The Reckoning

Hawkwood nodded. “I told him it was because one of John Moore’s veterans didn’t think it right that someone tossed her into a hole without due ceremony and I didn’t want the bloody resurrection men getting to her.”

“Sounds good enough to me,” Jago said.

“There is another reason,” Hawkwood said.

“Which is?”

“The bastards who put her there thought they could get away with it. They’re mistaken.”

Jago sighed and sat back. He stared into his drink and then looked up. “You want me to ask Connie if she’s heard anything.”

Hawkwood nodded.

“You do know the old one about needles and haystacks, right?”

“You’re all I’ve got,” Hawkwood said.

Jago gave a wry smile. “Now, where’ve I heard that before? All right, I’ll ’ave a word. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. It’s likely you’ll never know who she was. She’ll be just another nameless lass set for a pauper’s grave.”

“She’s somebody’s daughter.”

“Who you think might be a moll, which means there’s a good chance she’s either been disowned or discarded.”

“Even so,” Hawkwood said.

After a second’s lapse, Jago acknowledged Hawkwood’s response with an understanding nod. “Aye, even so.”

Jago lay with his arm around Connie Fletcher’s shoulder. Her head rested on his chest, her ash-blonde hair loose about her face.

“Need to ask you something,” Jago said.

“You want to go around again?” Connie chuckled throatily as she ran her lips across the still raw wounds in his shoulder. “I’ll be gentle.”

Jago gasped as her hand began to slide south beneath the bedcover. “Bloody hell, woman, give us a chance. I ain’t caught my breath from last time.”

Connie removed her hand with an exaggerated sigh and snuggled closer. “All right, what then?”

At the angle they were lying, Jago couldn’t see Connie’s face, but he sensed she was still smiling. It made him wonder if she was expecting the question, the one that tended to end up with a ring and the services of a vicar. He felt a twinge of guilt. He’d been with Connie longer than he’d been with any woman, but marriage? Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Connie’s too, he suspected, even though they’d never discussed the possibility. He waited until his pulse had settled down and then said, “There’s been a killing. Captain’s investigating. He reckons she might have been a workin’ girl.”

Connie lifted her head. “Why’s that?”

“She was young, she weren’t dressed in rags and she has – had – a tattoo.”

The bedcover slid away as Connie sat up. “That’s his definition of a working girl? Someone who’s young, dresses decent and has a tattoo? He needs to get out more.”

“How many ladies you know have tattoos?” Jago asked.

“Can’t say as I know that many ladies,” Connie said deftly. Then she frowned. “Hang on. What about my tattoo? What’s that make me?”

Jago gazed back at her. “You don’t have a tattoo.”

Connie raised one eyebrow. “Might have.”

“No,” Jago said. “I’d have found it. Trust me.”

“Just checking,” Connie said, patting his chest. “But it proves that not every working girl has one.”

Jago pulled his head back to look at her. “You still see yourself as a workin’ girl?”

“Well as sure as God made little green apples, I’m no lady.”

“You’re my lady,” Jago said.

Connie smiled. “Good answer, but I was a working girl, before I went into management, which doesn’t say much for your theory, now, does it?”

“All right, point taken. But like I said, it weren’t my theory.”

“Which means it’s just as likely there are proper ladies out there who do have tattoos.”

Jago realized he’d been outsmarted. Connie’s still-arched eyebrow and her naked breasts swaying enticingly in front of his nose weren’t helping.

“What kind of tattoo?” she asked, after a considered pause.

“A rose.” Jago tapped Connie’s upper right arm. “On her shoulder. Told him the chances were slim to none, but the captain thinks it could be her name.”

Connie went quiet.

“What?” Jago said.

She stared at him, her face suddenly serious. “You’re sure it was a rose?”

Jago frowned. “I’m pretty sure the captain knows what a rose looks like. Why? You saying you might’ve known her?”

“I’m saying if her name was Rose, it’s more likely it was a coincidence.”

Jago sat up. “Sorry, girl, you’ve lost me.”

Connie shook her head. Her eyes held his. “A rose tattoo doesn’t have to mean it’s her name. Chances are it was an owner’s mark.”

“Come again?”

Connie didn’t reply but waited for the penny to drop.

“She was branded,” Jago said.

“It’s why some people call them stables.” Anger flared briefly in Connie’s eyes.

“So who owns this one?”