him. Maggett and the Raggs were around somewhere. Sal, too, plying her trade, he supposed. Thinking about the Raggs made Sawney tighten his grip on his mug.
He’d given them a simple job. All they’d had to do was retrieve the woman’s corpse from Hyde’s underground stable and dispose of it. After the last balls-up, there had been no thought in Sawney’s mind to sell it on to any of his usual customers, so he’d given strict instructions to the brothers to make sure the thing disappeared, permanently, and not too close to home. The Raggs had assured him that had been done and, like a fool, Sawney had believed them. Then news came that a woman’s naked corpse had been found high and relatively dry on a beam over the Fleet not much more than a hop and a skip away, which meant they’d transported the thing halfway across London to drop it virtually on their own doorstep. Sawney had let rip; told them they were useless bastards and as much use as a pair of one-armed fiddlers, which had left Sawney drinking on his own, his crew subdued and scattered around the pub. Sawney knew the bad feeling wouldn’t last for long. It never did. Not when there was a lucrative living to be made by sticking together. They made a good team, the five of them; but that wasn’t to say there weren’t times when he would have swung for them, cheerfully.
Sawney’s gaze moved to the couple over at the next table. The man had his hand on the woman’s knee. Sawney watched as the hand disappeared under the dress. There was no squeal of protest, just a giggle as the woman repaid the favour by stuffing her hand down the front of the man’s breeches. Sawney felt himself stiffen. He looked for Sal, spotted her over in the far corner, talking to one of the Hanratty boys. Bastard’s probably thinking about getting his hand down her blouse, Sawney thought. Well, bugger that. If anyone was going to get his hand down Sal’s blouse tonight, it was going to be him. He drained his mug and stood up. As he did so, he caught Sal’s eye. When he jerked his head towards the door at the back of the room, Sal winked and stuck her tongue into the inside of her cheek to make it bulge. Sawney knew that meant she was in the mood too. He felt himself grow harder. Nothing like an inventive whore to get the blood flowing.
They met at the door.
“You want me to bring one of the other girls?” Sal asked. “Make it a threesome? Rosie’s feelin’ a bit frisky.”
Sawney shook his head. “Not tonight. One’ll be enough.”
Sal looked at him and grinned. “More than enough,” she said, and taking his hand she led him through the doorway and up the stairs.
“God’s teeth,” Lomax muttered. “When you said we’d be on foot, this wasn’t at all what I had in mind.”
“Silence at the back. No talkin’ in the ranks.” The instruction was followed by a rasping chuckle. The sound carried eerily in the semidarkness.
“You’re enjoying this, Sergeant. I can tell.” As the light from Jago’s lantern played across Lomax’s ravaged face, his left eye gleamed demonically.
“Away with you, Major. A drop o’ water never hurt anyone.”
“Water, my arse,” Lomax said.
Jago grinned.
They were at least twenty feet below street level and they were wading through shit. Literally.
Odd how natural the short exchange had sounded, Hawkwood thought, as he listened to Jago and Lomax address each other by rank. It had been interesting, and not a little amusing, seeing the two meet for the first time, watching the way they had sized one another up. From their immediate rapport, it was clear that each of them had recognized in the other a man you’d want on your side, no questions asked. He was reminded of Hyde’s comment back in the alleyway:
“You think young Hopkins’ll be all right?” Lomax asked.
“Micah’s watching his back,” Jago said. “He’ll be fine.”
“Doesn’t talk much, does he?” Lomax said.
“Who?”
“Micah.”
“Doesn’t have to,” Jago said.
And that was the end of
Another lantern wavered twenty paces ahead of them, casting an eerie molten glow across the walls and roof of the tunnel.
“How are we doing, Billy?” Jago called softly.
The reply came towards them in a broad Ulster brogue. “Not far now.’ Bout quarter of a mile.”
“Christ,” Lomax said. He gazed down with disgust at the slow-moving tide of filth running alongside them and cursed again as his boot squelched into the soft and yielding morass.
They had gained access to the tunnel through the cellar beneath Newton’s Gin Shop. It had been at Jago’s suggestion, prompted by Hawkwood asking if there was any way of approaching the Dog without being seen.
There was, the sergeant had told him, but it wouldn’t be what you might call fragrant.
Jago had certainly got that right, Hawkwood reflected. The smell coming off the river had been bad enough topside. Down below, it went way past grim. It was unspeakable, almost beyond description.
Like Lomax, they were wearing neck cloths tied around their lower faces, but the protection this provided against the foul stench was marginal, which was to say non-existent. And, as they had soon discovered, the smell wasn’t the only horror that lay in wait for them. The body that had been discovered earlier and which was now with Surgeon Quill had already provided ample proof that the Fleet’s reputation as a communal midden was well deserved. In the dark, dank and dripping tunnels the evidence was even more explicit.
The glutinous stains that ran along both sides of the tunnel extended well above waist height. It was an indication of how high the water level could rise after a heavy rain or if there was a blockage further downstream, hindering the flow. All around them, the brickwork was black with effluence that had been marooned by the retreating tide. It hung in globules, as thick as pitch, and oozed down the walls leaving slug-like trails in its wake.
Their path, which was not much more than a narrow ledge, was swirling with overflow. Each man had lost his footing at least once and had only been saved from sliding over the edge into the noxious soup by the prompt action of one of his companions, who’d been able to reach out a steadying hand.
Upstream, the underground channels were a lot narrower, Jago told them; during times of flooding the water would fill the tunnels in the upper reaches almost to the roof. The former sergeant had grinned. “It’d be like tryin’ to crawl up a cow’s arse.”
A colourful turn of phrase, but it hadn’t been hard to picture the image.
“Christ,” Lomax said again. “I was over in St Pancras barely two months back and there were lads bathing. You wouldn’t think it was the same bloody river.” He stopped suddenly and peered ahead. “Jesus, is that what I think it is?”
Hawkwood raised his lantern and followed Lomax’s gaze. The tunnel had widened, as had the ledge upon which they were walking. Blocks of heavy stone lay scattered around them in the mud and shit. They were obviously very old and circular in shape, probably the ruins of a roof column. Lying next to one of them, half covered by a moraine of black sludge, was what appeared to be part of a ribcage and a partially submerged human skull.
“One way to get rid of the old man,” Jago said, without breaking stride. “A knock on the head when he’s drunk, open the trapdoor and Bob’s your uncle. Guarantee that ain’t the first poor bugger that’s been tossed down the well. God knows what else has been thrown down here over the years.”
Hawkwood thought about the two men who’d waylaid him by Holborn Bridge, the spider hand clutching for purchase and the black mud closing relentlessly over the pale-skinned face of his attacker. The body would be down here somewhere. It might even be close to where they were now walking. There was a possibility, Hawkwood supposed, that it would find its way eventually to the Thames, but he doubted it. Most likely it would get caught against some obstruction, and there it would remain until it had been stripped of flesh and reduced to spikes of bone, entombed in darkness until the end of time.
It occurred to him, given his new-found knowledge, that it had probably been either Sawney or the Dog’s landlord, Hanratty, who’d set the duo on to him. Maybe Lucius Symes had spotted him and slipped them the word. The verger was going to be doing some serious talking once he caught up with him.
They moved on without speaking. The only sound was the splashing of their boots as they made their way along the tunnel. A few yards ahead, Billy’s lantern drew them further into the sewer.
Billy Haig looked about seventeen, though Hawkwood suspected he was probably around the same age as
