house didn’t look much different to the ones lining the rest of the grimy, rubbish-strewn street, save for one unusual feature. Maggett eased the sack off his shoulder and stared at the darkened building.
“Still don’t look like no school, Rufus,” he murmured.
Maggett had expressed the same thought the previous night when they’d delivered the first two cadavers. Sawney was inclined to agree, but he saw nothing suspicious in a private anatomy school choosing not to advertise its purpose.
Although various alternatives had been tried, ranging from wax effigies to animals and papier-mache models, there was no substitute for the dissection of real cadavers in the teaching of anatomy. Hospital schools could count on an almost constant supply, courtesy of former patients who’d died in their wards. Indeed, it was a widely held belief that most of the coffins consigned to the burial grounds of the capital’s hospitals were empty, their occupants having been diverted to the anatomists’ tables. The private schools, however, were forced to rely on the resurrection men to provide specimens for their dissection tables. And the last thing they wanted was for the neighbours to find out they were living next door to an establishment involved in the receipt, rendering and dismemberment of stolen corpses.
The drawbridge was interesting, though.
It was the one thing that set the house apart from the rest of the street. Suspended above a ramp to the right of the front door, it was slightly wider than a carriage width. Once lowered, it allowed access down the ramp to underground stabling. Raised, it denied entry, transforming the house into a small fortress. Cut into the drawbridge was a smaller door, through which pedestrians could gain entry to the subterranean coach house.
Sawney checked the building for signs of life. The wooden window shutters on the ground floor were all closed. He thought he’d seen a light earlier, through a gap in the curtains at one of the top-floor windows, but he couldn’t be sure. There was only one way to find out. Casting a wary glance around him, he tapped Maggett on the shoulder. The big man hefted the sack once more and followed Sawney across the street at a lumbering jog. There was a bell-pull set in the wall by the door. Sawney tugged it. Deep within the house, he heard a faint jangle.
Sawney had half-expected the drawbridge to be lowered, as it had been the night before when they’d had the cart, but it was the smaller, pedestrian door that opened. Dodd stood framed in the gap, a candle held high in his hand. He was dressed informally in an open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled above the elbow. His lower half was concealed behind what had, presumably, been a once-white apron but which was now stained dark. His intimidating gaze moved between them, taking in Maggett and the sack he was carrying. His eyes moved briefly to the unlit street beyond, before he stepped back to allow them to enter. There were no formalities, no greetings exchanged, as the door closed behind them.
For a moment, Sawney wondered how Dodd had known who it was and then, as the door swung shut, he saw the tiny spyhole cut into the wood at eye level. He noticed too that the doctor’s hands, like his apron, were heavily stained with dark, viscous matter.
Sawney nodded towards the sack. “Second helpin’, as promised.”
“Bring it,” Dodd said. He turned abruptly, candle flickering, leaving them to follow him down the ramp.
At the bottom of the ramp, lit by candles set in niches around the wall, the stabling arrangements were no different to those of a normal livery yard. There were enough wooden-sided stalls in the low-roofed chamber to house half a dozen horses, as well as space for two carriages, standing abreast. The floor was layered with straw.
Various items of tack hung from hooks around the sides, while against one wall there stood a workbench and a selection of tools. On the floor next to the bench was a large, square basket. From the moment they reached the base of the ramp Sawney had been aware of the sickly odour. It grew stronger the further they advanced. It wasn’t coming from Maggett’s load, Sawney knew. It was emanating from the square basket. It was a smell Sawney recognized.
Dodd pointed to the workbench.
