Ratcatcher

11

It was almost six o’clock by the time Hawkwood arrived at the Four Swans. The inn was a hive of noisy activity. The early evening coach had just pulled in. Passengers were being disgorged and baggage lay strewn around the yard. Hawkwood picked his way through the crowd, ducked through the open doorway, and entered the tap room.

He did not spot Lomax immediately and wondered if the former cavalryman had grown tired of waiting. Then he saw a darkened figure rise and beckon him from a dimly lit booth in the far corner.

“Good to see you,” Lomax said, resuming his seat. A quarter-full mug of ale and a bowl containing the remains of a fatty stew sat on the table before him. Next to the bowl was a wooden platter bearing several chunks of bread and a wedge of butter.

Lomax looked beyond Hawkwood and signalled to a passing serving girl. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll take a belch,” Hawkwood said.

Lomax gave the order, ignoring the girl’s stare. He picked up one of the bread chunks with his left hand and began to mop up the gravy from the bottom of the bowl. When the bread was well soaked, he popped it into his mouth, bit down hard and chewed with relish.

“If you’re hungry, I can recommend the mutton,” Lomax said, licking the grease from his fingers before wiping them on his breeches.

The girl returned with Hawkwood’s beer. Hawkwood took a swallow and wondered how, with only one eye, Lomax could see what he was eating. The lighting in the booth was atrocious. The candle in the middle of the table was worn down to a stub. He realized that Lomax had positioned himself so that the injured side of his face was against the wall. It was only when Lomax turned his head that the ravaged side of his face became clear. Hawkwood suspected this was Lomax’s usual ploy. The look on the serving girl’s face had told its own story.

A thin dribble of gravy trickled down Lomax’s chin. Hawkwood averted his gaze but not quickly enough. Lomax had seen the gesture for he lifted his arm unselfconsciously and wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve.

The ex-cavalryman grimaced. “Shaving’s the real bugger. Can’t feel a damned thing. Why, I could slit my own throat from ear to ear. Wouldn’t know it ’til I nodded my bloody head.”

Hawkwood laughed. He couldn’t help it.

Lomax grinned crookedly and raised his mug. “Confusion to the enemy!”

“Amen to that,” Hawkwood said. He was coming to like Lomax’s sense of humour.

Lomax set his drink down and pushed his plate aside. “I left the message because I’ve some information for you.”

Hawkwood sipped his beer.

“It concerns our highwaymen. I presume you’re still hunting them?”

“What have you got?”

Lomax toyed with the handle of his mug. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure. Might be nothing. It came to me after our last meeting. Something one of the coach passengers said. Didn’t think about it at the time, but now, looking back, the more it strikes me as odd.”

“What was it?”

Lomax hesitated. “Got any urgent appointments to keep?”

Hawkwood thought about the need to make contact with Jago and the startling information he had picked up at the workshop, but if Lomax had a lead, his return journey into the rookery could wait. He shook his head. “No, why?”

In answer, Lomax stood and tossed a handful of coins on to the table. “Because I think you and I should pay a little visit.”

“To where?”

Lomax reached for his hat while Hawkwood drained his beer.

“The horse’s mouth.”

The Reverend Septimus Fludde reminded Hawkwood of the vultures he had seen in Spain and South America. Ugly, mean-tempered creatures, with pronounced beaks and beady little eyes. Reverend Fludde even moved like a longlegged bird, in a sort of high-stepping, round-shouldered stalk, giving the bizarre impression that he was about to spread his arms and launch himself into the air. The reverend’s sober plumage—his black clerical garb—added to the illusion.

“He’s a cantankerous old bugger, but he’s the nearest thing we’ve got to a reliable witness,” Lomax had warned as he’d led the way along Bishopsgate to the dilapidated church of St Jude.

“What about the driver and the other passengers?” Hawkwood asked.

Lomax shook his head. “Waste of time. The driver ain’t much more than a gibbering idiot. Took straight to his bed and hasn’t stirred since. Mind you, the poor bastard did see two men killed in front of his eyes, so it’s no small wonder he’s come down with a touch of the vapours.”

“And the rest?”

Lomax gave a snort of derision. “Ah, you mean Justice Coverley and his lady wife.”

“A judge?” Hawkwood could not disguise his astonishment.

“Stipendiary magistrate, to be precise. Presides on a bench over Gloucester way. You didn’t know?” Lomax looked equally surprised.

Hawkwood cast his mind back to his briefing with James Read. The latter had made no mention of the fact, though it did go a long way to explain why the Chief Magistrate’s condemnation of the crime had been so vociferous. Presumably Justice Coverley had used his rank to harness the resources of the Bow Street office to hunt down the thieves who had stolen his wife’s jewellery. How fortunate it was to have influential friends, Hawkwood reflected cynically.

“A right bastard,” Lomax said with feeling. “And his wife wasn’t much better. Mostly wind and piss, of course, and a face on her that’d curdle milk.” Lomax chuckled drily. “Not that I can talk, mind. Anyway, seems they were travelling home after attending some family festivity. A wedding, I believe it was. Told me they weren’t prepared to tarry on account of his honour having to attend monthly assizes. Pity the next poor bloody wretch who comes up before him. The mood M’lud was in, he’ll be after a hanging, and for tying the knot himself, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Which leaves us with the Reverend Fludde…”

“Indeed,” Lomax agreed. “Spitting fire and farting brimstone. Though, if you ask me, his bark’s worse than his bite.”

In the event, it had proved to be more of an indignant squawk than a bark, though of sufficient intensity to indicate the reverend’s displeasure at having the preparation of his Sunday sermon disturbed by a pair of unwanted visitors. His disenchantment was made plain the moment the two men were shown into his gloomy study by the elderly housekeeper.

Seated at his paper-littered desk, Fludde had peered quizzically at the two peace officers. “Officer Lomax, isn’t it? Well, sir, have you apprehended the scoundrels?”

“I regret not,” Lomax said.

It was clear from his glare that this was not the answer the clergyman had been seeking. As if noticing Hawkwood for the first time, the reverend’s head swivelled. Hawkwood could have sworn he heard joints creak.

“And who, pray, is this?”

“Allow me to present my colleague, Officer Hawkwood, special constable from Bow Street,” Lomax said.

Fludde did not look very impressed. “Really? So, why are you here, instead of scouring the streets?”

Lomax cleared his throat. “I was wondering, Reverend, if I might take you back to the night of the robbery. It was when the passenger was killed. You told me that the man who shot him said something. I wonder if you recall what that was.”

Reverend Fludde’s chin came up sharply. “Of course I can recall! I may be advanced in years, Officer Lomax, but I’m not senile!” The churchman’s Adam’s apple bobbed alarmingly.

“Of course, Reverend. My apologies,” Lomax amended hastily. “I meant no disrespect. But I’d be obliged if you’d repeat what you heard to Officer Hawkwood here.”

“And will this assist you in catching the villains?”

“I’ve every confidence it will, sir, yes.”

Reverend Fludde sighed impatiently. “Oh, very well. Let me think. As I recall…” he said, throwing the excavalryman a withering glance, “…he had his pistol pointed at the fellow’s head.”

To Hawkwood’s amazement, Reverend Fludde stood up, teetered momentarily on his spindly legs, extended his right arm and aimed his long, bony index finger at Lomax’s face. In a thin, reedy voice, he said, “I remember the words exactly. He said, ’All right, Lieutenant. If you insist.’”

“And then he shot him?” Lomax said.

The vicar’s face twisted in painful memory. He lowered his arm. “That is correct.”

“And you are quite certain about the words the killer used. There’s no doubt in your mind?”

“None whatsoever.” Fludde shuddered, then, evidently overcome by his theatrical exertions, he reached for his chair and sat down.

Lomax threw a sideways glance at Hawkwood. Hawkwood stared back at him.

“Thank you, Reverend,” Lomax said. “That’s all I wanted to ask. You’ve been most helpful. Rest assured, we are doing everything in our power to see that the culprits are brought to justice and that your property is restored.”

The reverend smiled sourly. “In that case, Officer Lomax,” he wheezed, “don’t let me detain you. My housekeeper will show you out. Good day.”

And with that, Reverend Fludde returned to his sermon.

“Well?” Lomax said, when they were back on the street. “You do agree? It’s curious, is it not?”

Hawkwood said nothing. He was too preoccupied.

“My thoughts exactly,” Lomax said into the silence. “I don’t know how many highwaymen and footpads I’ve come up against in my time, but it’s a fair few. And I’ll tell you this. There’s not a single one of ’em’d know an admiral from a bloody midshipman! And yet our highwayman referred to the passenger as ’Lieutenant’…” Lomax paused for effect. His one eye glinted brightly. “So, the question we have to ask ourselves is this: how the devil did he know?”

How indeed? As he made his way through the quiet back streets towards the Blackbird, Hawkwood’s brain struggled with the implications. His thoughts were also occupied with his visit to Josiah Woodburn’s workshop, for there too, lurked a conundrum. If the boy Quigley had not been mistaken in seeing Master Woodburn in Lord Mandrake’s carriage—and there was no reason why he should have lied—why had no one heard from the clockmaker since?

As far as the Woodburn case was concerned, the obvious course of action would be to pursue enquiries at Mandrake House. Had Warlock gone down that road? If so, and if the dead Runner had not been merely the victim of a robbery, what chain of events had led to his body ending up on the river bank?

Somewhere in the tangled mess of contradictions there lay solutions to both riddles, though, for the life of him, Hawkwood couldn’t begin to see where those solutions might reside.

But he wasn’t thinking straight. He was tired and he was hungry. He should, he thought, have taken up Lomax’s recommendation and ordered a bowl of stew. No matter, he’d ask Maddie to provide something for him. Even a cold platter would suffice. A couple of hours sleep wouldn’t come amiss either. But before he could lay head to pillow he would have to make his report to Magistrate Read. Food first, therefore, followed by a brief call into the Shop, and then bed. By which time, there might even be a message from Jago. Stirred by the possibility, he quickened his pace.

But when he walked through the tavern door he was barely given a chance to draw breath, let alone put in a request for supper. Maddie was on him before he could stop her.

“I want you to get rid of him! Right away! The little devil’s been hanging around for hours. It’s got so my customers daren’t venture outside for fear of being relieved of their valuables! I told him you weren’t here and that I didn’t know when you’d be back, but he insisted on waiting, cheeky beggar! Wanted to wait inside, as well, but I warned him on no account was he to set foot through that doorway. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had fleas, from the looks of him! I do declare, Matthew Hawkwood, for a police officer, you keep strange company and no mistake!”

It took Hawkwood a moment to realize that Maddie had ceased her remonstration. He smiled. “Go easy, Maddie, you’ve lost me. Who are you talking about?”

“Why, that boy, of course. Who else?”

“Er…what boy?”

“That one!” Maddie’s eyes flashed green fire as she pointed an accusing finger.

Hawkwood looked around. A small, grubby face was peering round the edge of the doorframe. A hand beckoned urgently.

An ominous sigh sounded close by. Hawkwood realized it was emanating from between Maddie’s tightly clenched teeth. He sensed the landlady was about to erupt, spectacularly.

“All right, Maddie,” Hawkwood interposed quickly. “Leave it to me. I’ll deal with it.”

Hawkwood walked to the door and stepped out into the alleyway.

“Davey?”

“Over ’ere, Mr ’Awkwood!”

The urchin emerged from the shadow of a nearby archway. One hand was hidden inside his ragged jacket. He looked around nervously.

“What the hell’s going on, Davey?” Hawkwood asked.

“Got a present for you, Mr ’Awkwood.”

Slowly the boy took his hand from inside his coat. He was clutching something. Hawkwood couldn’t quite make out what it was. “Reckon I should give you this.”

The boy held out his hand. Hawkwood stared at the object. His heart went cold.

It was a Runner’s baton.

Hawkwood found his voice. “Where’d you get it?”

The boy looked down, avoiding Hawkwood’s eye.

“Davey?”

“Sorry, Mr ’Awkwood. It were Ned. I didn’t know he ’ad it, honest.”

Ned? Hawkwood had to think for a moment. Then he remembered it was the name of the boy who had discovered Warlock’s corpse.

“Where did he find it?”

“Said it were next to the body. Half-buried, he told me. Didn’t plan on tellin’ no one on account of he thought he could clean it up and flog it. It were Pen who told me he ’ad it. I made ’im ’and it over.”

Instinctively, Hawkwood reached into his pocket, but the boy shook his head. “Nah, that’s all right, Mr ’Awkwood. Don’t want nothing fer it. You been good to us. Treated us fair and square. That other geezer, too. Don’t seem right, takin’ money off you this time. My way of thinkin’ is you can ’ave this ’un with our compliments.” The boy grinned. “On the ’ouse, you might say.”

Hawkwood gripped the ebony baton tightly. “I’m obliged, Davey. I mean that.”

The boy nodded solemnly. There followed a moment of awkward silence, eventually broken by the urchin. “Well, I’d best be gettin’ back. Don’t like leaving the rest of ’em on their own for too long. No knowin’ what manner o’ mischief they’ll be gettin’ up to without me to ’old their ’ands.”

Hawkwood nodded. “Take care of yourself, Davey. You tell Ned I said thanks. I owe you.”

The boy laughed. “Think I don’t know that? Next time, we’ll charge you double!”

Still laughing, the boy ran off. Hawkwood, assailed by a sudden and inexplicable feeling of melancholy, turned and walked back into the tavern.

Maddie Teague raised the coffeepot and arched an eyebrow suggestively. “Would the kind gentleman care for anything else?”

Hawkwood sat back as the beverage was poured. The landlady’s free hand rested on Hawkwood’s shoulder. Covertly, her fingers traced the nape of his neck. “Fancy some company later?”

Hawkwood knew he still had to find Billy Mipps to arrange another meeting with Jago. “Sorry, Maddie. Not tonight.”

Framed by the neckline of her bodice, the shadow between Maddie’s breasts darkened invitingly.

“You’re sure?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Can’t, Maddie. Duty calls.”

Maddie straightened abruptly and tossed her fiery mane in mock annoyance. “Well, there’s a fine thing! It occurs to me, Matthew Hawkwood, that some men don’t know when they’re well off!”

Hawkwood watched Maddie pout and flounce away. Despite the sense of despondency that had gripped him earlier, he couldn’t help but smile at the landlady’s theatrics. Maddie Teague had that effect.

As he followed Maddie’s departure, Hawkwood thought about Catherine de Varesne, her dark sensuality so different from Maddie’s pale, Celtic beauty. Unaccountably, he felt a sharp stab of guilt at having made the comparison, for there had been many occasions when Maddie Teague had been a welcome visitor to Hawkwood’s bed.

Maddie Teague was a widow. Her late husband had held a captaincy with the East India Company and had purchased the inn from profits made on the Far Eastern spice routes. The captain had perished, lost at sea along with the rest of his crew and a cargo of Chinese porcelain, when his ship had foundered on a reef during a storm off the Andaman Islands.

Maddie had inherited the Blackbird along with several outstanding debts and a small coterie of creditors. The accumulation of debt had meant that the tavern had been at risk. Salvation had come with the timely arrival of Hawkwood, newly returned from the Peninsula, with a letter of commendation from Colquhoun Grant to the Chief Magistrate at Bow Street, and a need for a roof over his head.

Maddie Teague had welcomed him with a cautious smile. The open arms had come later.

Hawkwood had enjoyed his fair share of women. During his years in the army his dark good looks and the uniform had ensured he had rarely been without female company. But military life and the hardship of campaigning were demanding mistresses and it was an understanding woman who was prepared to put up with the life of a soldier, whether it meant staying at home or following him into battle with the other regimental wives.

Becoming a Runner had brought little change in his circumstances. The job and the inherent dangers that accompanied it were all consuming and there had been scant opportunity to develop lasting friendships, let alone anything resembling romance. Male friends were hard enough to find, never mind women.

Not that Hawkwood had ever viewed himself as the marrying kind. Hearth and slippers? He didn’t think so. It wasn’t in his nature. It might have suited someone like Runner Warlock, but Hawkwood valued his independence too much. So he had taken his pleasure as and when it became available, mostly with molls. There were always willing participants to be found among the better Covent Garden establishments, but they were fleeting liaisons of little consequence. So, now and again, when the mood took them, Hawkwood and Maddie Teague would seek each other’s company and, for a short while, perhaps a night or two, they would take comfort in each other’s embrace and try to keep the loneliness at bay.

Hawkwood took a slow sip of coffee and surveyed the scene and tried to put the thoughts of the two contrasting women out of his head. As if he didn’t have enough to contend with.

A low hum of conversation filled the tavern. There was the usual mix. Several lawyers, a few of whom Hawkwood knew by name, a smattering of clergy, and a brace of welldressed individuals who could have been either bankers or doctors. Candlelight created strange moving shadows in the oak-beamed room. The atmosphere was relaxed and cordial.

Warlock’s baton lay on the table at Hawkwood’s right elbow. It looked decidedly out of place. There had been a clumsy attempt to clean its pitted surface, but traces of dried mud could still be seen engrained in the grip and on the small brass crown at the tip. Hawkwood picked it up and hefted it in his hands. There was something about the baton, the weight and feel, that was strangely comforting. A Runner’s baton was a measure of the man who carried it. It gave him great authority: the power to search, to seize, to interrogate and to arrest, a right granted to very few officers, less than the number that could be counted on the fingers of two hands. It was privilege hard earned, often feared, and much envied.

Thoughtfully, Hawkwood held the stem of the baton in his left hand. Then, clasping the tip in his right hand, he gripped hard and twisted.

At first nothing happened. He tried again, with the same result. It was only after he had smeared the join liberally with grease from his discarded plate that the two halves of the tipstaff came grudgingly apart.

To the uninitiated, a Runner’s baton was a solid wooden club. In fact, it was hollow. It was here that a Runner carried his sealed warrant. Signed by the Chief Magistrate, the warrant was a further symbol of his authority as well as proof of identification.

Warlock’s warrant, Hawkwood saw with some surprise, was still in place. Carefully, he drew it out. As he did so, he realized the warrant was not the only item concealed within the ebony shaft. Wrapped within the furled document were two wafer-thin pieces of onion-skin paper. Frowning and laying the warrant to one side, Hawkwood smoothed them out.

Drawings. Hawkwood peered closer. No, not drawings, something else. They looked like plans.

The first one appeared to show the workings of some kind of mechanical device. There was a four-sided casing, one corner of which was curved. Inside the casing, several long spindles were connected to a series of interlocking cogs of various sizes. There were also two objects that looked like cotton spools, and a flywheel at top and bottom, one large and one small.

Mystified, Hawkwood turned the sketch around until the curved corner was at the top left of the drawing. A thought struck him. He’d seen similar sketches before, on the walls of Josiah Woodburn’s workshop.

The second sketch was even more intriguing, though less illuminating. It showed the outline of what looked to be another container, this one square in shape, divided into two halves. There was no mistaking the object contained in the top half of the square. It was the firing mechanism of a gun: hammer, jaws and flint, spring and firing pin. The bottom half of the square was also divided in half. In the left-hand compartment, directly under the hammer of the gun, was a cogwheel, connected to the hammer by a thin, curved, incisorshaped object. The head of the incisor was hooked under the back of the hammer head. The point of the incisor rested in a space between two of the cogwheel’s teeth. The right-hand compartment was empty.

Hawkwood sat back. If he were to hazard a guess, he’d have said the larger sketch showed the working parts of a clock while the smaller of the drawings looked to be some kind of timing device. He considered the possibilities. Could they be the plans for a new type of timepiece? Woodburn was an acknowledged master of his craft. Perhaps this was some sort of revolutionary winding mechanism, something he wanted to keep secret from rival clockmakers. If that was so, how did it fit in with his disappearance? And what about the other components, the hammer and flint? Hawkwood stared at the images before him. Whatever they represented, Warlock, at least, had considered them important enough to warrant concealment from prying eyes. But that begged another question: from whom had they been concealed?

A smudge at the bottom right-hand corner of one of the sketches caught Hawkwood’s eye. He leaned forward, reached for the candle and held it over the paper, careful not to let any of the wax drip.

Writing, barely legible.

Hawkwood put the candle-holder on the table. Lifting the paper, he held it up and angled it towards the light. The letters remained obstinately faint, as if the ink had run. Two words. The penmanship left a lot to be desired. Possibly the words had been written under duress, or in a hurry. Hawkwood moved the paper closer to the flame.

There was a T, most definitely, followed by what could be an h. The e was more clearly defined: The.

Another t, followed by i, followed by an s.

Two words, one of them incomplete, with no discernible meaning. Hawkwood sat back and frowned.

The striking of the tavern clock brought him out of his trance. It was half past seven. The Bow Street Public Office closed at eight. Hawkwood knew, however, that in one room at least the candles would continue to burn brightly. He rolled up the sketches and replaced them inside the baton. Yet again he would have to delay his attempt to contact Jago. It was time to report back to James Read. Two heads were supposed to be better than one. It seemed an ideal opportunity to put the theory to the test.

It occurred to Hawkwood that throughout his period of service at Bow Street he must have been privy to every permutation of mood change the Chief Magistrate had to offer. Anger, frustration, irascibility, sarcasm, amusement, and, on the odd occasion, even the depths of despair. The one thing he had never witnessed, however, had been James Read’s inability to produce speech. Until now.

The look on the Chief Magistrate’s face as he removed the sketches from Warlock’s tipstaff would remain for ever etched in Hawkwood’s brain. James Read sucked in his breath and paled as the full details of the drawings came to light. Hawkwood could not recall seeing the man so profoundly shaken. After what seemed an age, the magistrate raised his head.

“I want you to describe exactly how you came by these. I urge you to leave nothing out—nothing.”

As Hawkwood spoke, the Chief Magistrate listened in silence. Not once did Read’s piercing blue eyes leave the Runner’s face. When Hawkwood had given his account, James Read continued to stare down at the drawings.

Hawkwood, unable to curb his impatience, broke the silence. “What are they?”

Without looking up, Read said, “It is my belief they are the former contents of the dispatch pouch stolen from the navy courier murdered during the mail coach hold up on the Kent Road.”

The room turned as cold and as quiet as a tomb. “I don’t understand,” Hawkwood said. “What the hell does a navy courier have to do with clocks?”

“Clocks?” The Chief Magistrate stared at Hawkwood aghast. “Clocks? Do you seriously think that’s what this is about—the design for some newfangled timepiece? Good grief, man, if only it were that simple!” Without further explanation, the Chief Magistrate turned towards the door. “MR TWIGG!”

The door opened almost before the summons was out of the magistrate’s mouth.

“Sir?” Ezra Twigg blinked and waited for his instructions.

Read reached for a pen and wrote quickly on a sheet of notepaper. Folding the paper and sealing it, he wrote an address and handed it to his clerk. “You are to deliver this posthaste, Mr Twigg. You’ll note that Caleb is waiting outside. Be so good as to inform him there will be two passengers. We’ll be down directly.”

Spurred by the urgency in the magistrate’s tone, Twigg nodded. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

As the clerk scampered out of the office, the Chief Magistrate reached for his cane.

“Why wasn’t I told?” Hawkwood tried to keep his voice calm.

The Chief Magistrate paused. “Told what?”

“What was in the pouch. You knew what the contents were when you assigned me to the case. Why didn’t you tell me that’s what they were after all along? The passenger’s valuables were a diversion. You knew that.”

“I thought it was a possibility. There was always the chance it was a simple highway robbery and, if that was the case, there was no point drawing unnecessary attention to the dispatch pouch or its contents. But enough of this, we’re wasting time.”

“You should have trusted me,” Hawkwood said.

The magistrate’s head came up swiftly. There was a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “For what it’s worth, Hawkwood, I do trust you. Keeping you in ignorance was not my choice. My hands were tied. However, if you want to find out the true facts behind this case, I suggest you rein in your vexation and come with me.” Without waiting for a response, the Chief Magistrate turned and hurried out of the room.

Hawkwood swore under his breath. If it wasn’t about clocks, what the hell was it about? And, more to the point, how in God’s name had the proceeds of the coach robbery ended up in Warlock’s possession? None of it made any sense.

It wasn’t until he heard Read give the waiting coachman his instructions that he learned their destination. Which made even less sense.

The Admiralty Building, Whitehall.