Ratcatcher

17

Hawkwood saw the rat as soon as he opened his eyes. It was impossible to miss. It was huge, at least a foot and a half long from nose to tail. There were rich pickings to be had along the waterfront and the rodent looked well fed and healthy, its pelt as shiny as velvet. Unafraid, the rat sat back on its hind legs, front paws raised, and sniffed the air, whiskers twitching. Finally, curiosity overcoming caution, it dropped back to all fours and scampered fluidly across the floor. Six feet away, it paused and stared at Hawkwood with bright, beady-eyed expectation.

Hawkwood raised his head. A big mistake. Pain lanced through his skull. He groaned and closed his eyes, willing the hurt to subside. He opened his eyes again, cautiously, his cheek against the cold stone. The view hadn’t changed. The rat was still there, watching him.

Something touched his shoulder. Instinctively, Hawkwood jerked away and regretted it instantly as another bolt of lightning seared along his optic nerve.

“Easy, my boy, easy.” The voice was gentle and soothing. “Here, let me help you up.”

Hawkwood felt guiding arms around his shoulders as he was assisted into a seated position against the wall. He put a hand to the back of his skull and winced as his fingers explored broken skin and what felt like dried blood. Slowly, he raised his aching head.

“Master Woodburn, I presume?”

The elderly man who was looking down at him with anxious eyes frowned then smiled. “You’ve the advantage of me, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“My name’s Hawkwood.”

“So, Mr Hawkwood, what brings you to my humble abode?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Hawkwood said.

The old man’s eyebrows lifted. “Have you, indeed?”

“I’m a special constable. A Runner.”

What might have been a flicker of hope flared briefly in the old man’s eyes, to be replaced almost immediately by a weary resignation. The clockmaker regarded Hawkwood’s unshaven face, lank hair and smoke-blackened clothing and nodded sagely. “Well, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, my boy. I only wish it could have been in more propitious circumstances.” The old man waved a hand expansively, then beckoned. “Come, let’s get you on the bed so that I can examine your wound. I assume, from the manner of your arrival, that you were set upon by the same ruffians who are holding me here?”

As the old man helped him up, Hawkwood took note of their surroundings. A low trestle bed sat in the corner. The only other items of furniture were a table and chair. On the table sat a bowl and jug, a tin cup, and a plate containing bread and cheese; the groceries collected by Sparrow. High on the opposite wall, a small, square, barred window admitted a solitary shaft of sunlight. Had Hawkwood not known otherwise, he might well have thought himself inside one of the cells at Newgate.

Josiah Woodburn patted the bed. “Sit, my boy, sit.”

As his scalp was examined, Hawkwood made his own diagnosis. He could see that the clockmaker’s face was pale and that his clothing, dark coat and breeches, which at first glance had appeared without blemish, was in places soiled and stained. Hawkwood was no physician but, even to his untrained eye, Josiah Woodburn looked like a man who, faced with unaccustomed adversity, was trying bravely to hold on to both his dignity and his sanity.

The old man clicked his tongue in sympathy. “ ’Pon my word, you look as though you’ve been in the wars. You’ll live, though, have no fear. The skin’s broken, nothing more.” He patted Hawkwood’s knee paternally. “So, how did you find me?”

Hawkwood was about to answer, when the old man held up a hand. “Let me attend to Archimedes first. If he doesn’t get his breakfast, he’ll only make a nuisance of himself.”

Archimedes? It took Hawkwood a second to realize the old man was talking about the rat. Intriguingly, the animal was still there, staring up at them, whiskers twitching, still without a trace of fear. Hawkwood watched as the old man took a small wedge of cheese from the plate on the table and tossed it on to the floor. As soon as the morsel had stopped rolling, the rat darted forward, picked up the cheese in its mouth and scampered back the way it had come, disappearing through a dark crevice in the corner of the room.

“There,” the clockmaker said with affection. “He won’t bother us again. So, tell me, what clue guided you here? Was it Officer Warlock? Did he manage to evade their clutches?”

Hawkwood felt as if he had just been struck by one of Reuben Benbow’s uppercuts. He stared at the old man in amazement. “Warlock was here?”

To Hawkwood’s consternation, the clockmaker appeared to find the question surprising.

“But, of course, before his escape, we—”

The old man broke off, struck by the expression on Hawkwood’s face.

Hawkwood found his voice. “What do you mean ’before his escape’?”

Josiah Woodburn gasped. Hawkwood looked down and found he was gripping the clockmaker so tightly that the old man’s wrist had turned white. He let go quickly.

The clockmaker looked at Hawkwood in confusion. “But I thought that was how you came to be here. Did Officer Warlock not get word to the authorities?”

“Officer Warlock’s dead,” Hawkwood said. “They killed him.”

The clockmaker’s face fell. “Then how…?”

“I think it should be me asking you that question,” Hawkwood said, and waited expectantly.

It took some time before the clockmaker had composed himself sufficiently to explain, but once started, the tale did not take long in the telling. It transpired that Warlock had followed the old man’s trail by the simple expedient of questioning Lord Mandrake’s coachman. This had been as a consequence of his visiting Josiah Woodburn’s home and workshop and his meeting with the boy Quigley, who had told him, as he had told Hawkwood, that he’d seen Master Woodburn in Lord Mandrake’s carriage. Warlock had subsequently made his way to Limehouse, where he’d managed to gain entry to the warehouse, only to fall into the clutches of Lee and his fellow conspirators. Which answered a number of questions; all but the most important ones. How had Warlock managed to effect an escape and why hadn’t he taken the clockmaker with him?

“Effecting your colleague’s escape was no problem, Officer Hawkwood,” Josiah Woodburn said matter-of-factly. “I simply opened the door for him.”

Hawkwood thought he must have misheard. Either that or the blow to his head had done more damage than had first been supposed.

“You forget, my boy, I’m a clockmaker. I’ve been crafting delicate timepieces for more than fifty years.” The old man smiled and held up his hands. “These are my tools. Simple locks hold no secrets from me.”

As Hawkwood continued to stare in astonishment, the clockmaker reached under the bed. His hand emerged holding a bent iron nail. “You see?”

Hawkwood looked at the nail then at the old man. “Why didn’t you go with him?”

The old man twisted the nail in his hand and sighed. “Because I couldn’t risk my granddaughter’s life. She’s everything to me, my dear, darling Elizabeth. When my daughter Catherine died, I almost lost my faith. But now, when I look at my granddaughter, I know Catherine’s still with me. She lives in her, you see?” The old man clenched his fists. In a voice that was close to breaking, he added, “They threatened to kill Elizabeth if I didn’t do what they asked. They said she would be taken from me and I’d never see her again. She’s only a child, an innocent child! I couldn’t bear the thought of what they might do to her, so I didn’t dare try to escape. You do see that? I had no choice. That is why I did what he asked of me.”

“William Lee?”

The old man nodded and laid a hand on Hawkwood’s arm. “A duplicitous rogue. He is plotting something terrible.”

“We know about the undersea boat,” Hawkwood said.

Josiah Woodburn nodded again. “His submersible; ah, yes, a remarkable device.” Gathering himself, the old man said, “I knew of Fulton’s invention, of course. In fact, I actually met the fellow once. We’ve a mutual acquaintance, Sir Joseph Banks. Sir Joseph was on the committee convened by Prime Minister Pitt to evaluate the submersible’s potential six years ago, just before Trafalgar.”

Hawkwood recalled his conversation with Colonel Congreve. This would have been the same committee that had deemed the submersible technically feasible, but likely to be impracticable in combat.

“Tell me about Lord Mandrake,” Hawkwood said.

The old man sighed. “He told me he had a close friend who wanted to commission a timepiece. Said his friend was confined to his bed and unable to call personally. He offered me the use of his carriage to take me to the client. Alas, it was but a ruse to deliver me into the hands of our captor.” Josiah Woodburn looked up. “Has his lordship been detained?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Not yet, but he will be. And then he’ll hang.”

Josiah Woodburn gave a dry smile. “I suspect Lord Mandrake will be made to answer to a much higher authority for his brand of treachery.”

“But why you?” Hawkwood asked. “What did Lee need you for?”

“They were sailing the submersible here when they were hit by a storm in mid Channel. The timing device was damaged. It’s clockwork, you see, and very delicate. They needed someone with special skills to repair it; a clockmaker such as myself.”

“A timing device for what?” Hawkwood cut in.

Josiah Woodburn looked puzzled, as if the question had been superfluous. “Why, for his submarine bomb, of course. His torpedo.”

So the madman really was going to go through with it, Hawkwood thought.

“I discovered copies of Lee’s drawings of the submersible,” Josiah Woodburn said, “and gave them to Officer Warlock so that he could pass them to the authorities.” The old man shook his head. “But, given what you’ve told me, I don’t suppose he was successful.”

“We found them,” Hawkwood said. “The Admiralty has them.”

So the Chief Magistrate had been correct in his surmise. They were indeed the drawings taken from Lieutenant Ramillies’ corpse during the coach robbery. Serendipity had delivered them into the hands of the clockmaker and the unfortunate Warlock.

The old man let go a long breath. “We had so little time. I had but a moment to write the name of the ship. All I could do was hope that the authorities would make sense of it.”

Which explained the hurried calligraphy, Hawkwood thought.

“We know about Thetis.”

A light flared in the clockmaker’s eyes. “Thank God!”

Suddenly, Hawkwood felt his arm gripped. The clockmaker placed his mouth next to Hawkwood’s ear. “There’s something else, Officer Hawkwood, another reason why I didn’t go with Officer Warlock. I must tell you. I—”

But before the clockmaker could elaborate, there came the rattle of a key in the lock and the door swung open. Hastily, the clockmaker thrust the nail back in its hiding place. Hawkwood had a moment to notice that the hinges had been oiled, like those of the outside door, which had been opened so quietly he hadn’t heard the approach of the person who had knocked him out.

William Lee, grinning broadly, stepped into the room. He held a lantern aloft. “Well, now, I see you two gentlemen have gotten acquainted. I trust you slept well, Master Woodburn?” Lee stared at Hawkwood. “Sparrow tells me Scully’s dead. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from him.” The American clicked his tongue in mock annoyance. “I do declare, Officer Hawkwood, you are one persistent son of a bitch! With the devil’s own luck, too.”

Hawkwood said nothing.

The American frowned. “Was it you that killed him?”

“No,” Hawkwood said. He saw no point in embellishment.

Lee held Hawkwood’s gaze for what seemed like several minutes before he shrugged and said, “No matter. He was a liability and no loss as far as brains are concerned. It means I’m a man short, though, and that’s an irritation I could do without. I swear, Officer Hawkwood, you try a man’s patience, you really do.”

“You can’t win, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “I have men outside.”

Lee shook his head and laughed. “No you don’t. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. They’d have come running when we carried you in here. We’d be kneedeep in constables. No, sir, you’re on your own. Which means you’re all mine.”

I have one man, Hawkwood thought. I have Jago. Maybe.

A movement behind Lee caught Hawkwood’s eye. Sparrow, he assumed, but then the figure stepped into view—a slim figure, dressed in a dark, tight-fitting coat, matchingbreeches, and black, calf-length leather riding boots. And suddenly it all began to make perfect sense.

“Good morning, Matthew,” Catherine de Varesne said. The pistol in her right hand was cocked and pointing directly at his heart.

Hawkwood smiled. “Hello, Catherine.”

She frowned. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Hawkwood touched the wound on his head. “It was your perfume. It’s very distinctive.”

Catherine de Varesne’s dark eyes shone with amusement. The pistol barrel did not waver.

Lee grinned. “Well, now, isn’t this something?”

Hawkwood looked at him.

“She’s Bonaparte’s best agent, my friend, and she’s been playing you like a trout on a line.”

Friends in high places, Hawkwood thought.

He closed his eyes and wondered how he could have been so bloody stupid and why it had taken him so long. When he opened his eyes, he saw that she was still smiling.

“We knew you’d been assigned to the coach murders,” Catherine said. “We knew of your reputation, Matthew, your tenacity. What we didn’t know was how to deal with you, how to get you out of the way. The ball presented us with our opportunity.”

Hawkwood recalled his briefing with James Read. It was now clear why Lord Mandrake had asked for him specifically. It had been a heaven-sent opportunity for Mandrake and Lee to observe and take the measure of the man who had been put on their trail.

It was also now clear why Lord Mandrake hadn’t been home when he’d called. It had been Catherine who had alerted him, sending word, probably via her maid, that Hawkwood had begun asking awkward questions.

A thought struck him. “Was Rutherford part of it, too?”

Catherine snorted scornfully. Her eyes flashed. “Rutherford’s an arrogant fool. I merely made use of him.”

“You led Rutherford on,” Hawkwood said, understanding. “He and his friends were drunk. You made them think they could have you, then you acted the innocent, and you waited for me to come to your rescue.”

“My knight in shining armour.” Her dark eyes mocked him. “It was simply a matter of setting the scene. We knew you couldn’t resist helping a lady in distress.”

The servant must have been in on it as well, Hawkwood realized. Which accounted for the man’s less than cooperative attitude when Hawkwood had revisited Mandrake House.

“You knew Rutherford wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Hawkwood said. “You knew that he wouldn’t back down in front of his cronies, that he’d call me out! What were you hoping? That he’d kill me?”

As he spoke, he wondered about Lawrence’s contribution, but knew instinctively that the major could only have been an unwitting and convenient ingredient in the broth.

She smiled. “More likely you’d kill him, Matthew. Either way, we would be rid of you.”

“But you confounded us, Hawkwood,” Lee interposed. “Damn it, man, you let the bugger live!”

Did you kill him?

Hawkwood remembered her question in the carriage, following the duel. That indecipherable expression on her face had been, he now realized, one of half-concealed expectation. He recalled what had happened at the house; how, after she had tended his wound, she had initiated their energetic coupling, leaving him breathless and drained. It had been the knowledge that they had fought over her, that blood had been drawn, that had excited her, igniting the passion.

“Well now,” Lee said, “much as I hate to interrupt this happy reunion, we’ve work to do. So, gentlemen, if you’d be so kind as to follow me. Time and tide, they say, wait for no man, especially today. Oh, and a warning, Captain Hawkwood; if you’re thinking of attempting something heroic, don’t. It won’t be you the mademoiselle’ll shoot first, it’ll be the old man.”

Lee turned and led the way out of the cell, along a stoneflagged passageway. Their shadows, trapped in the lantern light, accompanied them in a flickering procession. Hawkwood had the distinct impression that the passageway sloped downwards and he suspected they were nearing the river. Certainly, the putrid smell of the water seemed to be getting stronger. His suspicions were confirmed when, after turning several corners and descending a narrow flight of stairs, they emerged into the warehouse’s main gallery.

The gallery was long and narrow and must have stretched the full width of the warehouse. The walls were of wood but the stonework at the base of the walls indicated that this was probably the oldest part of the building, resting upon the original foundations. Half the gallery was taken up with the interior loading dock. It was here that cargoes would have been transferred from barrow to barge, and vice versa. The stout wooden doors that Jago had drawn to Hawkwood’s attention earlier were located at the end of the dock. They were still closed, but there was sufficient space between them for daylight to penetrate. Further illumination came courtesy of two narrow, high-set windows and several lanterns hanging from hooks. The place reminded Hawkwood of a flooded church vault.

“Well, then,” Lee said. “What do you think of her?”

Hawkwood stood and stared.

The submersible was tethered to the dock by lines fore and aft. She looked bigger than he had expected; about twentyfive feet long. At first glance, with her wooden deck and tapering bow and stern, the vessel looked like any other small river craft. On closer inspection, however, a number of differences were discernible. Below the shortened bowsprit, protruding vertically from an extended prow, was a thin metal rod from which radiated four elliptical blades, each about two feet in length. Aft, below the stern rail, a similar device, horizontally set, could be seen. There was no mast, Hawkwood noticed; then he looked closer and saw that the mast, with boom and furled sail attached, was in fact lying along the deck. It was hinged, he realized, thus enabling it to be raised and lowered into its socket at will. On deck, immediately forward of the mast socket, was positioned an upturned, barrel-shaped, metallic protuberance; the tower, as Congreve had called it, from where the commander of the craft controlled operations. The rear of the tower was hinged open, forming a hatchway which gave access to the craft’s interior. Hawkwood’s attention moved to the stern of the vessel. Attached to a raised wooden frame was a copper cylinder the size of a small rum keg. A lanyard ran from the cylinder to the tower where it passed through what looked like the eye of a large needle embedded in the tower’s roof before disappearing through a small hole in the forward deck. Hawkwood remembered Colonel Congreve’s description of the submersible and realized with a shock of understanding that he was looking at the submarine bomb, Fulton’s torpedo.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Lee could not keep the pride from his voice.

Hawkwood was silent. There was movement on deck as Sparrow emerged from the hatchway. He now had a pistol stuck in his belt. His fingers brushed against the pistol butt and he stroked the cut on his throat, favouring Hawkwood with a stare of undiluted hatred before stepping nimbly on to the dock.

Lee stepped forward. “All in order, Mr Sparrow?”

The seaman nodded.

“Capital! In that case, please be so kind as to see to the doors and prepare the vessel for departure.”

Hawkwood stared at the woman, at her slim figure, her mannish dress, at her hair held in a tight chignon, at the pistol in her hand and her smile. And in a moment of startling clarity it came to him. Scully’s taunting when he’d been asked if another mutineer or Lee had been his partner in the coach hold up.

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

Not a mute boy and certainly not Jago, as he had ludicrously supposed, but a woman whose accent would have betrayed her the moment she’d opened her mouth. She had shot the guard in cold blood and, judging by her present disposition, Hawkwood suspected that she hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep since.

Lee’s voice cut into his tumbling thoughts. “What’s the matter, Officer Hawkwood? Cat got your tongue?”

Before he could answer, the rattle of a chain sounded from the end of the dock. Sparrow was opening the doors.

As the gap between the doors slowly widened, light began to infiltrate the interior of the warehouse. Beyond the low archway, Hawkwood could see out to where the channel joined the river, flowing broad and smooth past the end of the outer quay. He wondered if Jago was still out there, still waiting.

Sparrow, his task complete, rejoined them. The seaman took the pistol from his belt and cocked it.

“Well, Captain Hawkwood, it’s time to go. What can I say? It’s been a pleasure. Truly.” The American grinned roguishly and stepped nimbly on to the submersible’s deck.

“Make it quick, Mr Sparrow. We haven’t got all morning.”

Sparrow grinned. He lifted the pistol and motioned Hawkwood to the edge of the dock.

“Kneel down.”

Hawkwood didn’t move.

He felt the muzzle of the pistol pressing against the nape of his neck. Heard the hiss of Sparrow’s voice in his ear.

“On your knees, you bastard! Do it!”

Hawkwood heard a groan of anguish. The clockmaker, about to witness his death. The pressure of the gun barrel prevented him from turning his head.

Hawkwood knelt.

The muzzle moved upwards, against the back of his skull, forcing his head down. Hawkwood found himself staring into the dark water.

“Dear God, no!” The clockmaker cried, beseechingly.

Sparrow chuckled. The sound was like small bones rattling in a tin cup.

“Good bye, Captain,” Sparrow said.

“Piss and damnation!”

Nathaniel Jago swore violently and checked his pocket watch for what felt like the hundredth time. Where the hell was Hawkwood? The hour had come and gone, but Jago had continued to wait, stubbornly pacing to and fro on the dockside like a caged bear, trying to ignore the crawling feeling in the pit of his stomach that was telling him something had gone badly wrong.

Jago was angry. He was angry with Hawkwood, he was angry with the world, but mostly he was angry with himself for letting Hawkwood go off on his own. Experience had taught him that if trouble were to be found then, sure as sunrise, Hawkwood would find it—as illustrated by the incident aboard the Rat’s Nest. It had been sheer good fortune that had seen Jago arrive in the nick of time on that occasion. Jago had not pulled Hawkwood out of the fire, almost literally as it happened, in order for him to go wandering off again, sticking his nose into places it wasn’t wanted. All right, so the man was a police officer, but for Christ’s sake, didn’t he ever bloody learn?

“Bugger it!” Jago knew he couldn’t wait any longer. What had Hawkwood told him to do in the event of his nonappearance? Contact Magistrate Read? Jago shook his head in exasperation. Well, if the captain was expecting him to go running off to Magistrate Read, then the captain had another bloody think coming. Bending down, Jago secured the dinghy’s painter to the ring by the side of the jetty steps. Then, with another muttered curse, he set off along the busy waterfront.

“No! Wait!”

Sparrow’s finger whitened on the trigger.

“I said hold your fire, damn it!”

The pressure on Hawkwood’s skull eased fractionally, enough that he was able to lift his head. He heard Lee’s voice.

“Y’know, Sparrow, we’ve only Officer Hawkwood’s word that the authorities suspect Lord Mandrake’s involvement in our little enterprise, but they’ve no positive proof. It could be sheer coincidence that his lordship’s headed north. Likewise, we could be using his warehouse without his knowledge. Lord Mandrake’s a valuable ally with powerful friends at the heart of the government. Be a damned shame if we couldn’t continue to make use of him. If we leave Hawkwood’s body here, there’s a connection. But if Officer Hawkwood disappears, what then? They’d have nothing. If his Bow Street brothers come looking for him, they’ll find themselves up a blind alley with no trail to follow, and his lordship will live to serve another day. No, I say we dispose of Officer Hawkwood’s body somewhere else.”

“And how the hell do we do that?” Sparrow said. Light dawned in the seaman’s eyes. “Christ, you mean we take him with us? You can’t be serious?”

Lee shrugged. “Can’t say I like it any more than you do, but it makes more sense. We’ll transport him downriver, drop his corpse off later.”

Sparrow thought about it. “So I shoot him now and we take his body on board? All right, I can live with that.” Sparrow aimed the pistol.

Lee sighed. “I’ve no desire to try and lift his dead weight through the damned hatchway. It’s constricted enough as it is. Besides, I don’t want his blood all over my breeches. No, he can climb below by himself. And don’t look like that, Sparrow. My decision, and there’s an end to it. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance later. Now, tie his wrists. The mademoiselle there’ll keep her eye on him.”

With a look that could have flayed skin from bone, Sparrow did as he was instructed.

“And Master Woodburn?” Hawkwood asked, when Sparrow had performed his task and retrieved his pistol.

Lee smiled. “Don’t worry, he’s in safe hands—providing you do as you’re told. Bring him aboard, Mr Sparrow. Lively now.”

With Sparrow’s pistol at his back, Hawkwood stepped off the dock on to the submersible’s deck. The vessel moved gently beneath him.

Lee turned towards the woman. “You know what to do?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Then we’ll rendezvous later, as arranged.”

Lee brandished his own pistol and nodded towards the mooring lines. “I have him, Mr Sparrow. Cast off, if you please.”

Hawkwood looked back in the direction of the dockside and the old man. There was a strange, almost haunted look on the clockmaker’s face. Hawkwood suddenly felt as if he was missing something. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Was the old man trying to pass him a message? If that was so, Hawkwood was unable to decipher it, though he had the uncomfortable feeling that the expression on Josiah Woodburn’s face would remain etched in his memory for ever. He glanced at the woman.

Catherine de Varesne smiled. “Goodbye, Matthew.”

“I’ll see you in hell,” Hawkwood said.

A tiny inclination of her head, as if acknowledging the possibility. “I’ll look forward to it.”

She turned away. Sparrow used an oar to push the vessel off from the landing stage. With smooth precision, the submersible slipped through the doors and out into the river.

Jago let himself into the warehouse using a set of lock picks he’d confiscated from Irish Willie Lonegan. The picks were steel and of superior quality. Jago had confiscated them because Irish Willie was, as his name implied, from across the water, County Donegal, and thus not wise to the ways of the local fraternity of cracksmen. Willie had come a cropper the night he broke into an Eaton Square mansion and relieved the lady of the house of a jewellery box containing a fine selection of family heirlooms, including a ruby pendant, three sets of pearl earrings and a diamond necklace. His downfall came when he had paid a celebratory visit to Mistress Lovejoy’s Finishing School for Young Ladies on Bedford Street, and bragged drunkenly to his pliant companion of the evening about his exploits. Irish Willie barely had time to tuck himself back into his breeches before he was hauled unceremoniously before a glowering Jago, who had explained the rules very carefully. London was his patch and no itinerant bog-trotter was going to encroach on his territory without permission. Punishment was swift and severe. Irish Willie was relieved of his tools, the remains of his takings, and both thumbs. On reflection, the Irishman had considered himself lucky. As for the picks, as Jago had remarked at the time, waste not, want not.

Maybe, Jago thought, as he stepped over the threshold, this wasn’t such a good idea after all. He wished he was carrying something more substantial than a cudgel and a Runner’s baton. A pistol would have been much more reassuring. A rat skittered past his feet. Jago ignored it. The warehouse seemed unnaturally quiet and permeated by an air of neglect and abandonment. He turned a corner and found himself facing a dark passageway. The hairs along the back of his neck prickled. Jago was no stranger to fear. He had faced many dangers, on the battlefield and among the pitch-black alleyways of the Rookery, but the sense of dread that accompanied him along that corridor was as heavy as if the Devil was sitting on his shoulder. There was something terrible here, Jago knew. Something wicked.

“Damn fine morning, Officer Hawkwood. Wouldn’t you agree?” William Lee grinned, stuck the cheroot between his lips and puffed expansively.

Hawkwood didn’t answer. He was sitting on the deck, back against the gunwale, hands bound in front of him, eyeing the pistol in the American’s hand and wondering if it might be possible to overpower Lee without getting his head blown off. The odds, he decided, were not favourable, certainly not trussed as he was. And there was still Sparrow, now manning the tiller, to contend with. The mast had been raised and they were under sail, heading downstream, hugging the eastern shore, close hauled into a light south-easterly breeze. Mill Wall lay to port. Wells’s Yard lay off the starboard beam on the opposite side of the river.

Emerging from the warehouse and into the main river, Hawkwood’s eyes had moved instinctively to the steps where he’d left Jago. The boat was still there. Jago wasn’t. Had the boat been absent, it might have suggested that Jago had done as he was told and was now en route to alert Chief Magistrate Read. The fact that the boat was still in place meant it was more than likely that Jago had disobeyed Hawkwood’s instructions. Knowing Jago, the sergeant, restless at Hawkwood’s failure to return, had probably gone looking for him. No surprise there, Hawkwood thought, feeling a sudden rush of affection for the big man. Jago riding to the rescue, again. Only this time he’d be too damned late.

“Master Woodburn told me the vessel suffered damage,” Hawkwood said. He had the strong urge to keep Lee talking. As a means of delaying the inevitable, he didn’t think it would be that effective, but at this juncture, he was prepared to try anything.

Lee took a leisurely draw on his cheroot and flicked ash over the gunwale. “Nothing that couldn’t be fixed.” He looked at Hawkwood with amusement. “Storm in the Channel it was. Lost a man, too. Which is how I ended up with Sparrow there. Scully brought him in.” Lee took the cheroot out of his mouth and jabbed the stub towards Hawkwood’s face. “Now I’ve lost Scully, too. You, sir, have a great deal to answer for.”

“So, why here?” Hawkwood voiced the question that had been gnawing at him since he and Jago had left James Read’s office. “It’s bloody madness. You could have waited until the ship was in the estuary, given yourself room to manoeuvre, given yourself an escape route. Christ, man, this is a bloody death trap!”

Lee drew on his cheroot and spread an arm. “You know why they built the yards here, Officer Hawkwood? It’s so they’d be close to London and protected from foreign invasion. Deptford ain’t the largest, it ain’t the most strategic, and it ain’t Chatham or Portsmouth, but by Christ it’s the one that’s going to make ’em sit up and take notice! Can you imagine the effect when I sink your newest goddamned ship in the middle of your goddamned capital city, and with the Prince of Wales on board? Your Admiralty boys’ll be soiling their breeches for a month! It’ll set back your war effort so far, you might as well go ahead and scuttle your whole damned navy! That’s why we’re here, Officer Hawkwood.”

The door to the cell stood ajar. Jago used the cudgel to push the door open and the smell of death hit him. The body lay across the bed, face up. The artery in the neck had been punctured and there was a great deal of blood. The room stank of it.

Jago was not, by nature, a religious man, but he crossed himself nonetheless, and as he stared down at the corpse he felt himself torn by twin emotions: intense rage at the manner of death, and the absolute gut-wrenching certainty that he was unlikely to see Hawkwood alive again.

Lee stared out over the bow. They had been making good headway. To port lay the Isle of Dogs, a low-lying stretch of sparsely inhabited meadow and marshland. Only two roads served the Isle. The Deptford and Greenwich Road followed the shore, granting land access to the few isolated wharves and industries that occupied the east bank. The Chapel House Road bisected the Isle, connecting the Ferry House, on the southern bend of the river, with the Blackwall entrance to the West India Docks. Lee turned his eyes to the opposite bank, which was far more congested. Thickets of tall mastheads had begun to clutter the skyline as the heavily laden merchantmen awaited their turn for admission into the big dockyards. The entrance to the No. 1 Commercial Dock was visible over the starboard beam. Next to it, the smaller East Country Dock marked the Surrey-Kent border. Immediately south of the border was Dudman’s Yard, with its mooring docks catering for the transports carrying convicts to the other side of the world. Beyond that, less than a mile distant, lay the Royal Dockyard, and his prey.

At a nod from the American, Sparrow, with quiet assurance, eased back on the tiller, taking them off the wind. The bow dipped. Without the advantage of the breeze, the sail began to flap listlessly.

Lee narrowed his eyes, and flicked the remnant of his cheroot over the side. “I’d say it’s time, Mr Sparrow.”

Sparrow lashed the tiller and moved to the mast. It took only seconds to lower the sail, lift the mast out of its socket and secure it to the deck.

The American touched his temple in salute and indicated the open hatch. “This way, Captain Hawkwood, if you please.”

Hawkwood hesitated. He was conscious that behind him Sparrow’s pistol was now drawn and cocked, and pointed at the back of his skull. Hawkwood rose to his feet and watched as the American backed down the hatchway. Lee had been right. The hatch was very small. It looked like a tight fit. Hawkwood stepped across the deck. He knew he had no choice. He couldn’t take on two armed men. The sensible thing, therefore, was to follow orders in the hope that an opportunity for retaliation would present itself in the not too distant future. Heart thumping, he followed Lee down the ladder and into the boat.

At the bottom of the ladder, Lee stepped aside. “Officer Hawkwood, welcome to the Narwhale.”

Emerging from the warehouse, Jago hawked and spat on to the cobbles. So much for that idea. He had searched the building from top to bottom. No Hawkwood, and no mysterious undersea boat either. But there had been a dead body, and given what he had been told by Hawkwood, it hadn’t been difficult to guess the identity of the corpse. It had to be the clockmaker. Which meant it was likely the conspirators had been using the warehouse as a rendezvous. And the old man’s death could only mean one thing: he had outlived his usefulness. The American, William Lee, was covering his tracks. Which meant Jago had to get word to James Read, and fast.

But where the hell was Hawkwood?

Back at the jetty, Jago stared down at the river. At least the bloody dinghy was still there. He knew he was missing something, but what? Then it hit him. When he’d searched the warehouse, the doors to the underground loading dock had been open. When he had arrived at the jetty with Hawkwood the doors had been closed. The thought occurred to Jago that instead of watching the warehouse and the comings and goings on the wharf, he should have been paying more attention to the bloody water. And there was something else.

The old man’s blood was still wet.

Jago looked around quickly, his eyes lifting. Then he was running.

They were known as widow walks: balconies that ran around the top floors of the warehouses and riverside storage buildings. It was here that sailors’ wives kept watch for the ships carrying their menfolk home. Years ago, from the highest platform on a fine day, an observer with a keen eye and a good spyglass could see clear across the flat expanse of the Isle of Dogs to the East India Docks, Bugsbys Marsh and the stretch of river beyond. On some of the older buildings a spyglass was a permanent fixture, enabling merchants and ship owners first sight of returning vessels. In nature the early bird catches the worm. And so it was in commerce. News that a ship had been sighted would radiate through the city like ripples in a pond. Tea, tobacco, spices and silks; the earliest arrivals always commanded the best prices. For want of a spyglass a healthy profit could be won or lost.

From the high balcony of Maggot & Sons, Wool Merchants, Jago, with a borrowed telescope jammed against his right eye, quartered the river. Part of his brain told him that looking on top of the water for a vessel that could travel beneath the surface was an exercise in futility, but he didn’t know what else to do and he had to do something.

Jago recalled the words of James Read: We must apply logic.

If the open doors meant that the submersible had been in the warehouse and departed, possibly with Hawkwood on board, how far could it have travelled? Jago, ignoring the vessels traversing the river, turned the lens on to the traffic heading downstream. How long was the submersible? Twenty feet? He began to concentrate on the smaller craft, increasing the distance from the jetty with each sweep.

Jago didn’t believe in miracles. Not until the glass settled on a small triangular patch of dun-coloured sail receding slowly down the left-hand side of the river. He blinked the sweat out of his eye and moved the glass down the mast. Just another wherry was his first thought. No cargo save what looked like a small cask at the stern and another upturned one forward of the mast. Flour, probably, or molasses. One man at the tiller, two more further down the boat, one seated at the gunwale, his back to the stern. Jago cursed and went to move the glass away, when, as if conscious of being spied upon, the man at the tiller turned. A sharp, familiar face floated into view. Jago stiffened, and swore.

Will Sparrow!

Jago tried quickly to bring the features of the other men into focus, but the boat heeled suddenly and the sail obscured his view. Jago cursed, tried to steady the glass once more, but the faces of the anonymous duo remained obstinately out of view. Jago knew a decision was required.

For the second time that morning, he began to run.