Ratcatcher

15

“Sorry about the restraints, Officer Hawkwood.” The greyhaired man smiled pleasantly. “Barbaric, of course, but useful when the need arises.”

They had relieved Hawkwood of his baton. A still grinning Weazle had produced a set of manacles and secured his wrists and ankles, looping the wrist chain through the arms of the chair. Job done, the dwarf touched his forelock in mock salute and left the cabin.

“I was told you’d gone north with Lord Mandrake,” Hawkwood said. Unobtrusively, he tried twisting his wrists inside the manacles, but there was no give at all. He was held fast.

Another smile. “You were misinformed.”

“I was also told you didn’t speak much English,” Hawkwood said.

“Wrong again.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that your name isn’t de Rochefort, either.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s a wild guess,” Hawkwood said, “but I think your name’s William Lee.”

“Well now, aren’t you the clever one. And how did you figure that?”

“There was an American officer fought with Sherbrooke at Talavera. You sound just like him.”

“Do I now? That’s interesting. And how come an American was fighting for an English king?”

“I don’t remember,” Hawkwood said. “How come you’re fighting for Bonaparte?”

And why was Jago working for the enemy?

Lee folded his arms. “I have my reasons.”

“Money.” Hawkwood spat out the word as if it were an obscenity.

Lee’s face hardened. “You think that’s what this is about?” The American smiled thinly. “Oh, they’re paying me well, friend. I’ll not deny that. But the money ain’t the main incentive, Captain Hawkwood. It never was.”

The American fell silent.

Hawkwood waited, but Lee seemed wrapped in thought.

“So, what was Mandrake’s price?” Hawkwood asked.

And Jago’s.

“Ah, now, that’s more straightforward. We made him an offer. Advised him, quietly of course, that if he didn’t help us, the United States Government would no longer guarantee the integrity of his…how shall I put it?…overseas investments? As you know, Lord Mandrake still enjoys a substantial income from the tobacco trade—plantations in Virginia, and so forth.”

As if to add emphasis to the explanation, Lee reached into his pocket and extracted a half-smoked cheroot. The American opened the lantern and lit the cigar from the flame. Taking a long, luxuriant draw, Lee held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds before exhaling.

“As you may have deduced, not only is my Lord Mandrake a remarkably astute businessman, he’s also a pragmatist.” William Lee smiled once more and examined the end of his cheroot.

“You mean he’s a bloody turncoat!”

“That kind of depends which side you’re on, doesn’t it?” Lee took another appreciative pull on his cigar.

“Are we going to top the bastard, or not?”

Hawkwood had forgotten Scully. The voice in his ear and the hand on his shoulder reminded him.

Lee flicked ash. “Easy, Scully. Me and the captain here are having a conversation.”

Hawkwood said, “How did you know I was a captain?”

Fool! Because Jago would have told him.

Lee rested his haunches on the table and rolled the cheroot between fingers and thumb. “Oh, you know, friends in high places. Word gets around. I know quite a lot about you. Question is, how much do you know about me?”

“We know everything,” Hawkwood said. Even as he said it, he knew it didn’t sound very convincing.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Lee said drily, picking a shred of tobacco from his lip. “I really do.”

“We know about the plunging boat.” Immediately, Hawkwood wondered if that had been a wise admission.

“Well, of course you do,” Lee said. “I’d be mightily surprised if you didn’t.”

The American’s nonchalance was disconcerting. Hawkwood was gaining the distinct impression that he was missing an important part of the picture. How come Lee was so damned cocky? Notwithstanding he wasn’t the one tied to a chair.

“If you kill me,” Hawkwood said, “they’ll only send someone else.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Lee said jovially. “I surely do. But by then it’ll be too late.”

“Can I do ’im now?” Scully, pleading.

“Patience, Scully. You’ll get your chance. My apologies again, Captain, but Scully here don’t take kindly to police officers, or any kind of officer, come to that. Ain’t that right, Scully?”

“They’re all sons of bitches, every man jack of ’em. Alive or dead, makes no difference.”

“See what I mean?” Lee said.

“The bastard belongs in Bedlam,” Hawkwood said. “How come he’s working for you?”

“What’s he say?” Scully demanded.

“He doesn’t like you,” Lee said. “He thinks you should be in an asylum.”

“Does he now?” Scully said.

Scully’s fist thudded against the side of Hawkwood’s skull. For several seconds the world went dark. Hawkwood wondered if his jaw was broken. He probed the inside of his mouth with his tongue. A couple of teeth felt loose.

“Looks like the feeling’s mutual,” Lee observed.

The American took another lingering pull on his cheroot. “Actually, Scully here was recommended. Came across a shipmate of his in Le Havre. Said he’d sailed with Scully in the old days. Told me that he knew the river like the back of his hand and that he didn’t take much to authority. Told me he didn’t care much for your King George either. Sounded like a perfect combination to me. A man I could use.”

Scully grinned then. Hawkwood was reminded of a dog wagging its tail at the mention of its name.

“Funny,” Scully said, “but you ’as to laugh. Don’t see a bloody officer for months, then three of ’em come by all at once. Am I lucky, or what?”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

“You killed Warlock,” Hawkwood said hollowly.

“Warlock?” Scully frowned. “You mean your Runner pal? Aye, s’pose I did, when you think about it. Enjoyed every minute of it, too.”

Only the manacles prevented Hawkwood from going for Scully’s throat. He stared at Lee. “On your orders?”

Lee was coming to the end of his cheroot. He blew out smoke and shook his head. “Your colleague’s death was regrettable and it wasn’t my choosing. His lordship overreacted, I’m afraid. Though once your friend had blundered in, we couldn’t just let him walk away.”

So, like the good bloodhound that he was, Warlock had followed the clockmaker’s trail to Mandrake House. Somehow, he’d discovered a connection between the clock-maker’s disappearance and Lee’s plan for the submersible, and made a run for it with the drawings. But then he’d been found out, and they’d killed him. Or rather Scully had.

“Does that mean the old man’s dead too?”

“The clockmaker?” Lee shook his head again. “He’s more use to us alive.”

But Scully had said something about three coming by all at once. What did he mean…?

And suddenly, things became infinitely clearer.

“It was you,” Hawkwood said. “You held up the mail coach.”

Who better to have recognized a lieutenant’s uniform than an ex-seaman?

Hawkwood said, “You shot the courier. You cut his hand off.”

Scully’s knowing grin said it all.

Lee grimaced. “A mite excessive, I’ll grant you, but we had to retrieve the plans. Couldn’t risk your Admiralty boys getting their hands on them. Oh, I know they’ll have had access to Fulton’s earlier designs, but there’ve been a few improvements since then. No sense in making it easier for them. Mind you, full marks to that agent of yours. Led Bonaparte’s men a right merry dance. Why, they lost him so many times, they didn’t know whether they were coming or going. Sheer luck we were able to pick up his trail. Found out he’d taken passage on a smuggler’s ketch out of St Valery. Turns out the contrabandist was another of Scully’s old cronies. Been worth his weight in gold, has Scully. Ain’t that so?”

Hawkwood said, “So, who was your partner on that job, Scully? Who was it killed the driver? One of your mutineer friends?” Hawkwood’s gaze shifted to William Lee. “Or maybe it was you.”

Scully laughed. “It were neither, squire. An’ if I told you, you’d never believe me. If you only knew…”

Jago? Surely to God, not Nathaniel!

But, even as that thought entered his mind Hawkwood knew it couldn’t have been either Lee or Jago. From the witnesses’ descriptions, the robbers were like master and apprentice. Both Lee and Jago were too old.

“That’s enough!” Lee said, the warning implicit.

The grip on Hawkwood’s shoulder tightened perceptibly. Hawkwood tasted a coppery wetness on his lip. Blood, he guessed; Scully’s blow having split the skin.

Lee clicked his tongue. “Y’see, Captain, there’s the rub. You ask too many damned questions. And right now, I ain’t inclined to provide any more answers. Which means you’ll just have to die in ignorance.” The American shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Captain, but I don’t have a choice. You’ve become a nuisance. You might not know every last detail, but you’re still a risk we can do without.”

We?

“Come on now,” Lee said reassuringly. “Don’t look so aggrieved. You did damned well to get this far.”

This far? Hawkwood thought. As far as he could see, he hadn’t got anywhere. He’d managed to follow a half-cold trail which had led him precisely nowhere. A dead end. Literally, as it was turning out.

Lee pushed himself away from the table. “All right, Scully, I guess his time’s up. I’ll leave you to it.”

Hawkwood said desperately, “We know about Thetis.”

Lee smiled and shook his head. “No you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Scully hissed. “My oath, I am.”

The big seaman reached into his belt. Hawkwood was expecting him to draw the sword. Instead it was a length of blue metal. Hawkwood felt his stomach turn over. It was a marlinespike.

“And this time,” Lee said, his hand on the door latch, “make sure and hide the body. We don’t want him found like the other one.”

“Don’t you worry.” Scully gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve got just the place.”

Hawkwood said, “Whatever you’re planning, Lee, you won’t get away with it.”

The American smiled, unperturbed.

“The Devil will come for your soul, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “You’ll burn in hell for this.”

The American raised an eyebrow in surprise. “The Devil? Why, Officer Hawkwood, don’t tell me you’re a student of Marlowe? And here was I thinking you were just a simple peace officer. You continue to amaze me, you really do. But it’s a tad late I’m afraid.” Lee smiled disarmingly. “What was it the good doctor said? ’My heart’s so hardened. I cannot repent’?”

“They’ll hunt you down,” Hawkwood said. “They’ll find you and they’ll hang you.”

“They can try,” Lee said, “but they’ll be too damned late.” He pulled the door open. “Your servant, Captain.” The American paused. “By the way, did you know that Kit Marlowe died in Deptford? Curious that, don’t you think? A brawl over an unpaid bill, I believe. Well, I’ll warrant it won’t be a playwright’s death that Deptford’ll be remembered for. Not after I’ve done.” Lee winked, jammed the stub of the cheroot between his lips and bowed mockingly. The door closed behind him.

“Just you and me now, squire,” Scully said, breaking into Hawkwood’s confused thoughts. He tapped the marlinespike suggestively against the palm of his hand. His eyes were as black as stone.

An image of Henry Warlock’s shattered skull leapt uninvited into Hawkwood’s mind. Pierced, Dr McGregor had said, possibly by a chisel. Staring at the pointed shaft of metal in Scully’s meaty fist, it looked such an obvious murder weapon it was hard to believe they could have considered anything else.

“You’ll swing for this, Scully. You’ll be crow bait, too.”

“Funny,” Scully said. “That’s what your mate said, and look what ’appened to ’im.”

Hawkwood tugged at the chains, knowing it was futile. “Christ Almighty, Scully! The bastard’s working for the French!”

“So?”

“So, they’re the enemy, in case you’ve forgotten!”

“I ain’t forgotten nothing, squire. I ain’t forgotten the stinkin’ pay nor the stinkin’ food. I ain’t forgotten the bleedin’ arse-wipes who called themselves officers, neither, nor the floggings. You ever been flogged, Captain Hawkwood? Nah, don’t suppose you ’ave. Christ, you sound like you expect me to be grateful! Why d’you think I went over to the bleedin’ Frogs in the first place? You can’t be that bloody stupid?” Scully hefted the spike. “Come on, I’ve ’ad enough of this. Time to die!”

Surprise, Hawkwood knew, was his only weapon. Scully would be expecting him to draw back, to shrink away. Hawkwood decided that attack was the best policy. He knew he’d only get the one chance. He had already braced himself. When Scully stepped forward, Hawkwood clamped his manacled hands around the arms of the chair and heaved himself to his feet. Scully grunted and jerked back. Hawkwood twisted his body, driving the side of the chair into Scully’s hip. If he could tip him off balance…

But Scully was ready for him and it had always been an unequal contest. Sidestepping with ease, Scully kicked Hawkwood across the thigh. Hawkwood’s legs folded. Unable to put his hands out to break his fall and encumbered by the chair, he crashed on to the deck. He landed on his side, his elbow striking the wooden boards with a sharp crack. The pain was excruciating. Scully, spitting profanities, moved in. His free hand moved to his belt. This time it was the sword, the blade short and broad: a navy cutlass.

“Nice try, cully, but you’re dead. I’m going to break your skull, then I’m going to chop you up. The night soil men can take the pieces downriver. They’ll be burying your bones with the rest of the shit, come morning.”

Hawkwood couldn’t move. His right arm was paralysed. He was as helpless as a turtle on its back. He tried aiming a double-footed kick at Scully’s ankles, but it was a futile gesture. The chair hampered all movement.

Scully laughed contemptuously. “Thought you’d put up a fight, did you? Won’t do you no good.” Scully juggled the marlinespike in his hand. “Y’know, your mate was tougher than he looked. I spiked ’im hard. Thought ’e was dead when we put ’im in the boat. We were goin’ to take ’im upriver and dump ’is body, too. Couldn’t believe it when ’e went over the side. Figured ’e’d gone under for good when we couldn’t find him. I ’eard ’e actually made it to shore. Game sod!”

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to crawl.

“Rot in hell, Scully!”

Scully raised the marlinespike. Hawkwood turned his head away and waited for the blow.

The door crashed open. “SPIKERRRR!”

Scully whirled, the grin dying on his lips as the body hurtled towards him. The cutlass swept down. The sound of the blade carving into flesh was sickeningly loud.

Hawkwood looked on in horror as Weazle’s body hit the floor beside him. Blood was pumping from the gaping wound in the little man’s throat. The dwarf’s eyes were wide open, but Hawkwood doubted Weazle had even seen the blow that had struck him. A gag had been tied round Weazle’s mouth to prevent him from crying out a warning. As he watched, Hawkwood saw the light in the dwarf’s eyes flicker and die.

The speed and force of Jago’s shoulder-charge lifted Scully off his feet and pitched the seaman across the table. As the two men tumbled backward, the cutlass point struck the overhead lantern, sending it smashing against the bulkhead. Burning oil splashed over the unmade bunk, igniting mattress and blanket. Small flames began to lick the deck.

Jago got to his feet. His right hand was clamped around a heavy wooden cudgel.

“Cap’n!” He bent down and saw the chains. “Christ!”

“Nathaniel!” Hawkwood yelled the warning as Scully rose into view from behind the table, eyes blazing.

Jago stood up and turned. “I warned you, Scully! Harm him and you’d answer to me!”

Scully was still holding the sword. His left hand gripped the marlinespike like a dagger. “Jago, I’m going to rip your heart out!”

Scully came round the table and lunged forward. Jago leapt backwards, the sword blade missing his ribs by a hair’s breadth. Scully cursed and tried again. Recovering his balance, Jago countered quickly, scything the cudgel towards Scully’s head. Scully ducked. The club caught him on the shoulder. The big seaman bellowed in anger and retreated.

The fire from the broken lantern had begun to spread. The oil-soaked bedding was now well alight. The wooden bunk was also burning. The flames had traversed the deck and were lapping the bottom of the bulkhead and the underside of the door. The hem of Weazle’s coat had begun to smoulder.

Hawkwood struggled to get himself upright. Feeling was returning to his arm. Placing his boots against Weazle’s corpse for purchase, his first intention was to try and push himself clear of the expanding flames.

In the confined space, Scully and Jago circled each other warily. Scully slashed the cutlass towards Jago’s arm. Firelight danced along the blade. Jago swapped the cudgel to his other hand. Parrying the steel, he smashed the cudgel against Scully’s exposed wrist. Scully roared as the bone snapped. The sword fell from his nerveless fingers. Desperately, he jabbed the marlinespike towards Jago’s throat. Jago swatted the spike aside and followed through, ramming the end of the cudgel into Scully’s stomach. Air exploded from the mutineer’s lungs.

Jago didn’t hesitate. Kicking the marlinespike out of Scully’s hand, Jago drove the cudgel head hard against the seaman’s bald skull. Scully toppled sideways. His heel caught the table leg and he went down. Jago moved in. The seaman was on all fours, trying groggily to push himself off the deck. He had retrieved the marlinespike. Blood was streaming down Scully’s face. Jago stood over the kneeling mutineer, his face dispassionate. He raised the cudgel and brought it down for a second time. There was a noise like an axe splitting a melon in two. Scully’s carcass pitched forward and lay still. The marlinespike clattered across the deck.

Jago viewed the body with disgust. “Gutless piece of shit!”

Weazle’s hair and clothing were ablaze. Hawkwood could smell burning flesh. The pool of blood from Weazle’s throat was sizzling like bacon fat in the heat. Smoke filled the cabin. Shouts of alarm could be heard outside.

Hawkwood found his voice and nodded towards the dwarf’s pockets. “The key! Look for the bloody key!”

The search seemed to take for ever, until, with a grunt of satisfaction, Jago held the key aloft. Quickly, he knelt down, unlocked the manacles and hauled Hawkwood to his feet.

Hawkwood rubbed circulation into his wrists. The cabin was now well and truly alight. The fire had taken full control and the heat was ferocious. Hawkwood looked frantically for an escape route. “The window!”

He had his foot halfway over the sill when Jago said firmly, “Not on your bleedin’ life!”

“What?” Hawkwood gasped as he saw the big man draw back.

“I ain’t jumpin’,” Jago said.

“Christ, Nathaniel! The bloody ship’s on fire!”

Jago shook his head. “Take a look. It’s as black as a witch’s crotch down there. Can you see what you’re jumping into?”

The roar and crackle of the flames were getting louder. Hawkwood could hardly see the door for smoke. He stared at Jago in disbelief. “You jumped ship to avoid the provost, for God’s sake! What’s the difference?”

“Difference is I could see what I was doin’! It’s the middle of the bleeding night f’r Chris’sakes!”

“I don’t believe this!” Hawkwood swore, pulling his foot in. “All right, we’ll use the bloody door!”

He was halfway across the cabin when he paused. It was Jago’s turn to swear as Hawkwood stepped over Scully’s body and ran back to the table. The sergeant watched as Hawkwood appeared to thrust his hands into the fire. Then Hawkwood had the ebony baton in his fist and he was following Jago out of the door.

Entering the passage, Hawkwood was unprepared for the astonishing speed with which the fire had taken hold. Already the flames had travelled beyond the stern of the ship and into the sleeping areas. Hammocks and bunks were being abandoned in haste, though a number of the addicts, Hawkwood saw with amazement, were still stretched out, clutching their pipes, oblivious to the danger. Among the rest, blind panic had taken over. People were scrambling for safety. Pockets of fire, caused by upturned lamps and candles, had broken out all over the deck. No effort was being made to douse them. Everyone was too intent in finding an escape route and saving his or her own skin.

Hawkwood couldn’t see a damned thing. The back of his throat was raw. His eyes were streaming. It felt as if his lungs were being grilled. He sensed Jago moving ahead of him, pushing bodies aside, many of them half naked. A man howled in pain as he tripped and fell. His cry for help was cut off by the trampling feet of those coming up behind him.

The blaze was not only spreading upwards, it was moving down, into the bowels of the ship, destroying everything in its path. Burning hammocks were disintegrating and dropping through open hatchways, igniting material on the lower decks. A rising tide of humanity was fleeing for its life, climbing over everything in its path, like a rat pack in a drain. The Rat’s Nest was being devoured.

Smoke had fast become the main enemy. In the inky darkness below decks it was insinuating its deadly coils into every nook and cranny. The air was heavy with the pungent smell of burning hemp, tar and opium.

Hawkwood was thinking that he should have pushed Jago out of the stern window when he’d had the chance. They might have suffered a broken arm or leg, but it would have been better than burning to death. Hawkwood knew they didn’t have much time. The air was being sucked from his lungs.

And then, mercifully, he felt Jago’s massive hand on his collar and he was being pulled upwards. They were at the bottom of the companionway and Jago’s strong arm was around his shoulder, guiding him up the stairs. Smoke was billowing out of the hatchway as Hawkwood clambered on to the deck and the night air, which before had seemed the foulest concoction, had never tasted so pure.

If the establishment had a name, Hawkwood could not recall it. He assumed it was just one of the many two-penny houses that existed within the river districts, where a sailor with money in his pocket could find himself a bed and a bottle, and a whore for the night.

They had been admitted to the house by a hard-faced woman, who had greeted Jago not with annoyance or surprise at the late visit, but with warmth and affection. After a murmured conversation, during which no introductions were made, the woman led them through to the small kitchen at the back of the building. Bidding them goodnight, she left, the sound of her footsteps fading as she made her way upstairs, candle held aloft.

Jago pointed to a chair. “Sit yourself down.”

Hawkwood watched as Jago raided the pantry, returning with a jug and two tin mugs. “Get some of this down you.”

“This from Boney’s cellars too?” Hawkwood asked, pouring from the jug and taking a sip. He winced as the brandy rinsed the split in his gum.

Jago grinned and raised his own mug. “Just like old times. You in the wars, and me lookin’ after you.”

Jago’s words, spoken with a grin, were like nails being driven into his heart.

The ex-sergeant frowned. “What?”

“I thought it was you, Nathaniel. I thought you’d fed me to Scully.”

“You talkin’ about the note?”

Hawkwood nodded. “I should have known. I’m sorry, Nathaniel. I was a bloody idiot.”

“Is that all? Bloody hell, Cap’n. If I’d been in your shoes, I’d have thought that too. Don’t go tearing yourself up. We been through too much together for me to hold that against you.”

“Which is why I should have known better,” Hawkwood said, shaking his head. “I was a damned fool.” Then the thought struck him. “So, how the hell did you know where I was? How did you know about the note?”

Jago shook his head. “Blind luck. I finally had a tickle from Lippy Adams over in Bell Lane, regardin’ the goods ’oisted from your coach ’old-up. Lippy owes me a favour or two. Couldn’t believe my luck when he told me it was Spiker who’d dropped the stuff off. Figured I’d get a message to you, using young Jenny. Would you credit it, she told me she’d passed one message on already. From bloody Spiker, no less! Which was when alarm bells started ringing. Mind you, Jen weren’t much use. Can’t read, can she? She couldn’t tell me what the bleedin’ note said!”

Hawkwood waited patiently. He knew Jago would get to the point eventually.

“Well, Spiker’s nowhere to be found—no big surprise. But then I gets to thinking that likely as not he can’t read nor write neither. Which means he must ’ave ’ad someone write ’is note for him. And in our neck o’ the woods there’s only one scribe who’d do that for ’im. Solly Linnett.”

“So, you had words with Solly.”

“That I did. In fact we ’ad an entire conversation. Very obligin’, is old Solly, given the right inducements. Told me everything I needed to know, and not a moment too soon, from what I could see.” Jago’s face split into another disarming grin. “Swear to God, I don’t know what you’d do without me. You’re not safe to be let out on your own.” The ex-sergeant’s expression turned suddenly serious. “Now, would you mind tellin’ me just what the bleedin’ ’ell’s goin’ on?”

“I’m not sure you’d believe me,” Hawkwood said wearily.

“Try me,” Jago offered. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

So Hawkwood told him. Beginning with the coach robbery, through to the missing clockmaker, Warlock’s murder and William Lee and his submersible boat. By the time he’d finished, Hawkwood’s throat, though well lubricated with brandy, felt as if it had been stuffed with nettles. He suspected it had as much to do with the amount of smoke he had inhaled as with his telling of the tale.

“Bloody hell!” Jago said, after a lengthy silence. “You weren’t kiddin’, were you? So, what happens now?”

“We find Lee and stop him.”

“Whoa!” Jago said. “What do you mean, we? Jesus, you’ve got a bloody nerve!” The big man fell silent, then he sighed. “Christ, all right, I’m in. But how are we goin’ to stop the bugger if we don’t know where he is?”

“I don’t know,” Hawkwood said. “I’ve a feeling I’m missing something, something important.”

Both men stared into their drinks.

“Bleedin’ generals,” Jago said.

Hawkwood looked at him. “What?”

Jago sighed. “Bleedin’ generals—remember? What was it we used to say? They never tell you anything. They keep you in the dark and feed you on shit, like bloody mushrooms. Well, if you ask me, I reckon that’s what’s been happening here. I think someone up there ain’t tellin’ you the full story. I reckon once you find out what it is they ain’t been tellin’ you, you’ll be able to figure it out.”

“They should have made you a bloody general,” Hawkwood said.