than a petty eavesdropper whose loyalty was dependent on financial remuneration. As to the origins of the relationship, however, Hopkins could only speculate. He assumed the two men had been comrades-in-arms during the war – theirs seemed to be a bond that had been forged in shared adversity – but, as to the specifics, he remained ignorant. He wondered if there’d ever come a time when he had someone with whom to stand shoulder to shoulder, secure in the knowledge that his back was protected.
Micah led the way to a table in the corner of the taproom not far from the door and the two of them sat down. Hopkins placed his hat on his lap. He noted how Micah arranged his chair so that his back was to the wall, providing him with an uninterrupted view over the rest of the room.
“What now?” the constable asked.
Micah looked around, caught the eye of one of the serving girls, and beckoned.
“We wait,” he said.
“You can lower your pistol, Major,” Hawkwood said.
Judging from the expression on Lucius Symes’ face, death had come as a terrible surprise. The verger’s body was propped against the base of the wall, the head canted at an unnatural angle. His lower jaw hung open so that it appeared as if he was drooling, while his glazed eyes were fixed on some unidentifiable point in the far corner of the cellar. A grimy sheet covered his waist and lower limbs.
Hawkwood squatted down, braced himself against the stink coming off the corpse, and studied the dark weal that encircled the verger’s wattled neck.
“You know him?” Jago gazed down at the corpse.
The recognition must have shown on his face, Hawkwood realized. He stood up. “It’s Lizzie Tyler’s verger.”
“Hell of a place to end up,” Jago said.
They looked about them. The chamber bore a closer resemblance to a dungeon than the stock cellar in a public house. Benches ran along two of the walls while against another sat two large metal vats. The vats were raised off the cellar floor. Each one rested on a metal brazier. They reminded Hawkwood of the large cooking pots used in regimental kitchens. Affixed to the ceiling above each vat was a block and tackle, from which were slung a chain and hook.
Hawkwood approached the nearest bench. An assortment of bladed tools lay scattered across it: knives of varying lengths, saws and cleavers. There were more hanging from pegs along the wall. These weren’t carpenter’s paraphernalia, Hawkwood knew. He was looking at a butcher’s block.
The tools looked well used. The knife blades were heavily stained while the gaps between each saw tooth were encrusted with matter. Some of the blades showed tiny specks of rust.
Jago cursed. He had put his lantern down and placed his palm on the bench-top without looking. He lifted his hand away with another exclamation of disgust and wiped it on his breeches. Then, frowning, he rubbed his fingers and thumb together and held them up to his nose.
“Feels like tallow. Bloody odd smell to it, though.”
Whatever the substance was, the surface of the bench was coated with it. It gleamed like varnish in the lantern light.
Hawkwood looked down. Beneath the bench, a shallow drainage channel had been cut into the stone flags. He followed its line to the point where it disappeared into a recess in the corner of the cellar floor. The flags around the edges of the channel were black with residue. A cold feeling began to work its way through his bones.
“Oh, dear Lord,” Lomax said hoarsely.
Hawkwood turned. Lomax had picked up Jago’s light and was peering into one of the vats. Suddenly he straightened, turned away quickly and, without warning, vomited against the cellar wall.
Billy, who’d been examining the contents of the other bench, looked up and stared. Hawkwood and Jago exchanged glances. They approached the vat. At first sight the vessel appeared to be empty save for a thick layer of congealed fat which had accumulated at the bottom and around the sides of the vat’s interior. Both men recoiled at the smell. Small wonder Lomax had thrown up, Hawkwood thought. He could feel himself beginning to gag. Then he saw it. At the bottom; an object caught in the grease. He lowered the lantern and heard Jago suck in his breath.
It was the bottom segment of a human jawbone.
“Mother of God,” Jago breathed. “What is this place?” He turned. “Billy, get your arse over here. When you ran for Hanratty, did you know about this?”
But Billy wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on the contents of the second worktop.
“Billy?” Jago said again. Then he looked over Billy’s shoulder and went quiet.
Billy was backing slowly away from the bench.
Curious, Hawkwood followed the youth’s transfixed stare.
Candles. Dozens of them; some loose and scattered in disarray, others tied together in bundles. Alongside them were coils of candle thread and a stack of rough wooden moulds. Further along the bench was what looked like a pile of small wax tablets.
Hawkwood knew the look in Jago’s eyes would haunt him for a long time to come. Cautiously, he moved to the second vat. Bracing himself, he peered over the rim. From what he could see it contained only dirty water. A thin oily scum floated on the surface of the liquid, like lather in a laundry tub. Hawkwood examined the vat’s exterior. Its base was blackened and pitted by heat, like that of its twin. Remnants of ash coated the floor of the brazier beneath it.
“Tell me you didn’t know about this, Billy,” Jago said.
Over by the wall, Lomax wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared around him in disbelief.
Billy shook his head. His face was white. “I didn’t. Swear to God. It was only a cellar. Hanratty used it for his kegs and contraband. It was one of my jobs – stacking the booze. There was none of … this.”
Jago nodded towards the verger’s body. “You think that’s what they planned to do with
No one answered. They were too consumed by the horror they were seeing.
Hawkwood found his voice. “If you were wondering what sort of men we were going to be up against, Major; now you know.”
At first, Lomax just looked back at him, saying nothing. Then he gave a brief nod of understanding. Both of them knew there was nothing more to be said.
Hawkwood turned to Jago and Billy. “We’ve work to do.”
The way out was via a door at the top of a flight of wooden stairs. Without any expectations, Hawkwood tried the latch and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t open. Whoever had turned the room into a slaughterhouse wouldn’t want to be disturbed or see their handiwork discovered.
Jago took the set of lock picks from his jacket. “What’s on the other side, Billy?”
“Passageway. There’s another cellar leading off it. Then there’s stairs leading up to the next floor. I did hear there are more passages towards the back; and tunnels joining all the other houses in the street. Dunno if that’s true. There are places I never got to see. I can get you inside, but after that it’s up to yous all.” He stole a glance at the dungeon behind them, crossed himself and shuddered.
There was a dull clunk from inside the lock. Jago gave a grunt of satisfaction. Returning the lock pick to his waistcoat, he retrieved his lantern from Lomax and reached for the latch.
The passage was unlit and empty. The stone floor indicated they were still some way beneath the pub. It also suggested the foundations were very old and constructed long before the Dog had been built.
Jago caught Hawkwood’s eye. His expression was grim. Hawkwood knew what Jago was thinking. If Molly Finn was here, what were the chances of finding her alive? The girl’s only hope was if they’d taken her for recreational purposes and weren’t finished with her yet. Otherwise they’d probably dispose of her the way they had Lucius Symes.
They checked the second cellar anyway, just in case. This time there were no surprises, though Hawkwood suspected that the markings on some of the casks might well have sparked interest from the Revenue men. Other than the trapdoor through which the unfortunate McGrew had been dispatched, there was nothing else of interest.
Leaving the cellar behind, they proceeded along the passageway and paused at the foot of the stairs.
