Ratcatcher

21

The surgeon, a burly man with a reassuring smile, stowed his instruments in his bag and turned to the Chief Magistrate. “The stomach wound is superficial; a scratch, nothing more. As far as the knife wound is concerned, I’ve cleaned it as best I can. He’s strong. I see no reason why he shouldn’t make a full recovery.”

James Read received the news with a nod. “Thank you, Doctor.”

As the surgeon stood, Commissioner Dryden, standing behind him, coughed discreetly. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I too have duties to attend to. And I’ve no doubt there are matters you wish to discuss in ah…private.” Dryden smiled, almost shyly, at Hawkwood. “Honoured to make your acquaintance, sir.” A nod to James Read and to Jago, who was standing at the bedside, and he, too, was gone.

They’d taken Hawkwood to the commissioner’s house. Commissioner Dryden had summoned his own doctor to examine Hawkwood’s injuries.

“He’s an excellent man,” Dryden had assured Read. “Served with Collingwood on the Dreadnought.”

James Read waited until the two men had left the room before turning to the patient. A rare smile hovered on the magistrate’s lips. “Welcome back.”

Sunlight flooded the room. A servant had arrived earlier to close the curtains, but Hawkwood had stopped her. His entombment in the submersible was still fresh in his memory. He craved light and warmth, lots of it. Those last moments in the Narwhale had been the most terrifying ordeal of his life. Trapped in the flooded tower, the water over his head, the will to fight slipping away until, in a moment of startling lucidity, he recalled Lee’s words. You hold your breath and pray.

So, in the pitch darkness, Hawkwood had held his breath and prayed that he could open the submersible’s hatch before the air in his lungs finally gave out. It had been a frantic few seconds, searching for the catch, one arm useless, the freezing cold invading his body with a crippling intensity. Eventually, the catch had yielded, and he was pulling himself through and clawing his way towards the light.

He did not respond to the magistrate’s greeting.

James Read frowned. “Your wounds pain you?”

“I was thinking about Lee,” Hawkwood said. “I wasn’t able to stop him. He still blew up the ship.”

A muscle twitched in the magistrate’s cheek. He looked at Jago. Jago returned the look and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Hawkwood said.

“No he didn’t,” Jago said.

“Didn’t what?”

“He didn’t blow up the ship,” James Read said.

“Of course he did,” Hawkwood said. “I heard it. I saw it, when Nathaniel brought me ashore.”

The Chief Magistrate shook his head. “No. He blew up a ship, not the ship.”

Hawkwood thought he might be going mad. Except Jago was grinning like a loon. He stared at them both.

Jago said, “They switched them, Cap’n. The sly buggers switched ’em.”

Hawkwood closed his eyes, waited, opened them again. Jago was still there, still grinning.

Jago glanced at the magistrate. “Well? Are you goin’ to tell ’im, or am I?”

James Read smiled. “I’d hate to deprive you of the pleasure, Sergeant.”

“Well, someone tell me,” Hawkwood said.

“All right,” Jago said. “First off, it wasn’t Thetis that blew up. It were the sheer hulk.”

“The what?”

“It’s what you might call the yard’s work ’orse, used for fetchin’ and liftin’. Dunno what ’er name was originally. Probably last saw action before we were born—well you at any rate. Now, where was I? Oh, aye…anyway, that’s how they did it.”

“The art of deception, Hawkwood. To hide in plain sight—isn’t that what they say?” The Chief Magistrate walked to the window and looked out on to the dockyard, where work was returning to normality after the morning’s excitement. “It seemed a logical solution to our dilemma. What to do if you failed in your assignment. We decided to employ a decoy. The sheer hulk was the only vessel close enough and large enough for our purposes. Our main problem was her appearance. Fortunately, we were able to employ both the yard’s workforce and the contents of her stores. We used two teams of men; one to paint the hulk, one to tarnish Thetis. Don’t forget, Thetis only had a jury mast. Neither was she rigged or coppered. It was not that difficult: some muddy canvas strategically placed, a web of old netting here and there, black paint to cover the ochre. The hulk was a bigger challenge, but we had the paint and the men. The carpenter’s shop provided us with a false name-board which we adhered to the hulk’s stern. Add banners, the Regent’s standard, crewmen…The disguise would not deceive a close observer, but we thought it might fool someone with a limited view, someone like William Lee on board his undersea boat.”

“God Almighty,” Hawkwood said.

“Our greatest enemy was time.” The magistrate turned from the window. “We could only guess, if you were unable to stop him, that Lee would wait until the morning tide to make his attack. We barely had time to board her crew. It was a close-run thing.”

“Paint was still wet,” Jago said. “That’s what finally tipped me the wink.” Then he saw the expression on Hawkwood’s face.

“You put a crew on board as well?” Hawkwood said. His voice was cold.

“We had to,” Read said. “To complete the deception.”

“Men died,” Hawkwood said.

Read nodded solemnly. “Four dead, seven injured.”

“An’ not an Englishman among ’em,” Jago said, then paused. “Well, save for one.”

Hawkwood looked at him.

“They used Frog prisoners of war. Togged ’em up in castoffs from the yard’s slop chests. That’s another thing that caught my eye: state of the officers’ uniforms. Bloody disgrace, they were. No self-respectin’ English officer’d be joining his ship lookin’ like he’d just walked out of the poor ’ouse. Thought it a bit strange. That, and the fact that everyone started yellin’ at each other in Frog. Weren’t natural.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” James Read said quietly, interpreting Hawkwood’s expression. “That there are conventions covering the treatment of prisoners of war. Quite true, though I would urge you not to grieve for the prisoners who perished on Thetis. Their fate had already been sealed. Had they not been killed in the explosion, they would have met their death on the gallows.”

Hawkwood continued to stare at the Chief Magistrate.

“The men who died were the ringleaders of a plot to gain control of the prison ship Gryphon. Four days ago, two dozen prisoners, under the leadership of a Lieutenant Duvert, led a revolt. Two marines were murdered. Their bodies were hung, naked, from the hulk’s gun ports. It was only through the bravery of the hulk’s commanding officer, Captain Childers, who led his marines into the bowels of the ship to apprehend the culprits, that the revolt was quashed and disaster averted.

“Some of the scoundrels attempted to conceal themselves among the rafales in the hulk’s lower decks to avoid detection. They even shed their clothes to blend in. Fortunately, the ruse failed. They were given up by their fellow prisoners who were sickened by the violence. It also helped that there was no love lost between Duvert and his cronies and the rafales.”

Hawkwood had heard of the rafales from a former marine who’d served as a prison guard on the hulks at Chatham. The rafales occupied the bottom rung of the prison ladder, literally. They lived in a state of perpetual darkness in the lowest parts of the prison hulks. Naked as moles, or with only a blanket for warmth, their miserable existence was due to their mania for gambling, which led them, upon the loss of their money, to part with their clothes, bedding and rations. The stronger-willed prisoners—such as Duvert and his followers—preyed upon them with the cold-blooded detachment of sharks. Which accounted for the rafales’ willingness to betray Duvert and his henchmen, Hawkwood supposed.

“Duvert and his men had already received their sentence before we learned of Lee’s plans for his submersible. I’ll lose no sleep in having consigned them to an earlier grave. I agree, Hawkwood, that the rules of war carry with them obligations, as do the regulations covering military prisoners. I shed no tears for cold-blooded murderers, however. Duvert and his men forfeited their rights as prisoners of war when they displayed the bodies of those two marines like plucked fowl on a butcher’s block.” The Chief Magistrate frowned. “We did make some allowances, endeavouring to reduce unnecessary carnage by positioning them all at the bow and stern, deducing that those would be the areas least likely to suffer damage. Though, in that regard, it would appear we made a severe miscalculation.”

“You said there was an Englishman.”

Jago nodded. “Aye. A mate of yours, as it happens.” The big man threw a glance at the magistrate.

James Read pursed his lips. “Proof of the pudding, Hawkwood. We had the ship, the flags, the Royal standard. We weren’t sure how good Lee’s intelligence was, how close he might get, so we needed the one thing that would convince William Lee that he had the correct target in his sights. We needed the Prince of Wales.”

Hawkwood rose from the pillows. Pain lanced through his shoulder. He sank back with a grimace, which changed to an expression of disbelief. “The Prince was on board?”

Read shook his head. “A substitute. A flesh-and-blood decoy who could pass for the Prince at a distance. Someone with the right girth and stature.”

“And he was a friend of mine?”

Read smiled. “Not exactly. The sergeant was being facetious, though you are acquainted with the individual.” The magistrate paused. “Certainly with his mother.”

Jago said, “They used Eli Gant.”

“Gant!” Hawkwood winced as pain flared again. These revelations were doing nothing for his chances of a speedy recovery.

“I recalled that he and the widow were occupying berths on one of the transportation ships at Dudman’s Yard, awaiting passage to the colonies. We did not inform the widow of the reason we were borrowing her son. Young Eli seemed quite taken with the notion. He liked the clothes.” The magistrate’s tone darkened. “I’ll see he’s buried in them. It seems only fitting.”

There was a silence in the room.

“Why the deception?” Hawkwood asked. “Why didn’t you put out nets? Why not just stop Lee? Why did you want him to carry out the attack?”

The Chief Magistrate remained silent. Hawkwood sensed a deep disquiet. Finally James Read spoke.

“Because we needed to see if the submersible worked.”

Despite the sunlight slanting through the windows, a chill moved through Hawkwood.

James Read, sensing the change of mood, threw a meaningful look at Jago. “Come now, you need rest and time to gather your strength. We’ll talk again soon. Everything will be made clear. You’ll join me, Sergeant?”

Jago nodded, but before he left he moved to the bed. He bent low and spoke low so that only Hawkwood could hear. “Remember what we talked about, Cap’n? Bleedin’ generals. They tell you nothing. You and me, that’s all that matters.” He touched Hawkwood lightly on the arm and followed the Chief Magistrate out of the room.

Ezra Twigg looked up and smiled as Hawkwood entered the ante-room. “Why, Mr Hawkwood! A pleasure to see you back, sir. And looking very fit, if I may say so.”

“Good to see you, too, Ezra. He’s in, I take it?”

The clerk nodded towards the inner door. “He is, and he’s waiting for you.”

Hawkwood entered the office. There were three men present: James Read, Colonel William Congreve and a stranger. They were in conversation but fell silent and looked up as Hawkwood entered.

“Ah, Hawkwood, there you are.” The Chief Magistrate stepped out from behind his desk.

The Colonel smiled. “Captain! Good to see you! Fully recovered from your adventures, I trust? Excellent! Capital!”

“Colonel,” Hawkwood said, shaking the proffered hand.

The stranger was regarding Hawkwood with interest. Hawkwood returned the examination. The man was tall, with a strong, sun-browned face and penetrating blue eyes.

“Officer Hawkwood, Captain Thomas Johnstone.”

Johnstone nodded but did not offer his hand.

Captain? Hawkwood thought.

The magistrate moved towards the door. “Thank you, Captain Johnstone. That will be all for now. The Colonel will contact you in due course. My clerk will see you out.” Read opened the door. “Mr Twigg?”

Johnstone did not seem in the least put out by the abruptness of his departure. He left without a backward glance.

The Colonel’s expression was benign, but Hawkwood had the distinct feeling that the colonel did not set much store in Johnstone’s character.

Read returned to his desk. The Colonel moved to one of the chairs and sat down. The magistrate did not offer Hawkwood a seat. He seemed preoccupied with his thoughts. Finally he spoke: “We discovered what Lee meant by friends in high places.”

Hawkwood waited. The Colonel shifted in his chair.

“It was Admiral Dalryde.”

Dalryde! An Admiralty Board member. No wonder

Congreve looked uncomfortable, Hawkwood thought.

“It appears the Admiral had amassed rather heavy gambling debts,” Congreve continued. “His main creditor was White’s. It was his gambling losses that brought him to the attention of a fellow club member.”

“Mandrake?” Hawkwood ventured.

Read nodded. “Indeed, and it was Mandrake who introduced him to the woman. The Admiral told Mandrake you were the officer I’d assigned to the case. He was at Mandrake House the night of the ball.”

The shadow in the bushes, Hawkwood thought. His jaw tightened at the memory.

“Do not reproach yourself, Hawkwood. There was no way you could have known. The woman’s a skilled courtesan. She has considerable charms and knows how to use them. In Admiral Dalryde’s case, she used her wiles to manipulate him into providing her with information. In exchange for her favours and the promise that his debts would be covered, the Admiral gave her details of the naval courier’s travel arrangements, the date of Thetis’s departure from the Deptford yard, and the progress of our enquiries into both the coach robbery and Officer Warlock’s murder. The latter investigation, of course, held special interest because of its connection to the deployment of the submersible.”

“The bastard was right under our noses!” The colonel slammed a fist against his knee and stood up. Restlessly, he began to pace the room.

“I take it we arrested him?” Hawkwood said.

Read nodded.

“So he’ll be charged with treason,” Hawkwood said.

Read shook his head.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because the bugger beat us to it,” the colonel snapped.

Hawkwood looked to the magistrate for an explanation.

“The admiral hanged himself in his cell this morning.”

“God’s teeth! What about Mandrake? Don’t tell me he’s cheated the hangman, too.”

James Read placed his palms flat on the desk. He pushed himself to his feet. “My Lord Mandrake boarded a ship at Liverpool and took passage to the Americas. I’m afraid Runner Lightfoot returned empty-handed.”

Hawkwood didn’t believe what he was hearing. And he knew he still had to ask the obvious question. It wasn’t something he could put aside. “And the woman?”

“Ah, she is being held, I’m happy to say. And she’s under constant watch. Before he killed himself, Dalryde was questioned. He was kind enough to reveal Lee’s escape plans. We were able to board the Dutchman and impound her. The crew has been transferred to the hulks.”

“So,” Hawkwood said, “who the hell is she?”

Read frowned.

“I’m assuming,” Hawkwood said, “that she’s not really the Marquise de Varesne.”

“Ah,” Read nodded in understanding. “Well, you assume correctly. The lady’s name is Gabrielle Marceau, and she’s certainly no aristo—though there’s no doubt she played the part to perfection. She is, or rather was, a house servant.”

“House servant?”

“To the real marquise. Which is how she was able to wear the mantle with such aplomb. It seems her family was employed on the Varesne estates for several generations. She became a companion to the marquis’s daughter. They were of a similar age and I understand she did bear an uncanny resemblance to the real Catherine. A resemblance which the Directory and latterly Bonaparte’s intelligence service used to full advantage.”

“And the real Catherine?”

James Read’s expression hardened. “Dead, I fear, along with her mother and father and, I gather, a younger brother. Madame Guillotine is no respecter of youth. The entire family was erased in the Terror. Which made it easier for Mademoiselle to assume the role. A part she’s been playing for some time with considerable success. My sources tell me she is highly regarded by her employers.”

“It’s a pity your sources didn’t tell you that a lot earlier,” Hawkwood said. “It would have saved us a deal of trouble.”

The Chief Magistrate nodded. “I’ll not disagree with you.”

“And no one was aware of the deception?”

“Anyone who might have known the family or discovered her secret is dead, killed during the purges. Either that or eliminated in the event a suspicion was raised. She was well protected. She was…is…one of their best agents. Her speciality was infiltrating the Royalist underground. She was able to provide Bonaparte’s intelligence service with names of Bourbon sympathizers, prior warnings of assassination attempts, invasion plans and so forth. She was ideally placed to co-ordinate Lee’s attack on Thetis.”

“And now we’ve got her.”

“Indeed,” Read said.

“So they’ll hang her, at least.”

But again, to Hawkwood’s astonishment, the magistrate shook his head.

“But it’s not just Lee she was involved with! The bitch killed two people! She shot the coachman and she stabbed Master Woodburn to death!”

The cold-blooded manner of the old man’s death had shaken Hawkwood more than he cared to admit. Lee had said he had not wanted to leave Hawkwood’s body at the warehouse as evidence. It had been his reason for taking Hawkwood on to the submersible. The woman, clearly, had not harboured the same degree of reservation. She had killed the clockmaker and left his corpse displayed for all to see.

It had been James Read who had suggested the motive behind her actions.

“I suspect the lady knew that Mandrake’s premises would be compromised anyway and that your presence there was not a random event. She probably felt that, with you in Lee’s hands, her mission was, to all intents and purposes, complete. Having Master Woodburn under her feet would hamper her movements, possibly hinder an escape. No, by her reasoning, Master Woodburn had become an inconvenience, something to be discarded at the earliest opportunity.”

The Chief Magistrate’s words made sense, terrible though they were. It came to Hawkwood then, the awful truth. The message that had been in the clockmaker’s eyes when he had boarded the submersible. It had been the moment when Josiah Woodburn had known that he, too, was under sentence of death. With Hawkwood dead, the old man was the only other witness to Mandrake’s treachery.

In an uncharacteristic gesture, James Read placed his hand on Hawkwood’s arm. “Do not reproach yourself. There was little you could have done.”

“I left him to die,” Hawkwood said.

“I suspect Master Woodburn knew you had no choice.” The Chief Magistrate sighed. “Our clockmaker was a very courageous gentleman.”

Hawkwood’s shock at the murder and the ease with which he had been duped had fuelled a rage and a grim determination to bring all those responsible to account, especially the woman.

It was with a leaden sense of guilt that he had raised himself from his sick bed and retraced his path to the house on the Strand. There had been no requirement for him to make the journey. James Read had already taken it upon himself to relay the news of Josiah Woodburn’s murder to the staff. The Chief Magistrate had not wanted to entrust the onerous responsibility to a subordinate. Hawkwood, however, had felt he owed it to the old man to pay his own respects. The knowledge that he had been unable to protect the clockmaker from a senseless act of brutality lay like a heavy weight upon his conscience and it wasn’t the Hobbs he dreaded facing, it was the old man’s granddaughter. He wondered if he would be able to look her in the eye without flinching.

The Hobbs had admitted Hawkwood to the house with the loss etched deeply into their worn faces, and he knew the moment he stepped over the threshold that the little girl was not there. The silence told him so, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not.

“She’s with her aunt’s family in Sussex,” Mrs Hobbs told him. “Her uncle is a vicar. He has a small parish outside Rottingdean. They have a daughter of their own, the same age as Elizabeth. It was thought the right thing to do, while the family puts the master’s affairs in order.” The housekeeper’s face was as grey and drawn as her husband’s. “A terrible business, Officer Hawkwood, a terrible business. The people who did this will be punished, won’t they?”

“Yes,” Hawkwood had promised them. “If I have anything to do with it.”

At least that’s what he had assumed.

“She’s to be exchanged,” James Read said.

“What?”

“She’s Bonaparte’s most valued agent in Britain. We can use that to our advantage. It’s our intention to exchange her for British agents held in France. Overtures have been made. The French will release five of our men in exchange for her safe passage back to Calais. It’s an excellent trade.”

The Chief Magistrate’s face softened. “I know what you’re thinking, Hawkwood. We’re at war and many good men have died: the coachman, Officer Warlock, Master Woodburn…But there is a higher agenda at stake here. If this conflict is to be resolved, accommodations must be made, diplomatic channels must remain open. That agenda was severely compromised when Bonaparte commissioned Lee to attack Thetis. A line was crossed. A precedent set. That was why we had no compunction in placing French prisoners on board the ship. An eye for an eye, if you will. But I believe it was an aberration and the arrest of the woman has given us an opportunity to step back from the abyss. The situation is recoverable. With an exchange such as this, each side can be assured that dialogue is still an option. It is sensible, Hawkwood. Above all, it is civilized.”

Hawkwood tried to find words, but none were forthcoming. He wondered about the Chief Magistrate’s use of the word civilized. Had it been civilized, he wondered, to sacrifice the French prisoners or the imbecile Eli Gant? This was a side to James Read that was new to him. Beneath the Chief Magistrate’s cultured exterior, there existed a ruthlessness that would have done justice to some of the guerrilleros that Hawkwood had fought with in the Spanish mountains.

In the defence of the realm, it was now clear that any rule could be broken. All methods could be justified in the pursuit of a goal. Then Hawkwood remembered the unfinished conversation in the bedroom at the commissioner’s house and knew instinctively there was more to follow.

“We knew from Lieutenant Ramillies’ reports that improvements had been made to the submersible boat.” It was Colonel Congreve who spoke. The colonel had stopped pacing and was standing next to the fireplace. “We needed to find out what they were and whether they had made the device a more viable proposition. William Lee’s mission to attack Thetis gave us that opportunity. It meant we could observe the efficiency of the vessel first hand.”

“What if I’d been able to destroy it?” Hawkwood asked.

“We still had the drawings the clockmaker gave to Officer Warlock. Those and the intelligence gleaned by Lieutenant Ramillies in France would have provided us with a basis for our own plans.”

“Own plans for what?” Hawkwood said. Though he had begun to suspect what they might be.

“To build our own submersible boat, of course.”

Hawkwood felt a swirl of nausea.

“And I have to confess,” the colonel beamed, “we were damned impressed with the result. Tell me, is it true Lee had constructed a means by which you can see above the water when the vessel’s submerged?”

“He called it the eye,” Hawkwood said woodenly, wondering what madness was about to be unleashed.

“Splendid!” the colonel beamed. “I look forward to examining it in detail.”

Hawkwood stared at him.

“Well, you didn’t think we were going to leave the damned thing on the bottom of the river, did you?”

“That thing,” Hawkwood said, “is a bloody death-trap. It blew up.”

“That’s right.” Congreve nodded. There was a pause. “It was supposed to.”

James Read ignored the look of bewilderment on Hawkwood’s face. “Master Woodburn made it happen. When we retrieved his body from the warehouse, we also discovered his journal. He had been composing it in secret, using scraps of paper he managed to secrete during his incarceration. He describes the repairs he was forced to make to the submarine bomb’s timing device. He also describes his own sabotage attempt. It seems he used to let himself out of his cell at night. His guard, Seaman Sparrow, had a habit of leaving the premises to frequent the local gin shop. He obviously thought the old man was securely locked up. Master Woodburn took advantage of his jailer’s absence to make his own modifications to the submersible. Apparently, he was able to conceal a small amount of explosive and equipment to fashion a bomb of his own. Triggered by a clockwork mechanism, it seems, set in motion and timed to detonate once the torpedo had been released from the submersible’s stern.”

Hawkwood recalled the old man’s manner in the cell. Josiah Woodburn had been about to tell him something when Lee had walked in with the woman. Presumably it was the other reason why he hadn’t escaped with Warlock. It hadn’t only been fear for his granddaughter’s safety that had held the clockmaker back, but also his plan to turn the tables on William Lee’s assassination plot. Again, there had been the expression on the old man’s face as Hawkwood had boarded the submersible. Not only the knowledge that his own life had become forfeit but that Hawkwood was being forced on to what was, in effect, a doomed vessel.

“You’re planning to salvage the submersible?” Hawkwood said, still not believing it.

Congreve nodded. “That’s right. And we’ve got our own man to operate it.”

And it all began to fall into place. “Captain Johnstone.”

“Correct. The man’s an indisputable rogue, of course. Talented, I grant you, but a rogue nonetheless. He worked with Fulton when he brought the Nautilus to England. A jack of all trades, you might call him. Been a Channel pilot, privateer, smuggler, even spent a time or two in a debtors’ prison. Not the sort of fellow you’d invite to a soiree, but he’s the best man for the job. No doubt about that.”

Hence the colonel’s less than benevolent expression earlier, Hawkwood thought.

“So, now it’s our turn,” Hawkwood said, unable to keep his anger in check. “What’s it to be? Boney’s barge on the Seine? We’re no bloody better than they are! What the hell’s it all been for?”

James Read looked at him. “Why, victory, Hawkwood—what else?”

Runner Jeremiah Lightfoot was thinking of his bed. He was also thinking about his plump wife, Ettie, and how much he’d like her to be in the bed with him. They had not seen much of each other of late, what with his duties at the bank and his journey north in pursuit of Lord Mandrake; a wasted journey, as he kept reminding himself. He had been looking forward to spending an evening at home, with his loving wife cuddled at his side. But it was not to be. Instead, here he was, loitering on a dark quayside with nothing to keep him company save for the ship’s cat and a small flask of brandy.

The cat was a friendly enough creature, rubbing up against his legs, purring whenever he reached down to stroke it, but he suspected the animal was more interested in the prospect of food than the force of his personality. Sadly, Lightfoot did not have any food, and if he had he sure as hell wouldn’t have shared it with any flea-ridden moggy.

Apart from a watchman dozing in a hammock on the foredeck, Lightfoot was the only man on board. The rest of the crew were ashore, spending their last night enjoying the delights of the local taverns. The ship—a Portuguese owned vessel called the Madrilena—was due to sail with the morning tide, and Runner Lightfoot’s duty was to see that the woman sailed with her. The woman had been escorted to the ship late that afternoon by a brace of constables. She was currently occupying the main cabin.

The woman was beautiful and it had been no hardship watching her as she walked around the deck, taking the air, prior to going below. He knew she was aware of his attention. She had smiled at him several times with her dark eyes and Lightfoot had wondered what it would be like to be with someone like her. But Jeremiah Lightfoot loved his wife, so all he did was wonder.

Dusk was falling as the small, fleet-footed figure made his way along the quayside. Lightfoot watched the boy approach and drew himself up straight.

At the top of the gangplank the boy reached into his pocket and held up a folded piece of paper. “Got a message for the lady.”

“Is that right? And what might your name be?”

“They call me Tooler.”

Lightfoot stiffened and looked around. The watchman was still asleep in his hammock, dead to the world, and taking no notice of the visitor. “Wait here.”

Lightfoot made his way down the companionway. There was a light burning behind the cabin door. He knocked softly.

“Enter.”

She was seated at the small table, reading a book. Lightfoot glanced at the leather binding. Something in French; he could not make out the title.

She looked up. “Yes?”

Her hair was unfastened and hung to her shoulders. She was wearing a low bodice. Lightfoot could see the tops of her breasts. Her skin glowed in the lantern light. Lightfoot swallowed. “There’s a boy. He says he has a message for you.”

“A message?” She frowned. It didn’t make her any less beautiful.

“A note. Says he didn’t want to come below, but he has to give it to you personally. Says it’s important.”

A small lie wouldn’t hurt, Lightfoot thought. Not in the long run.

“Here,” Lightfoot said, “let me get your shawl.” He found his hands were shaking.

The woman rose, accepted the shawl with a nod, and preceded Lightfoot out of the cabin.

The boy was waiting for her under the mast lantern. He watched her, thinking to himself that she was a looker all right.

“You have a message?” she said, drawing the shawl around her.

The boy held up the note, but did not move. “Told ter give you this—”

She stepped forward, held out her hand and the boy placed the note in it and moved away.

She unfolded the paper and held it up to the lantern glass. There was a single sentence.

Welcome to hell.

The rifle ball took Gabrielle Marceau through the right eye, snapping her head back and exiting her skull in a spray of blood and brain matter. As her body collapsed, the note slid from her hand and fluttered like a butterfly to the deck.

Lightfoot and the boy stood over her and watched as she died. Bending down, Lightfoot retrieved the note and placed it unhurriedly in his pocket. He turned to the boy. “Leave now. Forget what you have seen.”

Wordlessly, Tooler turned and hurried back down the gangplank to the dock. Lightfoot stared dispassionately at the woman. The blood was spreading out beneath her, staining the planking. In the lantern light it looked as black as tar.

Lightfoot straightened and ran towards the foredeck. The watchman was still slumbering, undisturbed by the crack of the gunshot which was already fading into the night.

Lightfoot took a deep breath, went forward, shook the man awake, and began to yell.

“Murder! Murder!”

The cry rose over the moon-flecked quayside.

Two hundred yards away, on the second floor of a disused warehouse, Nathaniel Jago, kneeling in front of an open window, the Baker rifle barrel resting on his shoulder, clicked his tongue in admiration. Smoke from the rifle’s discharge drifted around his head like dissipating tobacco fumes.

“Nice shot.”

Hawkwood lowered the rifle. His shoulder was still tender. The muscles had not recovered their full strength so he had used Jago as a rest. He laid the rifle on the oilcloth and began to wrap it up.

“The boy did well,” Jago murmured.

“So did Jeremiah,” Hawkwood said.

The rifle concealed inside the oilcloth bundle, the two men made their way downstairs and out of the building. The sound of running feet could be heard. Backing into the shadows, they watched as a figure ran past: the crewman, off to fetch the constables. Only when he had disappeared did they step out on to the dockside.

“They’ll know it was you,” Jago said, as they fell into step.

“They’ll suspect it was me,” Hawkwood said. “But it won’t matter. The bitch is dead, that’s the main thing. Besides, I’ll have an alibi.”

“That’s right: you were with me, enjoyin’ a wet over at the Dog and Goat. You think they’ll believe it, me being a notorious villain an’ all?”

“What do you mean, villain? Magistrate Read’s spoken with his contacts at Horse Guards. You’ve been granted a full pardon. You’re no longer a deserter, you’re a pillar of society. It’s official.”

“Right,” Jago said, grinning. “And you’re the Emperor of China.”

Hawkwood smiled at his friend. “It’s true, Nathaniel, No more worrying about the provost, no more hiding.”

“Sounds boring,” Jago said. “Not sure I could ’andle that.”

“You could always join me,” Hawkwood said. “With Henry Warlock’s death, there’s an opening for a special constable.”

Jago stopped in his tracks. “Bloody hell! Me a Runner? You ain’t serious? Is this ’is honour’s idea?”

“He suggested I ask you.”

“Did ’e indeed? Suffered a crack on the ’ead recently, has ’e? Been struck by lightning, maybe?”

“It’s a genuine offer.”

Jago shook his head in disbelief, then looked up. “What’s it pay?”

Hawkwood told him, and Jago started to laugh. Hawkwood grinned and began to laugh too.

They were still laughing as they reached the end of the quayside. The sound carried in the darkness as the night closed over them like a cloak.