Hopkins. His fair hair and blue eyes no doubt stood him in good stead with the girls. The ready smile would help, too; though the shrewd look he’d exhibited when the introductions had been made had also hinted at a maturity his boyish appearance belied. Hawkwood had wondered about his inclusion – Micah’s stoic presence had not been open to question – but when Jago announced that Billy had once been a runner for Hanratty and knew the layout of the Dog, the reason for the youth’s selection became clear. Though that hadn’t been the only reason why Jago had enlisted Billy’s help. The lad, it transpired, had also enjoyed the favours of Molly Finn and would therefore be able to identify her.
The lantern suddenly came to a halt. Mindful of the slipperiness underfoot, the three men moved forward cautiously.
Billy was pointing to one side. Set into the tunnel wall was a dark, rectangular recess. There were stone steps, Hawkwood could see, rising into the blackness.
“This is it,” Billy said softly. Holding the lantern up, he inclined his head towards a faint mark scratched into the brickwork by the side of the opening. It was in the shape of a diagonal cross. It looked as if it had been made some time ago. Without the aid of the lantern it was doubtful they would have spotted it, but Billy had known what to look for. Beneath the lower legs of the cross were scored, equally roughly, two letters: BD.
Most of the access points had signs, Billy told them. It was one of the few ways people were able to find their way around the subterranean passages.
“What’s up there?” Jago asked, nodding towards the steps.
Billy lowered his neck cloth, grimacing at the smell. “Trapdoor.”
“How the devil do we get in?” Lomax asked. “The damned thing’s bound to be bolted.”
Billy shook his head. “Levers, both sides. But you’ve to know where to look.” He grinned and tapped the side of his nose.
“See?” Jago said, clapping Billy on the shoulder. “Told you he wasn’t just a pretty face.”
“’Tain’t the only trap, neither,” Billy said. He jerked his thumb towards the tar-black ooze. “There’s another one further up. Opens directly over the water. Hanratty uses it to get rid of unwanted merchandise.” The corner of Billy’s mouth twitched. “If yous know what I mean. Saw him drop a fellow called Danny McGrew through it once. Can’t recall what the poor sod had done to deserve it, but the last anyone saw of Danny was the back of his arse as he went to meet his maker.” Billy looked suddenly pensive. “Not a quick way to go, I’m thinking.”
While Billy pondered the circumstances of Danny McGrew’s undignified exit, Hawkwood lowered his mask and looked around. He wasn’t expecting witnesses, but it paid to be sure. “Check your weapons.”
Placing his lantern on the ground, Hawkwood drew the pistol from the holster on his belt and by the guttering light checked the flint, frizzen and powder. He pulled back the hammer to half-cock and released it gently back to the un-cocked position. Replacing the gun in the holster he did the same with his second pistol. As well as the firearms, he also had the knife in his boot and his tipstaff.
The others followed suit. Jago, who had supplied the guns, was similarly armed, save for a stout blackthorn cudgel. The sound of hammers being drawn and reset filled the enclosed space, sharp and precise in the darkness.
Lomax had just the one pistol, tucked into a chest holster for ease of access. His other weapon was a short- bladed sword, secured in a scabbard against his right hip. Hawkwood was curious to see how Lomax was able to check the pistol one-handed, but it was clear from the way that Lomax tucked the barrel of the gun under his right armpit and removed the oiled leather cow’s knee from around the lock with his good hand, that the former cavalry officer was in no need of assistance. Lomax, sensing he was being observed, looked up and chuckled. “What? You afraid I’ll drop the bloody thing?”
“Wouldn’t have asked you along if I’d thought that,” Hawkwood said. He eyed the cow’s knee as Lomax tucked it into his pocket.
Lomax looked sheepish, or at least as sheepish as a one-eyed man could. “Thought it might rain.”
Hawkwood grinned.
Lomax grinned back, his face contorting, then his good eye flicked sideways and he said, “My saints, lad, what are you planning to shoot? Elephants?”
He was staring at the weapon in Billy’s hands. Until then, it had been strung from a shoulder strap concealed beneath the youth’s coat. It was a severe-looking piece; compact, not much more than twenty inches in length, with a walnut stock and a brass barrel. The muzzle of the gun was slightly flared.
“Yous want to swap?” Billy asked.
Lomax stared at the gun, clearly giving the offer serious thought, but then he shook his head. “You probably need two sound hands. Am I right?”
Billy nodded. “She’s got a kick like a bloody mule, so she has, but anything you hit stays down.”
“I believe you,” Lomax said. He sounded almost wistful.
As well as the blunderbuss, Hawkwood saw that Billy, too, had a pistol tucked into his belt.
They were well armed, Hawkwood thought, but would it be enough? It would have to be, he decided. He retrieved his lantern and nodded towards the stairs. “All right, Billy. Take us up.”
Jago gripped the blackthorn cudgel, caught Hawkwood’s eye and grinned. “Just like old times,” he said softly.
“So long as the rest of it doesn’t turn to shit,” Hawkwood said, scraping the sole of his boot against the edge of the first step.
They ascended in silence and had climbed no more than a dozen steps before the lanterns picked up the outline of the trapdoor above them. The hinges, Hawkwood saw, appeared to be in good order and well oiled.
Billy paused and placed a finger to his lips. Then he reached out his hand to the side. It looked as if he was stroking the wall, until Hawkwood realized he was counting along the line of bricks. Suddenly, his hand stopped moving. He turned and nodded.
Hawkwood and Lomax drew their pistols and slowly eased the hammers back. Then they listened.
The seconds ticked by. Hawkwood wondered whether the chill on the stairs was real or if the anticipation of what might lie ahead was fuelling his imagination.
Then Jago tapped Billy gently on the arm. Billy pressed his fingers against the corner of one of the bricks. The brick shifted, allowing Billy to remove it. Placing the brick on the step beside him, Billy inserted his hand into the exposed cavity. He waited and watched as Jago reached up, braced himself, and placed his palm against the underside of the trapdoor. They listened again.
“Do it,” Jago said.
The sound of cogs slipping into place came from above. Hawkwood tensed. The noise sounded horrifically loud in the confined space. Billy withdrew his hand from the wall and Jago pushed hard against the trap. As it swung open, Hawkwood raised the light and he and Lomax thrust their way past, pistols at the ready, sweeping the cellar. Jago and Billy were less than a heartbeat behind. With the shadows retreating before the advancing lanterns, the first thing they saw was the pale face staring back at them from the darkness.
In the alleyway outside the Black Dog, Constable George Hopkins placed the watch back in his coat pocket and turned to the man standing beside him. He tried to ignore the dryness that had gathered at the back of his throat. “It’s time,” he whispered.
Micah nodded, buttoned his jacket to conceal the pistols in his belt, and pushed open the door. “Stay close,” he instructed.
Hopkins fastened his coat, turned his collar up, swallowed nervously and, cap in hand, followed Micah into the pub.
Their entry into the dingy, smoke-filled interior attracted little reaction. A few heads turned, but in the main they belonged to customers seated close to the door. The interest that was shown suggested irritation at the sudden cold draught, rather than suspicion at a stranger’s presence.
Not for the first time, Hopkins was struck by his companion’s composure. During their short acquaintance, he’d learned that Micah was a man of few words. It wasn’t that Jago’s lieutenant was surly, more that he saw no need for idle chitchat. So be it, Hopkins thought. What was important was that Jago trusted him and Captain Hawkwood trusted Jago. That was good enough for him; more than enough.
Which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t wondered about the relationship between the captain and Nathaniel Jago. Hopkins’s mind went back to the stories he’d heard about the Runner and his network of informers. From what he had seen, it was obvious that Hawkwood and Jago’s friendship was well established, and that Jago was far more
