Hawkwood squatted down. “Where’s Hyde?”
“And Molly Finn,” Jago said.
“Sal?” Sawney tried moving his head to see.
“She’s dead,” Hawkwood said. “Same as you. You’ve been gut shot, Sawney. All the surgeons in the world can’t save you from dying. Not even Colonel Hyde. Where is he? And where’s Molly Finn?”
Sawney’s chest rose and fell. His brow puckered. “Molly Finn? The little cow Sal picked up? You came here lookin’ for her?” Sawney tried to laugh and then coughed suddenly. Blood bubbled from between his gritted teeth.
“Where is she?” Jago grated.
“That’s what’s funny. She was never here, you stupid sods. We delivered her to ’im.”
“Who?”
“Colonel bleedin’ Hyde. Who’d you think?”
“What?” Hawkwood said, not understanding.
“You deaf? He wanted a live one, so we gave her to ’im.” Sawney coughed again. Blood burst out of his mouth. His hands began to flutter across his chest, fingers tapping against his waistcoat. His eyes rolled in his head.
“Jesus!” Jago spat. He reached down and grabbed Sawney’s collar. “Where are they, you bastard?”
For a moment, Sawney seemed to recover from his convulsions. His eyes regained their focus and he frowned. “You Jago? Hanratty told me about you. Said you were king o’ the castle? That right? That’s bleedin’ funny. That’s a riot.” Another spasm took him and he coughed once more.
“Christ,” Jago said. “For once in your miserable life, do something right, you piece of shit!”
Sawney’s eyes widened. He stared at Jago and then at Hawkwood. He moved his hand across his belly. His fingers began to play with the pocket on his waistcoat. Then they lay still and his lips parted.
“Why the bleedin’ ’ell should I?” he hissed, and died.
“God Almighty!” Jago released his grip and stared down at the corpse in disbelief. “God All bloody Mighty!”
A shadow blocked the moonlight coming through the skylight above them; Lomax stood with his neck cloth, dark with blood, pressed against his right shoulder. “Is it over?”
“It is for that bastard,” Jago said. “God damn him to Hell!”
Lomax gazed down at Sal Bridger’s corpse. There was a hole in the middle of her forehead and blood on the front of her petticoat. “She’d have been a pretty little thing once,” he murmured to no one in particular.
Hawkwood wasn’t listening. He was still crouched over Sawney, wondering where they went from here. They were no nearer to finding Hyde or Molly Finn. The night’s enterprise had turned into a bloody mess. Literally.
His eyes travelled down from the lifeless eyes to the bloodstained clothing. He noted how Sawney’s left hand was clamped over the wound, while the right looked as if it was still reaching into the waistcoat pocket. In fact there was a slight bulge there, he saw. Half curious and yet not really knowing why, he moved Sawney’s hand and reached inside.
Hawkwood tugged the object free. It was a silver cross. A strange thing for Sawney to own, Hawkwood thought. As he eased it out, a piece of paper came with it; a folded page from a notebook. Hawkwood opened it out. There was writing, he saw, in a small but neat hand. It was almost too dark to read clearly, but a word caught his eye. Hawkwood held the page up to the moonlight.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
In the taproom, the women were still clustered together, while Micah and Hopkins stood guard over a glowering Hanratty and his son, who were seated back to back, hands on their heads, legs crossed, on the floor in front of the fire.
“You!” Hanratty said, as Hawkwood entered. His eyes opened wider when he saw Jago and Lomax follow behind. His attention settled on Jago. “I know your face, too, cully.”
Jago ignored him. “Micah?”
“We’re good,” Micah said.
“There’s a girl upstairs. The Raggs were usin’ her.” Jago turned to the women. “I don’t know her name.”
“Callie,” one of them said.
Jago nodded towards Hopkins. “Take the constable up to her and bring her down here. Go now.”
Hopkins looked to Hawkwood for guidance. Hawkwood nodded. “Take my pistols. Give me yours.”
The constable frowned.
“Yours is still loaded,” Hawkwood said.
They swapped firearms and Hopkins and the moll who had spoken left the room.
“A word, Major.”
Lomax walked over.
Hawkwood tucked the pistol into his belt. “Nathaniel and I are leaving. You’re in charge here. How’s the shoulder?”
“I’ll live.”
“When they bring the girl down, see she’s taken to a physician. Nathaniel tells me she’s been sorely treated. There’s another one, name of Sadie, hiding in the larder. Make sure she gets out as well. Get all the girls out. Hopkins can see to it.”
Lomax saw the darkness in Hawkwood’s eyes. “What about them?” he nodded towards the Hanrattys.
“Micah will take care of them.”
Hawkwood looked towards Jago, who was standing next to his lieutenant. Jago gave a small, unobtrusive nod.
“You have a problem with that, Major?” Hawkwood asked.
Lomax held Hawkwood’s gaze for maybe two or three seconds. “No,” he said. “What about this place?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can burn it.”
There was another pause.
“I might enjoy that,” Lomax said.
Hawkwood nodded. He turned to Jago. “Ready?”
“Waitin’ on you, Cap’n.”
“Bring a light,” Hawkwood said.
20
Jago looked up at the front of the house. “Why here?”
“The address was on that piece of paper I found in Sawney’s waistcoat: number 13 Castle Street. I think it’s the home of Hyde’s old mentor and hero: John Hunter. Apothecary Locke told me Hyde lived here when he was a student. Hunter used to give anatomy lectures here, so Hyde would have had everything he needed for his butchery. Sawney must have delivered Molly Finn here; that’s why he laughed when he called you king of the castle.”
“No lights,” Jago observed. His eyes took in the shuttered windows and the raised drawbridge. “What would he want with Molly Finn?”
“I don’t know,” Hawkwood said. “That’s what worries me.”
Jago took the lock picks from his pocket and gave Hawkwood a wry look. “Murder, arson and burglary. Anyone ever tell you, you’ve a strange way of upholding the law? Here, hold this.”
“Just open the bloody door,” Hawkwood said. He took the lantern from Jago and drew Hopkins’s pistol from his belt.
Molly Finn came awake slowly. Her eyelids felt heavy and unresponsive. She tried to raise her head. That proved almost as difficult and when she tried moving her arms and legs, it was as if a great weight was pressing down upon them. Every movement was a huge effort. She opened her mouth to speak, but all she could manage was a weak swallow, and there was a strange taste at the back of her throat that she could not identify.
The room was candlelit, she saw, but everything was blurred. It was like looking up at the stars through a black lace curtain. She had the feeling that the room was large and her first thought was that she must be in a church or a chapel. She tried to recall how she might have got there, but her mind became a jumble of vague, confusing thoughts. She tried to concentrate, but that only made things worse. The candle flames around her began to dance and shimmer. Suddenly the whole room was spinning. It was much better if she kept her eyes closed, she decided, but when she did that, she could feel herself slipping away. The more she tried to fight the sensation, the more tired she became. In the end, it was easier just to succumb. And in truth, sleep, when it eventually came, was a relief.