Ratcatcher

16

Hawkwood grinned at the big man’s discomfort. “No need to look so worried, Nathaniel. You’re safe. You’re with me.”

“If you say so.” Despite the reassurance, Nathaniel Jago did not look like a man convinced.

But then at two o’clock in the morning, in the Chief Magistrate’s chambers at Bow Street, Hawkwood thought with amusement, who could blame him?

A bleary-eyed Ezra Twigg had answered the door. The little clerk, clad incongruously in a calf-length nightshirt and tasselled cap, had taken one look at Hawkwood’s smokeblackened clothes and bruised face and the big man standing beside him, and let them into the house without uttering a single word.

“I need to speak with him, Ezra,” Hawkwood said. “Is he up?”

“Course he’s up,” the clerk grumbled. “Still dressed, too. Doesn’t need any sleep, that one. Not like some of us,” he added tartly.

As Twigg padded off, muttering dire threats of retribution, Hawkwood led the way upstairs.

Did the Chief Magistrate ever go to bed? Hawkwood wondered. When James Read appeared, shadowed by the now hastily attired Ezra Twigg, he looked as well turned out and as urbane as ever, and not at all put out by the lateness of the hour.

“Good morning, Hawkwood.” James Read paused as his eyes took in both men. “Ah, the redoubtable Sergeant Jago, I presume?”

Jago shot Hawkwood a startled glance.

“Come now, Sergeant,” Read said. “No need to be alarmed. Your description and reputation precedes you.” Read looked Hawkwood up and down. “I suspect I’m going to regret asking this, but why do you look like something that has been trampled by a squad of dragoons?”

“I’ve been having words with one of our highwaymen.”

The Chief Magistrate brightened instantly. “Have you indeed? Capital!”

“Not really,” Hawkwood said. “He’s dead. Nathaniel killed him.”

James Read’s face fell. “That is most unfortunate.” The magistrate peered questioningly towards Jago. “His death was unavoidable, I take it?”

“He’d have killed me, if he’d had his way,” Hawkwood said. “Nathaniel saved my life.”

“In that case, Sergeant, we’re much obliged to you.” Read moved towards his desk. “So, who was he?”

“His name was Scully. Ex-navy, which explains his lack of horse sense. He was the one who shot agent Ramillies. He and his partner were working for William Lee.” Hawkwood paused. “We met him, too.”

It was almost comical the way the Chief Magistrate froze in mid stride. “You met Lee? He’s here?” Suddenly Read checked, looking first at Jago then at Hawkwood. His eyes darted a warning.

“Sergeant Jago knows, sir. I told him everything.”

The Chief Magistrate cocked an eyebrow. “Did you indeed? That was rather presumptuous of you.”

“Nathaniel did save my life.”

James Read’s severe expression did not waver. “Yes, so you said.”

“I thought he should know what he’s got himself into.”

“Quite.” The Chief Magistrate did not speak for several moments. Finally, he broke the uncomfortable silence. “As you may have gathered, er…Sergeant, I’m well aware of your—how shall I put it?—current activities. I’m equally familiar with your background and your connection with Officer Hawkwood. It’s for that reason, and due to your actions this night, I’m prepared to abide by his commendation. You’ve become privy to highly sensitive information, however. Do I have your word of honour you’ll not speak of these matters to anyone outside these walls?”

Jago looked at Hawkwood then back at the Chief Magistrate. The ex-sergeant drew himself erect. “You have my word, sir.”

Read met the promise with a curt nod. “Very well.” The Chief Magistrate took his seat. “All right, tell me about William Lee. You’re certain it was he?”

Hawkwood nodded. “Turns out I’d already met him, though I didn’t know it at the time. He was passing himself off as Lord Mandrake’s house guest, probably as a means of taking a sly look at me, the cocky bastard. Anyway, the message from the girl was a ruse. Nathaniel didn’t send it. Lee did. He wants me dead. It seems I’ve become a nuisance. They used the girl because Scully knew I’d recognize her.” Hawkwood hesitated. “Scully killed Warlock, too.”

A shadow passed over James Read’s face. He listened in silence as Hawkwood recounted the details. When the Runner had finished, the magistrate sighed heavily. “I see. Then it appears we’re doubly indebted to you, Sergeant. You’ve saved us the expense of a hanging.” To Hawkwood, he added, “You say you still don’t know the identity of his accomplice?”

“Not yet, but I’ll find out.”

James Read nodded. “Let’s hope it’s sooner rather than later. As for Lee, is there any way he could have perished in the fire?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“A pity. It would have saved us a deal of bother.” James Read turned to his clerk. “Make a note, Mr Twigg. When we’re done here, you’re to summon Officer Lightfoot. His duties at the Bank of England are now complete. On my orders, he is to proceed north with all dispatch, to Lord Mandrake’s estate at Northwich. He is to arrest Lord Mandrake on sight and return with him to this office. He is to use force if necessary.”

“Very good, sir.” The clerk’s face betrayed no emotion. Ezra Twigg’s lengthy tenure at Bow Street had prepared him for every eventuality. The apprehension of a peer of the realm was all in a day’s work, no different to the arrest of a pickpocket or the protection of a bullion consignment.

“And what of the clockmaker?” Read asked. “Is Master Woodburn dead or alive?”

“Alive. They still need him, apparently. Lee didn’t say why. My guess is it’s for some sort of repair work to the submersible boat. Whatever it is, it must be something delicate, that only someone with a clockmaker’s skill could attempt.”

James Read looked thoughtful. “So, there’s still some hope for him, at least. I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies.”

Hawkwood said cautiously, “There’s one thing that’s been troubling me.”

James Read nodded. “You’re wondering how Lee knows so much. I confess it’s been causing me some concern also.”

“He has friends in high places.”

“And upon what do you base that assumption?”

“It’s no assumption. It’s fact. He told me. I asked him how he knew I’d been a captain, and that was the answer he gave me.”

Read frowned. “He’ll have got that from Lord Mandrake surely, or this Scully fellow.”

“Perhaps,” Hawkwood conceded. “But I’m not so sure. It’s just a feeling I’ve had. It wasn’t so much what he said, it was the way he said it. Friends in high places. He was boasting. He wouldn’t boast about Mandrake, certainly not about Scully. In any case, how did Mandrake know we were on to him? We suspected he might be a turncoat, but Mandrake knew we suspected him. That’s why he left in such a hurry. But how did he know?

“And there’s something else…” Hawkwood paused. “When I told Lee we knew about Thetis, he seemed to find that amusing. Said we only thought we knew. How does he know what we’re thinking? Maybe somebody told him.”

James Read closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, he looked tired, as though sleep had finally begun to catch up with him. He opened his eyes. “You realize what you’re suggesting?”

“I could be wrong,” Hawkwood said.

“And then again, you could be right.” The Chief Magistrate’s expression was grim.

“There’s another thing,” Hawkwood said.

The Chief Magistrate blinked. “What?”

“Christopher Marlowe.”

“Who the bleedin’ ’ell is Christopher Marlowe?” Jago asked. “Not another mate of Scully’s?”

James Read frowned. “Not is, Sergeant, was. He was a writer of plays. He died over two hundred years ago. Forgive me, Hawkwood, but I fail to see the relevance.”

“You ain’t the only one,” Jago said. “What the hell has this got to do with anything?”

Pointedly, James Read had not echoed William Lee’s surprise at Hawkwood’s familiarity with the playwright. A Bow Street Runner’s duties were many and varied, including personal protection. Among Hawkwood’s more notable and notorious clients had been the actor Edmund Kean. Kean, a small, unattractive man with a sour disposition, had appeared a year before at Covent Garden in a short season of Marlowe’s works. Hawkwood had spent a good part of his time in the theatre wings. Whereas offstage Kean had been a rude and arrogant monster, onstage he was a genius, scorning theatrical convention and enthralling audiences with an ease that was a wonder to behold. When Hawkwood had returned to his regular police work he had taken with him a fascination and grudging respect for the actor’s skills and a lingering appreciation for Marlowe’s work.

“Lee quoted Faustus at me,” Hawkwood said.

Nathanial Jago continued to look blank. The Chief Magistrate rode to his rescue. “Faustus is a character in one of Marlowe’s plays; a doctor who promises his soul to the Devil in exchange for wealth and power.” The magistrate grimaced. “Lee obviously sees a similarity with his current allegiance.”

“Lee also told me where Marlowe died,” Hawkwood said.

The Chief Magistrate’s head turned slowly.

“He told me it wouldn’t only be Marlowe’s death that Deptford would be remembered for.”

There was a pause. “Oh, dear God,” Read said.

“Would somebody please tell me what the hell’s goin’ on!” Jago demanded.

James Read shook his head. “It means, Sergeant, that we have severely underestimated our American friend. By God, Hawkwood, I pray we’re mistaken. If not, then not only is our William Lee an arrogant rogue, he is also possessed of a particularly callous sense of humour.”

Jago looked helplessly from one to the other.

“The ship, Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said, “he was talking about the ship.”

Read turned to Jago. “The ship, Sergeant, remember? We believed Lee’s mission was to destroy HMS Thetis. She’s lying currently at the Deptford yard. We made the mistake of assuming Lee would be making his attack in open water, or at least that he’d wait until Thetis was in the estuary. We were wrong. Lee’s presence in London and his remarks to Hawkwood confirm our misunderstanding. He’s not going to wait. He means to launch his attack now, here! The enemy is not abroad, Sergeant. He is among us!”

The penny dropped. “Sufferin’ Jesus!” Jago breathed.

“The admiral told us she sails on the twenty-seventh.” Hawkwood said.

James Read nodded. “Today, Hawkwood. She sails today! With the Prince of Wales on board!”

Hawkwood’s first reaction was to contradict and say it wasn’t possible, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Lee’s devil-may-care attitude, his off-hand response to Hawkwood’s revelation that his plan had been found out, his farewell remark; they all added up to one thing. They had thought they were one step ahead of the American. In reality, they were two steps behind.

“Which means the submersible’s here,” Hawkwood said.

Silence filled the room.

“So, where the hell is it?”

The Chief Magistrate placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. “That, Hawkwood, is what we must find out. There’s no time to lose.”

“But it could be anywhere!”

“Then we must think carefully. We must apply logic.”

“Logic?”

“We must narrow the field of search.” James Read swung towards his clerk. “Mr Twigg, we’re going to need maps. If you’d be so kind as to fetch Master Horwood’s plans of London; the sheets covering the immediate vicinity of the river will suffice. Sharply now!”

“He must be mad if he thinks he can get away with it,” Jago said, as the clerk hurried away.

James Read shook his head. “Not mad, Sergeant. Imagine if the situation was reversed and it was one of our own captains who’d managed to infiltrate a fireship filled with explosives up the Seine. We wouldn’t call him mad. We’d call him brave, audacious, a hero!”

Not me, Hawkwood thought. I’d call him a bloody idiot. Unless, of course, he got away with it.

Hawkwood thought about the consequences if Lee’s daredevil plan succeeded. Frankly, they didn’t bear thinking about. If, or when, the public learned that a French secret weapon had destroyed a British warship a stone’s throw from the seat of government, there’d be panic in the streets. And the terror wouldn’t end there. No vessel would dare leave harbour for fear of being similarly attacked. And how could Britain command the seas if she couldn’t even protect her own ports or rivers? The effect on trade would be catastrophic. And if the French built a fleet of submersibles, what then? How would the country combat such a deadly threat? How could it re-equip its armies abroad?

Bonaparte had tried to choke Britain into submission before, through decrees issued in Berlin and Milan, forbidding countries under his rule to trade with his mortal enemy. Britain had retaliated by blockading foreign ports and the nations that had implemented the decrees. Admiral Gambier had even destroyed the Danish fleet at Copenhagen. As long as Britain retained mastery over the oceans, Bonaparte’s plan would fail; but if the actions of just one submersible managed to bottle up the entire British Navy, the Emperor could start to breathe again. The balance of power would shift dramatically. The fabric of the nation was at stake.

Ezra Twigg returned, bearing maps. There wasn’t room on the desk so they had to spread them out on the floor. By the time they had been laid out, there wasn’t much carpet visible, but what they had amounted to a bird’s-eye view of the Thames, stretching from Cheyne Walk to the River Lea.

Hawkwood looked despairingly at the distances involved. Nearly eleven miles of waterway, not to mention tributaries, canals and docks. How could they be expected to find one small boat, twenty feet in length?

“By elimination,” James Read said. “For example, a hiding place upriver beyond the London dock is unlikely, otherwise he’d be giving himself too much water and too many vessels to negotiate.”

“If I were Lee,” Hawkwood said, pointing, “I wouldn’t attack from downstream either. It would make more sense to run with the current. Once I’d destroyed the ship, I’d want to get out as quickly as possible.”

The Chief Magistrate stared at the mosaic on the floor. “I agree. But where does that leave us? The area between Bermondsey and the Isle of Dogs, perhaps? A little over three miles, I fancy. So, where would be the best place to conceal a submersible?”

Hawkwood was trying to remember Colonel Congreve’s estimate of the submersible’s speed. Lee probably wouldn’t want to expend too much energy or time manoeuvring the craft into position, and three miles still seemed an awful long way. But then, what else was it the colonel had said? Stealth was more important than speed.

Hawkwood looked down at the remaining map sheets. “The vessel was damaged. That’s why they needed the clockmaker. They couldn’t carry out repairs in the open, it would attract too much attention, too many prying eyes. Which means the thing has to be under cover somewhere. So we’re looking for a shelter, a building, something opening on to the river—a warehouse, for instance. Lee isn’t acting on his own. We know that. He has contacts. Which of them is most likely to have access to a warehouse? Someone who deals with cargoes and such? Some sort of trader? A merchant type, perhaps?” Hawkwood looked pointedly at the Chief Magistrate.

The Chief Magistrate slammed his palm on to the desk. “Of course! It’s been staring us in the face!”

“It ’as?” Jago said.

The Chief Magistrate grabbed his clerk’s arm. “Fetch the file on Lord Mandrake, Mr Twigg. We are looking for property owned or rented by his lordship, with river access.”

“Very good, sir.”

Jago caught Hawkwood’s eye and grinned. “I can see why they made you an officer,”

Twigg left the office once more. He was gone less than two minutes. When he returned he was clutching a bundle of documents bound in black ribbon. Even Hawkwood, familiar with Ezra Twigg’s uncanny knack for accumulating and evaluating intelligence, was impressed. The Chief Magistrate, on the other hand, clearly took his clerk’s abilities for granted.

“Very good, Mr Twigg. Locations, if you please.”

As Twigg read out the details, Hawkwood’s hope’s began to fade. All the warehouses used by Lord Mandrake’s trading companies were situated inside the new docklands.

London was the busiest port in the world. Because of their size, large cargo ships were unable to sail upriver beyond London Bridge, so unloading had been restricted to the north and south banks below the bridge, which meant, as trade increased, the buildings and wharves had extended downriver. As the size of vessels grew larger, so did the congestion in the port area. The wharves became crowded and confused. Ships sometimes had to wait weeks for their cargoes to be checked and for customs dues to be paid. Added to which was the problem of river pirates and all the other criminals who preyed on shipping. The profits from crime were huge. It was to ease the overcrowding and protect vulnerable and valuable cargoes that the first commercial docks had been built.

Ships could now come up the river at high tide and enter the dock basins. Cargoes could be unloaded and either stored in warehouses or transferred to smaller, shallower draughted vessels for immediate distribution.

Mandrake’s warehouses were spread evenly between the London Dock in Wapping, the West India Docks, north of the Isle of Dogs, and the Grand Surrey Docks in Rotherhithe.

“Looks as if we were wrong,” Hawkwood said, unable to hide his disappointment. “There’s no way Lee would risk taking his submersible inside the dock area. Too impractical, too damned public.”

James Read nodded glumly. “I fear you’re right. Even our Mr Lee wouldn’t be that presumptuous. Though, perhaps we should have the buildings investigated anyway. I’ll contact the River Police and have them make searches—discreetly, of course.” Still despondent, Read turned to his clerk. “Thank you, Mr Twigg. As always your files have proved most illuminating. However, it appears we must look elsewhere for our information.”

The Chief Magistrate frowned. His clerk was not paying attention. Ezra Twigg was staring intently at one of the documents. Suddenly aware that he was being observed, he looked up. “Forgive me, sir.”

“Mr Twigg?” The Chief Magistrate regarded his clerk with concern.

The clerk blinked owlishly. “Er…I believe I may have found something, sir.”

“And what might that be, Mr Twigg?”

The clerk gathered himself. He held up the document. “There’s another warehouse, sir.”

The Chief Magistrate gripped his clerk’s arm. Twigg winced.

“It’s entirely my fault, sir. It’s just that when I was looking at the list of his lordship’s premises, it occurred to me there was no mention of the timber yard.”

“Timber yard?”

“Yes, sir. You see, when his lordship moved his businesses to the new docks, he sold his existing properties to raise the finance. They consisted of…” Twigg consulted the document “…warehouses at Griffin’s Wharf, Battle Bridge, Brewers Quay and New Bear Quay. Also two properties at Phoenix Wharf, Wapping, and storage houses at Trinity Street in Rotherhithe. All sold, sir, all accounted for, except one. His lordship used to import timber from the east, sir. His company had a separate warehouse and timber yard for the purpose. I can find no record of the sale.”

“And where is this warehouse, Mr Twigg?”

A pause.

“In Limehouse, sir.”

Less than a mile and a half upriver from Deptford.

The Chief Magistrate read Hawkwood’s mind. “Take Sergeant Jago with you.”

“What about warning the ship?” Hawkwood asked.

The Chief Magistrate looked thoughtful. “That might be a problem. If Lee does indeed have other friends in high places, warning the ship will surely alert Lee that we’re on to him. Neither would we want to start unnecessary panic. And don’t forget, for all we know, Lee believes you’re dead. That may work to our advantage. No, gentlemen, until we know for certain who is friend or foe, I fear we’re on our own. Which means, Hawkwood, you have to find Lee and his submersible and stop him. By any means possible. There must be no quarter given. You understand what I’m saying, Hawkwood? I’m giving you carte blanche.”

“Then we’d best get started,” Hawkwood said. “Come on, Nathaniel, there’s work to be done.” He turned to the Chief Magistrate. “Where will we find you, sir?”

James Read considered the question. “I will proceed to Deptford. You may contact me there.”

“You’ll warn the Prince?”

“I’ll speak to his advisors, suggest to them that it would be better if His Royal Highness postponed his visit to the yard until the next launching. Now, off with you both.”

As Hawkwood and Jago left the office, the Chief Magistrate and his clerk exchanged pensive looks.

“I fear, Mr Twigg,” James Read murmured softly, “that desperate times are upon us.”

Twigg nodded. Behind his spectacles, his eyes gleamed. The game was afoot and the little clerk scented blood.

“Which means,” Read continued, “that we must now deploy all our resources. Return to your files, Mr Twigg. I want everything you have on Sir Charles Yorke, Admiral Bartholomew Dalryde, Inspector General Thomas Blomefield and Colonel William Congreve. There is treason afoot, Mr Twigg. Treason is a canker and it is my intention to find it and cut it out!”

William Lee lowered his head towards the tin basin, closed his eyes, cupped his palms in the water and doused his face. He did it several times, gasping as the coldness stung his eyes. Finally he raised his head and ran his hands over his close-cropped hair. Water trickled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. He reached for the drying cloth.

Lee stared intently at himself in the mirror. He searched his face, studied the familiar lines, the grey at his temples, the stubble on his cheeks. Dabbing his face with the cloth, his eyes moved to the window and he stared out at the wide grey river.

A recollection of childhood arose, unbidden, in his mind. His boyhood years had been spent on the family farm, close to the bank of another great river, the Delaware, and the small, pleasant town of Fort Penn, less than a day’s ride from the city of Wilmington. There, in the company of his friends, he had explored the local creeks, levees and inlets on foot and in birch-bark canoe.

Until the horror.

It had been early morning when the squad of redcoats had come calling, rousting the family from their beds, giving them barely enough time to dress before dragging his father, Samuel, and his elder brother, Robert, out through the smashed and splintered door and across the yard to the low stone wall that ringed the house.

There had been no trial, no preliminaries, only a short proclamation read by a grim-faced lieutenant. The charge was sedition: providing food and shelter to officers of the rebel army. Sentence to be carried out forthwith. There had been barely time to grasp the true terror of the unfolding events before the morning was split by the sharp bark of command from the sergeant in charge of the firing squad, followed less than a heartbeat later by the ragged rattle of musket shots that rolled across the surrounding meadows like a volley of hail against a window pane.

They had left the bodies where they had fallen, crumpled in the dust at the base of the wall, leaving two sounds forever ingrained in Lee’s memory: the tramp of marching feet from the departing soldiers, and the shrill, keening cries of his mother as she had cradled the head of her son, the blood of the slaughtered boy soaking into the white of her apron.

In the beginning, unsurprisingly, Lee’s hunger for vengeance had been all consuming. His hatred of the British Crown had burned like a furnace in his breast and his desire for revenge had never diminished. Over the intervening years, however, as he had grown older and wiser, the heat of his anger had gradually given way to a low simmer and he had been content to wait, to bide his time until the opportunity presented itself. Thus there had been no strategy in Lee’s vow to his dead sibling, no deadline, just a silent oath that somebody, somewhere, would eventually pay the price.

And then, into his life had stepped Robert Fulton, artist, inventor, showman, philosopher and revolutionary. And only then, bonded by a mutual desire for justice and freedom, and fired by Fulton’s imagination and genius, had the awesome nature, scale and means by which he could exact his revenge revealed itself.

The distant clang of a ship’s bell jolted Lee from his uneasy reminiscence. He looked down at his hand, recalling the tremor as he had taken the tiny cylinder from the carrier pigeon’s leg and extracted the message telling him the waiting was over. A message from an emperor.

Although four weeks had passed since his meeting with Napoleon Bonaparte, it seemed like only yesterday.

It had been another early-morning rendezvous.

Touched by the pale light of dawn, with remnants of sea mist hanging low over the still water, the Seine estuary was a desolate place, inhabited only by mosquitoes and waterfowl. It was a perfect proving ground: hot and humid in high summer, windswept and icebound in winter, and cut off from the surrounding countryside by a latticework of muddy ditches and foetid marshland, the only means of passage through the region a spider’s web of decaying wooden causeways.

They had moored the gribane in the middle of the estuary. Sitting heavily on the water like some scaly weed-encrusted sea monster newly arisen from the deep, the squat Seine barge had certainly seen better days.

In a black, unmarked coach, bracketed by his chausseur escort, the Emperor had arrived accompanied only by his swarthy Mameluke bodyguard, Rustam, and his Minister of Marine, the short, stoop-shouldered admiral, Denis Decres. It had been Decres who had persuaded the Emperor to give Fulton’s device one more chance. It was well known that Emperor Bonaparte had small interest in matters nautical, but Decres was the man in charge of all invasion operations against Britain, so when the little admiral spoke, the Emperor listened.

The testing area had been guarded by a detachment of the imperial guard under the command of a one-eyed veteran of Bonaparte’s Italian and Egyptian campaigns, Major Jean Daubert. The major, Lee learned, had lost his eye during the siege of Acre, in a hard fought, bloody skirmish with Turkish irregulars. He was one of the most arrogant men Lee had ever met.

While the major had fussed and fretted over the Emperor and his entourage, Lee and his two crewmen had boarded the submersible and taken her three hundred yards upstream.

From the shelter of a ruined barn close by the water’s edge, with the stocky greatcoat-clad Emperor waiting impatiently at his side, Admiral Decres had given Lee the signal and the vessel had submerged to launch its attack.

The destruction of the gribane had been sudden, spectacular and total, to the delight of Lee and his crew, the amazement of the Emperor and the alarm of every bird within a half-mile radius. The sound of the explosion had reverberated across the marshland with the force of a thunderclap.

Back on shore, with the barge split in two, driftwood scattered across the grey water, and wooden splinters piercing the surface of the mud flats like arrows, the Emperor had invited Lee to walk with him. There were important matters to discuss.

But that had been after the discovery of the interloper.

It had been in the aftermath of the attack on the barge when—unbeknownst to Lee and his crewman who were still aboard the submersible—all hell had broken loose.

Ironically, it had been the one-eyed Major Daubert who’d spotted the flash of sunlight glancing across the spyglass lens, spearing a warning into the major’s brain, igniting the realization that they were being observed. The major’s response, born of instinct, had been immediate.

Daubert had led the chase, sword drawn, barking orders at his men, galvanized by the sight of a man’s shape breaking from cover and disappearing around the far side of a high sand dune. At which point the chasseurs had joined the hunt, spurring their mounts forward, using their superior speed to cut off the fleeing figure’s line of retreat. It had been a foregone conclusion that the grenadiers and the mounted escort would run their quarry to ground. There was nowhere for him to go. Escape was impossible.

And so it had proved, but not before the bodies of two grenadiers lay dead in the sand, slaughtered by pistol ball and sword blade respectively.

That one man on foot should have wreaked such havoc should have given the major a degree of warning that this was not some local peasant out poaching for game and that it might have been wiser to apprehend the felon alive in order to question him about his origins and intentions.

The sharp crack of a chasseur’s carbine, however, had put paid to that possibility. The fleeing man had reached the water when the ball struck low on his left side, propelling him into the shallows. The major, seeing the quarry stagger towards the middle of the stream, had shouted at his men not to fire again. As the body disappeared beneath the surface, the major had spurred his men forward, but it had been too late. Dragged under by the current, the corpse had been swept away.

Or so it had been assumed.

They had found the discarded pistol close to the body of one of the dead grenadiers and had shown it to Lee upon his return to shore. Lee had immediately put paid to the major’s speculation that the man had been nothing more than an inquisitive local and the admiral’s suggestion that he may have been a would-be assassin sent by Bourbon exiles.

The pistol, Lee had revealed, was English-made; “York”, the city of manufacture, engraved on to the stock had been the giveaway. Probably naval issue, Lee had surmised, an officer’s sidearm.

Which meant what?

The British knew of the device, Lee had told the Emperor. It had been offered to them seven years before. They’d turned it down. However, it wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that they’d received fresh intelligence relating to the improvements in design. It would have been only natural for them to dispatch agents to investigate.

It’s what I would have done, Lee had admitted.

Which was when the Emperor had suggested they take a walk, and the mission had been born.

Lee had been surprised by the Emperor’s candour.

The war in Spain was going badly, the Emperor had admitted. Wellington was proving a formidable opponent. His victories were undermining the will of France’s allies. Allegiances were changing. It was not only the southern borders that were under threat. It had been hoped that Tsar Alexander’s support would remain steadfast, but doubts had been expressed. Severe measures might have to be taken.

It had been Lee who had voiced the unthinkable.

“Your Majesty would attack Russia?”

The Emperor, to Lee’s astonishment, had merely shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Which would have meant the Emperor’s armies would be split, and thus considerably weakened.

“We are very much in need of a miracle,” the Emperor had told him with a grim smile. “A small one would suffice.”

It was possible that Fulton’s device was the key, the means by which Britain’s supply lines to Spain could be disrupted, giving the French time to regroup and push Wellington back into the sea. Which in turn would undoubtedly force Tsar Alexander to reconsider his responsibilities.

“All things are possible, Your Majesty,” had been Lee’s tactful response.

The Emperor had given Lee one month. Whatever was required would be made available. He was to report directly to Admiral Decres.

And remain vigilant.

But they had not allowed for Lieutenant Harry St John Ramillies’ return from the dead.

It had been Bonaparte’s agents who, following the interrogation and execution of suspected Bourbon sympathizers, had passed word that, miraculously, the British spy was still alive, recovering from his wounds, and on the run, aided by the Royalist underground. Moreover, it was believed he carried copies of the submersible’s design.

A brave run that had been brought to an abrupt and bloody end on a lonely, rain-lashed stretch of heathland. But the death of Ramillies, allied to the recovery of the drawings, meant that the mission could at last proceed as planned.

Until, like a pair of inquisitive, meddlesome magpies, Runners Warlock and Hawkwood had come calling. Not that it hadn’t been inevitable, Lee supposed, that the disappearance of Master Woodburn, a craftsman of some repute, would attract the attention of the authorities.

What hadn’t been expected was the competence displayed by the men assigned to track down the missing clockmaker. These were not your usual run-of-the-mill constables, ineffective, corrupt Charlies, but professional thief-takers.

But now, they too, had been dealt with. The seaman, Scully, had seen to that. Scully might be a bruiser, short on brains and heavy on brawn, but he had nevertheless proved exceedingly useful. He had removed both Warlock and Hawkwood, and in removing those two, he had provided Lee with a clear run to his objective. The destruction of which was now only a matter of hours away.

Lee’s eyes moved to the window once more. The Thames was the city’s life force. The femoral artery. But an artery that was about to be severed in spectacular fashion. The wound might not be fatal, but it had the potential to paralyse the nation and set back the British war effort for some considerable time, allowing Emperor Bonaparte the opportunity to marshal his forces and launch an offensive.

So now a ship would burn, a prince would die, and the British would quake in their beds.

And a father and brother would be avenged.

Revenge, Lee thought, as he began to dress, was indeed a repast best served cold.

Hawkwood, seated in the bow of the rowing boat, rested his elbows on the oar and tried to ignore the sticky rivulets of sweat trickling uncomfortably down his back and beneath his armpits. His discarded jacket lay on the seat beside him. Jago, resting on his own oar, chuckled at Hawkwood’s discomfort.

Suspecting that the river would be the most practical means of access, Hawkwood had used his warrant to commandeer the boat from a wherryman at the Ratcliff Cross stairs. The canny boat owner had tried to extract the exorbitant sum of one shilling for the inconvenience and temporary disruption to his livelihood, until a glare from Jago warned him not to push his luck. In the end, Hawkwood had compromised and paid sixpence, four times the normal crossing charge. Better to keep the man quiet, he reasoned, than have him blab to every Tom, Dick and Harry that a Runner was on the prowl.

They were drifting fifty yards off the Limehouse shore. Looking over his left shoulder, Hawkwood could see the bend in the river and the western entrance to the canals and lagoons that formed the huge West India Docks. Beyond the dock entrance, the river widened out to almost a quarter of a mile as it ran southwards towards Deptford and the Isle of Dogs.

With the sun barely over the rooftops, the river was already bustling with activity. Lighters, barges, bumboats, cutters and colliers vied for wharf space and an opportunity to discharge their loads and take on new cargoes, while further downstream the tall, slender masts of the larger vessels, East Indiamen and Royal Navy warships, could be seen outlined against the rapidly brightening sky.

Onshore, it was just as congested. Jetties groaned under the weight of coal sacks, tobacco bales, baulks of timber, liquor casks, and crates of bleating livestock. The smells emanating from the river bank reflected the myriad trades plied within the borough, from the sharp, acrid stench of the lime kilns to the throat-souring odour of the tar yards.

Suddenly, Jago sat up and nodded towards the river bank. “Land ho, Cap’n.”

Hawkwood twisted in his seat, and followed Jago’s gaze.

There was little to distinguish the warehouse from the rest of the waterfront buildings, save for the faded name board nailed on to the wall above the jetty. Located adjacent to the entrance to Limekiln Dock and abutted by a densely packed collection of granaries and storehouses, the warehouse, with its adjoining yard, was not much different from a thousand other commercial properties lining the river from the Tower to Tilbury, albeit in slightly better repair than most.

Both men picked up their oars. “Well, now,” Jago murmured softly, as they sculled closer to the bank. “Take a lookee there.”

Hawkwood followed the big man’s gaze.

A narrow channel and loading dock separated the twostoreyed building from its nearest neighbour, effectively isolating the property from the rest of the waterfront. At the end of the channel, in the shadow of a low stone archway, directly beneath the warehouse at river level, was a pair of heavy wooden doors.

Jago grinned. “Mighty convenient, ain’t they. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Wordlessly, Hawkwood continued to stroke them towards the main shore, to where a weathered stone stairway reached down into the murky water. As the bow of the rowboat nudged the bottom step, Hawkwood shipped his oar and picked up his coat. Jago got to his feet.

“Not you, Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said.

Jago blinked. “Say again?”

Hawkwood turned, foot balanced on the gunwale. “I’m going in alone.”

“The hell you are!” Jago rasped.

Hawkwood stepped ashore. Relieved of his weight, the boat rocked alarmingly. Jago staggered as he searched for balance. “Christ!”

“I need you to keep watch,” Hawkwood said.

“An’ if you run into trouble?” Jago glared. “Bearin’ in mind what ’appened the last time you went gallivantin’ around on your own.”

“Give me an hour. If I’m not back by then, contact Magistrate Read.”

“And then what?”

“He’ll know what to do.”

“Bleedin’ ’ell!” Jago said. “An’ that’s your grand strategy, is it?”

“Unless you’ve a better one.”

Jago stared at Hawkwood. Finally, he shook his head in exasperation. “Can’t say as I do, off ’and.”

Hawkwood reached inside his jacket and took out his baton. He held it out. “Take this.”

“What the bleedin’ ’ell do you expect me to do with that?”

“You may need it. If anything happens to me and you need to get to Magistrate Read, it’ll help open a few doors.”

Reluctantly, Jago accepted the offering.

“Don’t lose it,” Hawkwood said. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

“I’ll stick it up my arse. No one’ll find it there.”

Hawkwood grinned.

As Hawkwood climbed the steps to the quayside, the burly ex-sergeant shook his head and stared glumly at the Runner’s retreating back. “I bloody ’ope you knows what you’re doin’, you mad bugger,” he grunted.

As Hawkwood made his way along the quay, he wondered if it had been such a good idea to leave Jago behind. The ex-sergeant was a good man to have at your back, but it didn’t make sense both of them walking into what might be the lion’s den. So Hawkwood, against his better judgement, and to Nathaniel Jago’s understandable dismay, was on his own.

At least he was having no trouble blending into his surroundings. He’d had no time to return to his lodgings since reporting back to James Read. His long hair remained unbound and he was still wearing the remnants of his old uniform. To anyone on the dockside, he was just another ex-soldier turned river worker. No one spared him a second glance. Hawkwood picked his way along the busy waterfront, senses alert.

Very few people had permanent jobs on the river. Most were casual workers, or lumpers, who lived in the crowded alleys and lanes that ran down to the water, their livelihood dependent solely on the movement of vessels. Most lumpers were either holders, who worked inside the ship’s hold, or deckers. Deckers lifted the cargo to and from the vessel, either on to the dockside or via a lighter. It was hard, backbreaking work, requiring brawn rather than brain. But no man complained if it put a roof over his head or food on the table.

The waterfront was piled high with produce. A heap of sugar sacks sat on the quay in front of him. Without breaking stride, Hawkwood swung the top sack on to his shoulder and carried on walking. He waited for the angry cry but none came. Using the sack to partially conceal his features, he continued along the jetty.

Hawkwood had no clear idea of how he was going to gain access to the warehouse and yard, other than by stealth or deception. He was still considering his options when his attention was caught by a group of men lounging in the doorway of a grog shop. One in five buildings along the riverfront sold liquor in one form or another. Most innkeepers acted as agents, supplying men to ships. Needless to say, they also supplied liquor to the men, deducting the cost from their earnings. It was a lucrative business and there was no shortage of labourers looking for work, so there was nothing untoward about the scene itself. It was the face of a man leaving the grog shop, a knapsack slung over his shoulder, that had caught Hawkwood’s eye. It was a face he recognized, though he couldn’t put a name to it. Then he remembered. It belonged to one of the group who had shared a table with Scully, in Noah’s Ark.

Coincidence? It couldn’t be that simple, surely? But there wasn’t time to dwell on the matter, the man was on the move, heading towards the timber yard. Hawkwood, increasingly conscious of the dead weight he was carrying on his own shoulder, considered his lack of options and set off in cautious pursuit.

For one nerve-shredding moment, Hawkwood wondered if his quarry knew he was being followed. At the end of the gangway spanning the loading dock, the man paused suddenly and looked behind him. Hawkwood turned away quickly. When he looked back the man had resumed his journey. He’s being careful, Hawkwood thought. He doesn’t know he’s being followed, but he’s checking to make sure, and that in itself was cause for thought.

They were approaching the end of the quay. The warehouse and yard lay directly ahead, and the crowd was beginning to thin. Suddenly, twenty paces in front of Hawkwood, the man turned away from the river and ducked into an alleyway. Hawkwood paused, adjusted the sugar sack on his shoulder, then followed around the corner. He found himself unexpectedly at the top of a short wooden stairway. At the bottom of the stairway was a door. Hawkwood’s quarry was there, knapsack at his feet, fumbling with a key. As Hawkwood’s boot hit the top step, the man looked up. Hawkwood was given no time to turn aside. Startled, the man’s eyes widened in shock, then recognition. His hand snatched towards his waist.

Hawkwood hurled the sugar down the stairs. The heavy sack struck his target full in the chest, knocking him off balance. The knife he’d drawn from his belt rattled to the ground. Hawkwood went down fast. His boot thudded into the man’s crotch. As his victim collapsed in a gargling heap, hand clutching his genitals, Hawkwood picked up the knife and jabbed the point of the blade under the unshaven chin.

“Now then, culley, that’s no way to greet an officer of the law.”

No response, other than a low whimper.

Hawkwood bent low. “Sorry? What’s that? Can’t hear you.”

Another groan of pain.

Hawkwood sighed. “All right, let’s start with your name.”

“S-Sparrow.” The reply came in a whisper. “W-Will Sparrow.”

“You’re Spiker’s mate,” Hawkwood said.

Sparrow stared at him. “S-Spiker’s dead.”

“I know that,” Hawkwood grated. “I watched him die.”

Fear drove the last of the colour from Sparrow’s face.

“So,” Hawkwood said, “I’m wondering what brings you to this neck of the woods. Running errands for William Lee? Rushing to tell him the news about Spiker, maybe? That it, Sparrow? Is Lee inside?” Hawkwood reached out and pulled the knapsack towards him. He put a hand inside. Some bottles, a loaf of bread and what felt like a slab of cheese. “What’s this then, breakfast for the troops?” Hawkwood pressed the point of the knife under the skin of Sparrow’s throat. A tiny bubble of blood appeared beneath the tip of the blade. “I think you and me should have a little talk, culley. In private, where no one can hear us. What do you say?”

Sparrow blinked fearfully. Then his eyes moved and Hawkwood heard the faint hiss of breath. Sparrow wasn’t looking at him, he realized. He was looking at something behind him, in the doorway. Hawkwood started to turn, but he was about a thousand years too late. He sensed the shadow above him, heard the soft footfall, followed by a massive explosion of pain as he was struck hard behind the right ear.

The thought that passed through his mind as he went down was, curiously, not how much the blow had hurt, but that this was the second time he’d been taken by surprise in nearly as many hours. It was getting to be a nasty habit. Or maybe it was a sign that he was growing too old for this sort of game. The second thing that struck him as he began to slip away was that the attack had clearly affected his sense of smell. He could have sworn that the impact upon his skull had been accompanied by the faint yet unmistakable scent of lemons.