Corpse Thief Page 6

  “My girl is dead,” Milne announced, his hard accent, like Corissa’s, forged in the rookeries of the capital. “My Betsy.” The narrow eyes were red and bleary, but they searched the room, lingering on each table in turn, making even the most belligerent-minded patron look away. “I would know who done the wicked deed.” With impressive speed for so large a man, he spun to engage the tapster, who, protected though he was by his deep oaken serving slab, jolted rearward as if he had been shot. “This place is the haunt of resurrectionists, is it not?”

  The tapster, hardly a waif himself, flinched at the tone. “I...” he stammered, “I would not...”

  “By Jesus, cully,” Milne snarled with sudden fury, “you will not dissemble!” The cleaver was in his great paw in a flash. “Else I shall flay you alive and feed you to the hungry masses.”

  “All sorts, Mister Milne,” the quivering tapster bleated querulously, shying from the glinting tool as though it was the grim reaper’s scythe. “We gets all sorts in here.”

  Butcher Milne turned the cleaver, admiring its edge. “The Giltspur Boys drink here, so I understand. The Parkers and the Williamsons too.”

  “They ain't here now,” the tapster said, and Hawke, hitherto transfixed on the encounter, realised with horror that the man spoke truthfully. The gang had vanished.

  He felt Corissa lean in. She had not been so inattentive. Her gin-laced breath was warm at his ear. “They’ve high-tailed it, the lucky bastards.”

  Milne had put away his cleaver and was stalking towards the door. His eyes were full of tears. “I will have words with them!” he called to all who might listen. “My Betsy was hurt bad. Cut most vile. Anatomists and their knives. Well I’ve a knife for those who supplied my daughter’s flesh for the ghouls’ table!” His voice broke, as the tears rolled. “Tell them.” He stopped with the door half open, staring into the room once more. Sobbing, he shouted, “Tell them, damn your hides! Butcher Milne will find those responsible!”

  Θ

  “Where did they go?” Corissa asked as she leaned across the bar. Hawke, loitering a pace behind, felt sure she would have taken the tapster by the collar if her arms could reach. “Did they say?”

  The tapster, lounging against his hogsheads, a grubby cloth balled in one hand, seemed amused by the question. “Come again, my love?”

  “The Giltspurs,” Corissa pressed. “I saw them, you old weasel, so speak plain. How’d they get past the butcher?”

  The Bell’s landlord glanced at the doorway, as if to make certain the butcher was truly gone. “I didn’t tell Milne, my love, so why would I tell you?” He raked her with his gaze, licking his lips suggestively. “That said, I am partial to mulatto meat.”

  Even in the gloom, Hawke could see strain tighten Corissa’s cheeks. “Listen to me, you...”

  Hawke stepped up, placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, twisting sharply like a startled cat, but held her tongue all the same. He let his eyes lift above her to regard the tapster. “Because what we learn here,” he said levelly, “will be relayed to Mister Colan Szekely.”

  The tapster, who had plunged the rag into a rinsed ale pot, immediately ceased his rhythmic wiping. “Szekely?”

  Hawke offered a sympathetic smile. “What we tell Mister Szekely is entirely your choice, though I cannot promise a sanguine reaction if he learns the folk of this establishment are...” he paused, letting the silence scream between them, “less than helpful.”

  “I could have wrung it out of him,” Corissa grumbled as they left The Bell and made their way into the now empty expanse of Smithfield Market.

  “Aye, you could,” Hawke conceded, “but we’ve not the time to dally.”

  The sky above was falteringly star-studded, blankets of darkly scudding cloud obscuring and revealing the tiny lights in turn. The pair had used the same exit as the Giltspur Boys - a small service door at the building’s rear - allowing them at once to follow in their quarry's footsteps and avoid crossing paths with the rampaging Milne, and Corissa dragged him by the hand across the increasingly icy cobbles and into a narrow alleyway.

  “You’re a cool cod,” she said as they picked their way through the gloom, damp brickwork close on both flanks.

  “He fears Milne,” Hawke said, “and he fears the Giltspur Boys more. But he fears Szekely most.”

  “Still, you knew how to deal with him,” she said with evident admiration. “Impressive for a hospital skivvy. What did you say you did up north?”

  “That way,” Hawke indicated a sharp left-turn. “He said the Hockley pit, did he not?”

  “You’re learning, Joshua,” Corissa said, adding a soft whistle. “Very good. North and then west.”

  Hawke let himself be guided, feet tumbling in Corissa’s panting wake, but his mind was elsewhere entirely. All he could think of was the irate butcher’s words. “Did you not hear him?” he said at her back as they snaked their way through London’s sooty arteries. “Milne blames the resurrection men.”

  “So?”

  “It’s him. He killed Lucas.”

  She guided him swiftly through a labyrinth of arches and unlit passageways, her eyes always fixed dead ahead, tracking her prey with uncanny instinct. Hawke’s knowledge of the city might well have shown improvement, but he knew he would have been utterly lost by now, had he been alone. “Milne said he hunts the killers,” she answered over her shoulder. “He did not say he already took revenge. My shilling’s still on the Giltspurs.”

  “But...” Hawke began.

  “What?” she said, exasperated, and finally stopped to turn. “What is it, Joshua?”

  What indeed, thought Hawke? Should he tell her that the foremost lawman in London had tipped him off about Milne? That Ruthven, the arch thief-taker himself, had foretold the danger the butcher represented? And yet Corissa’s words rang true. He had been convinced that Milne had killed Lucas, yet there was something in the butcher’s threat that implied the grief-stricken man had yet to take any reprisal. Certainly there was nothing in his words that suggested he had already killed one of their number. Thus, Hawke would still have to investigate his friend’s death on behalf of Szekely, all the while conducting secret enquiries as to Betsy Milne’s true killer. And what of the tosher found in the sewer with poor Betsy? Coincidence? A murder committed elsewhere, a body washed along the capital’s subterranean arteries along with the rest of the detritus? Or a part of the same event? An eyewitness, perhaps. Offed by Betsy’s killer to silence a wagging tongue. In the end, Hawke simply shook his head. “Nothing.”

  She tutted, pulled hard at his wrist, and moved on apace. It took less than fifteen more minutes to reach the location whispered by The Bell’s frightened landlord; An insalubrious patch of slum-land to the north of Hatton Garden, perpetually flooded by the Fleet River. The area had officially been renamed Ray Street at the turn of the century, but its ancient title stubbornly persisted, the moniker under which it had gained infamy.

  Hockley-in-the-Hole was a warren of unlit alleys and tumbledown tenements that served as home for some of London’s poorest inhabitants and the headquarters for all types of villainy. Despite the fresh construction work that seemed ubiquitous in this part of the city, not even the Runners, it was said, ventured into these streets after dusk, and Hawke was fairly certain they did not wile away many daylight hours here either. The place reminded him of his home in St Giles. But what put Hockley-in-the-Hole truly on the map was the large bear garden that staged blood sports on almost the same scale as the establishments across the river at Southwark.

  “There,” Corissa said, her face immediately obscured by vapour.

  Hawke followed her outstretched finger. A four-storied tavern dominated the road before them, its rectangular windows glowing like ghoulish eyes from the stoic brick facade. But no shadows moved beyond those misty panes. Indeed, it was as if the place was entirely deserted. Only when a huge cheer rose up from beyond an adjacent fence did Hawke understand. “That’s the pit?” When Co
rissa nodded, he frowned. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  He shrugged. In truth, he had once read an article in the Manchester Mercury relating the many and various curiosities of England’s capital. The piece featured tales from Hockley-in-the-Hole’s heyday, describing in great detail the high-sided terracing that climbed out of the muck like a Roman amphitheatre, erected in obvious homage to the grandest bear gardens of Tudor Bankside. Hawke recalled the lurid passages telling of a polygonal killing ground, into which were thrown bears and lions, some antagonised by dogs, others strapped with fireworks to madden them. “I heard it was a grand place.”

  “Not no more,” Corissa said, leading him across the road. “They tore it down years back.” She gave a quick snort of amusement. “Hoped it would clean up the community.”

  They entered the tavern, nodding to a couple of bored looking toss-pots and weaving between empty tables and vacant chairs. Corissa showed Hawke to the rear of the building, where a thick door, jammed open to the elements, yawned onto a yard where the establishment’s patrons had gathered.

  Hawke hesitated as the icy breeze chilled his face. “What’s to be achieved here?”

  She grinned, exposing neat, white teeth that seemed to glow against her bronzed complexion. “You scared?”

  “Aye,” he said truthfully. “Turn over a few rocks, Szekely said. That was all. Do you intend to walk up to the Giltspur lads and ask if they killed Lucas?”

  “That miserable bastard at The Bell said they were fighting dogs tonight. They’ll be here hours, gambling and whoring and drinking. Let us linger. Let us listen.”

  Hawke swallowed hard as another cheer came from outside, reaching an ear-splintering crescendo that told of an animal shredded and wagers won. “God damn it all,” he said, and followed her through the door.

  The yard was packed. They were able to advance little more than two yards before the way was barred by bodies. All eyes faced inward, towards the pit that marked the arena’s core, and they chatted and laughed as preparations were made for the next bout. A mist of mingling tobacco smoke and breathy vapour clung to the air, smudging the soft light from a phalanx of hook-dangled lanterns. Hawke’s view was blocked by shoulders and the backs of steaming heads, perhaps half-a-dozen deep, but he could only presume that a ruined carcass was being dragged clear of the space. If it was a bull, its savagely tenderised meat would be supplied to Boris Milne and his ilk at Smithfield.

  “There,” Corissa hissed close to his left ear. Somehow she had spotted one of the Giltspur clan amongst the melee. “And another over there.”

  Hawke saw that she had identified two more members of the gang. One was tall and skinny, with high cheekbones and a hooked nose, while his companion, with whom the first shared a deep, muttered conversation, was stocky and ruddy-faced. Both sported the distinctive red hair that was the mark of the Giltspur Boys. Corissa was already moving through the crowd towards the first man, so Hawke supposed he should approach the other two. He eased his way into the dense hedge of spectators, elbowing a route that was bruising but pliable enough to allow progress to a man of his slim build. The din was almost painful now that he had been enveloped by the crowd. He could glimpse the pit now, albeit fleetingly between the shifting onlookers. The footprint of the fighting ring was roughly the same, Hawke suspected, as it had been at its zenith a century earlier. It lacked the towering stanchions, of course, from which seating for scores would have been suspended, and he could readily imagine the old spectacle might have been garnished with bright bunting, bellowing pie-sellers and a good deal more pomp, but still the brutal pit was deep and wide, large enough to accommodate an impressive array of exotic beasts, its surface made of compacted earth and dusted in blood-spattered wood shavings.

  Hawke inveigled himself between a pair of burly fellows, construction labourers or stevedores perhaps, who stood close to the Giltspur men, but did not appear to be associating with them. He used them as screens behind which he hoped he could remain inconspicuous as he tried his best to eavesdrop. He could hear only fragments of the conversation, for their voices ebbed and flowed with the animation of the crowd, but nothing was said of note, and he found himself cursing Colan Szekely for dispatching him on so futile an errand. His private diatribe was cut short almost immediately by a great yowl lifting from within the pit. The crowd joined with one voice, and in the cacophony the Giltspurs ceased their hushed discussion, choosing to watch the spectacle like everyone else. Hawke’s own gaze was inexorably drawn back to the bear garden’s epicentre.

  Around a dozen dogs had poured into the pit, circling the edge, cocking legs and sniffing at the bloody ground. They yapped and snarled at one another, sensing the excitement of the feverish throng and anticipating what was to come. They had doubtless been isolated and starved in recent days so that, when the time came, they would be angry and famished, and their collective frenzy was immediately evident. The crowd cheered and chattered as stakes and odds were called and a small fortune wagered. Men roared encouragement to particular animals as serving wenches weaved their way through the hazy arena with slopping jugs of ale and saucy retorts.

  The dogs were howling now, gathering in excitement. Most of them were small creatures - terriers of all descriptions - more accustomed to challenging rodents than bullocks. But in their midst were a brawny trio of fully fledged bulldogs, their massive shoulder muscles rippling as they moved, lower jaws protruding to expose huge teeth that could rip flesh and shatter bone. One was pure white, another brindle and a third, taller than the others, possessed the mask of deep black that betrayed a lineage strengthened by mastiff blood. They were the real killers. Ugly and vicious, panting madly with clouds of slobber foaming like pricked ulcers at their glistening jowls, and they swaggered across the sawdust, kicked it up with scraping claws and stared truculently at the little enclosure set at the opposite side of the pit, eyes flashing black and red in the torchlight. Within that pen, brown flanks a blur between the timber slats, moved the object of their slavering attention. The bull was small, but compact and powerful looking, with short, sharp horns that were upturned to form a trident of sorts with the tufted crest of its skull. It was roped about the neck and tethered to its prison, and it turned tight circles, desperate to find a route to freedom. A young fellow clambered up the enclosure’s side, leaning precariously over the top slat, and in an expert show of skill, at once released the rope and blew a sharp gust of dark powder directly into the animal’s face.

  The bull jerked back its head as if it had been cudgelled, the pepper cloud searing its nostrils. It brayed loudly, a deep, guttural sound that was accompanied by a blast of mucus and vapour, and immediately the dogs responded with a discordant chorus of their own. Its tormentor gave a triumphal cry and waved an arm as he swung back to the safe side of the railing.

  “Let’s be on wi’ it!” a man with a raw, diseased face and one clubbed fist shouted over the din from the side of the pit. A relative hush descended at his word, and he grinned, exposing a mouth of black gums. “At ‘im, hounds!”

  The enclosure’s gate was hauled open by men holding ropes at a safe distance. The bull, duly enraged, broke into an immediate charge, careening headlong into the dogs’ lair. The smaller hounds went first to the fray, flitting beneath the furious beast with high-pitched snarls and snapping jaws that were comical, so utterly mismatched were they. But they distracted the bullock, which was their unwitting duty, and as it stamped at them and swept its muscular head low to the sawdust in a vain attempt to snag one on a horn-tip, the real fighters sauntered in. The first bulldog, the brindle, which, Hawke now noticed, was missing an eye and an ear, leapt at the bull’s exposed flank. It had aimed to land its bite near the shoulder, but the larger creature had wheeled instinctively away so that the dog’s jaws affixed nearer the rear. The bull bellowed, the wretched sound reverberating through Hawke’s guts, and, though blood immediately spouted, it began to fight back. The dog was dan
gling, like a nightmarish leech, refusing to release the huge teeth that had skewered deep into the shifting slab of the bull’s hip, but it was precariously close to a powerful hoof, and that impromptu weapon was up in a trice, flailing wildly, stabbing the air once, twice, thrice. When it connected on the fourth attempt, the brindle might have been fired from a cannon, so far was its carcass flung. The hoof caught it in the chest, tearing its jaws free and sending it cartwheeling out of the arena to land amongst a crowd that cheered and guffawed, celebrating the beleaguered bull’s small victory.

  If the crowd were impressed by the bull’s fight, the white bulldog and the one with a mastiff’s muzzle were not. They acted with one mind, circling quickly, confusing their prey as the terriers buzzed like a swarm of hackled flies, and when the black-faced hound pounced, tiger-like, onto its snorting foe’s back, its white confederate lunged in tandem, going for the throat. Both dogs clamped down hard with teeth and claws, hooking the living meat in grotesque parody of its shambles future, and Hawke found himself unable to look away as the dazed and bleeding bullock staggered like a gin-shop drunk. It still fought, still thrashed, still tried to gore with those lethal horns, but its life blood was seeping away with each passing moment. The white bulldog was red now, dyed from wrinkling snout to docked tail by the gushing, steaming fountain that cascaded from its victim’s punctured neck, and it did not simply hang there, but jerked in short, sharp movements designed to wrench the arteries clean out through the thick layers of skin and muscle.

  The bull dropped onto its fore-knees, strength sapped, the weight of the mastiff-cross sprawled over its back becoming too much to bear. And then it was down, listing, keeling to the side, and the dogs rolled nimbly clear as a huge, endless sigh escaped from the bull’s vast lungs. The pack howled its victory, and then they were upon it in an instant, even the smallest ratters, barking at one another as they ripped at the exposed underbelly that was so soft and inviting.