LITMIR.BIZ

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Hawkwood asked.

      Jago shrugged. “Give ’em to the night-soil men. Either that or feed ’em to Reilly’s hogs.”

      Jago wasn’t joking about the hogs. Even though they sounded like something out of a children’s fairy tale, along with wicked witches, ogres and fire-breathing dragons, the animals were real. Reilly, a slaughterman with premises off Hosier Lane, housed the things in a pen at the rear of his yard, where, it was said, they were kept infrequently fed in anticipation of a time when their services might be required.

      It was a prime, albeit extreme, example of the type of self-efficiency employed by the denizens of the rookery who over the years had devised their own unique methods for settling disputes and disposing of their dead. Admittedly, it was a practice frowned upon by law, but on this occasion, looking on the positive side, it did eliminate the need for an official report on the altercation.

      A dull thudding sound came from the stairs. Hawkwood presumed it was what was left of Declan’s skull making contact with the treads as his remains were transported down.

      Micah returned to the table. “Night-soil men said they’ll take them. They wanted the money up front.”

      “You took care of it?”

      Micah nodded. “They’re waiting on the last one.”

      As if on cue, Del and Ned reappeared and moved to the third body, which was still lying at the top of the taproom stairs.

      “Hope Bram’s got plenty of shavings,” Del muttered. “Makin’ a hell of a mess of ’is floor.”

      Ned looked at him askance. “How can you tell? Years I’ve been coming ’ere, it always looks like this.”

      “Just makin’ conversation,” Del said. “You ready?”

      “Wait,” Hawkwood said. Kneeling, he withdrew the stiletto from the ruined throat.

      “Wouldn’t want to forget that, would we?” Jago said sardonically as Hawkwood wiped the blade on the corpse’s sleeve before returning the knife to his right boot. “All right, lads. Carry on.”

      Ned nodded to his companion and then caught Jasper’s eye as they set off towards the stairs, the body sagging between them. “Get ’em in, old son. We’re going to need something strong after this. And don’t give me that look. It’s still your bloody round. We ain’t forgotten.”

      “Should’ve got the night-soil lads to do the liftin’ and carryin’,” Jasper grated.

      “Then what’d the smell be like?” Del said, over his shoulder. “Don’t want them tramping their shit all over the floor as well. It’s bad enough as it is.”

      “Jesus, it’s like listenin’ to a bunch of bloody fishwives,” said Jago. “If I’d wanted this much witterin’, I’d’ve gone to Billingsgate. Just load the damned things on to the cart. The sooner they’re off the premises and headin’ downriver, the better I’ll feel. And you, Jasper, get the drinks in; else I may decide they can take you with them. You’d make good ballast.”

      Turning to Hawkwood, he shook his head in resignation. “Swear to God, it’s like herdin’ cats.” Buttoning his shirt, he eased himself into a comfortable position. “Right, that’s the formalities over. I take it you’re ready for a wet?”

      “Brandy,” Hawkwood said.

      Jago relayed the order to Jasper before turning back. “So, what can I do you for?”

      It was such an incongruous question, coming in the aftermath of all that had ensued, that Hawkwood hesitated before answering, wondering if he’d dreamt the entire sequence of events.

      “I need your help.”

      Jago sat back, wincing as his injured shoulder made contact with the chair. “Jesus, you’ve got a bloody nerve. What’s it been? Three months without a word, and then you swan back in without so much as a heads-up to tell me you need a favour? Is that any way to treat your friends?”

      “I just saved your life,” Hawkwood pointed out.

      “Aye, well there is that, I suppose,” Jago conceded with a wry grin. “So, how was France? Heard you had a spot of bother.”

      Hawkwood stared at him. “How in the hell …?”

      Jago’s grin widened. “Went to see Magistrate Read, didn’t I?”

      “And he told you?”

      “Well, not in so many words. Would’ve been easier gettin’ blood from a stone. But seeing as I’ve helped you and him out now and again in the pursuit of your official duties, he did let slip you were abroad on the king’s business.”

      “In France?”

      Jago shook his head. “Guessed that bit, seeing as you speak Frog like a native and the last time I was involved you were hanging around with our privateer pal, Lasseur. Thought there might be a connection.”

      Jago studied Hawkwood’s face. “Though, seeing as they ain’t declared peace and you’ve a couple more scars on your noggin, I’m guessing things might not have gone according to plan.”

      Hawkwood looked back at him.

      “Well?” Jago asked.

      “Maybe later.”

      “Which is a polite way of sayin’ I should mind my own business. All right, so how long have you been home?”

      “Not long.”

      “And what? This the first time you thought to drop by?”

      “No. I tried to reach you a week back, but I was told you were away sorting out some business.”

      Partially mollified by Hawkwood’s response, Jago eased himself into a more comfortable position and made a face. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

      Hawkwood waited.

      “A spot of bother with one of my suppliers. Had to make a visit to the coast to sort it out.”

      “And did you?”

      “Sort it?” Jago smiled grimly. “Oh, aye.”

      Hawkwood bit back a smile of his own. In Jago’s language, “a spot of bother” could cover a multitude of sins, most of which, Hawkwood knew, stemmed from activities that were, if not strictly illegal then certainly open to interpretation when based upon the authorities’ understanding of the term. As for the remainder; they were entirely unlawful.

      In the years since the two of them had returned from the Peninsula, Nathaniel Jago had made a point of steering his own unconventional career path. His experiences as a sergeant in the British Army had served him well, providing him with an understanding of both discipline and the need for organization, two factors which had proved essential in expediting his rise through the London underworld, a fraternity not known for its tolerance of transgressors, as had just been illustrated.

      As a peace officer, Hawkwood had never sought to influence or curb his former sergeant’s more dubious pursuits. He owed him too much. Jago had guarded his back and saved his life more times than he could remember. That truth alone outweighed any consideration he might have for curtailing the man’s efforts to make a livelihood, even if that did tend to border on the questionable. Besides, it helped having someone on the other side of the fence to keep him abreast of what was happening in the murkier realms of the country’s sprawling capital. Providing, that is, they didn’t encroach upon a certain former army sergeant’s sphere of operations.

      Not having met Del, Ned or Jasper before, Hawkwood assumed they were part of Jago’s inner circle. In the normal scheme of things, therefore, it was unlikely their paths would have crossed. Jago referring to him as Officer would have res-onated, though, so it said much for Jago’s status that none of them had raised an objection or even registered shock at his presence. That said, it was

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