Rapscallion

CHAPTER 17

Hawkwood and Lasseur were in the cloisters.

Morgan and Pepper had departed the refectory leaving the room abuzz with excitement. Any despondency at the lack of home comforts had evaporated as quickly as the early morning haze. Uppermost in everyone's mind was the final instalment of Morgan's plan, which he had promised would soon be forthcoming.

Hawkwood had tried to imagine what £500,000 would look like accumulated in one place and had given up. The idea of four tons of bullion heaped on to the back of a wagon - most of which, according to Morgan, would probably be in ingots - hadn't proved any easier to digest. His head was spinning with the enormity of it. He needed to think. After a suitable period of listening to the others planning their futures - which seemed to consist entirely of country estates, fine wines and, for the ones who weren't married, and even for a couple who were, a supply of pliant women - he had left the refectory and walked into the open air.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he cursed under his breath.

"You have to admit," Lasseur murmured, "it's a devil of a proposition."

"There'll be a price to pay," Hawkwood said.

"Undoubtedly. Though I notice it didn't prevent you from accepting our host's offer," Lasseur commented wryly. He patted his pockets, as if looking for the last of his cheroots.

"Four tons of gold's a fearsome incentive," Hawkwood said.

"You think it's possible?" Lasseur asked. His hands gave up their search.

"Anything's possible," Hawkwood said and then thought, Well, maybe not anything, because alerting the authorities was now his first priority and so far he hadn't come up with a single feasible idea on how to do that. In the meantime, he reasoned, there was more chance of his foiling Morgan's insane plan by remaining inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.

"Our host seems to have addressed all the likely hindrances."

"He thinks he has."

"You don't agree with his strategy?"

"He was a little short on specifics. I don't have enough information to hand to make a judgement."

Lasseur looked sceptical.

"I'm just weighing the odds," Hawkwood said. "The moment you put a plan into action, what's the first thing that usually goes wrong?"

Lasseur thought about it. The corners of his mouth lifted. "The rest of the plan. So?"

Hawkwood nodded. "So remember what Tom Gadd told us? If we ever shook hands with Morgan we were to count our fingers afterwards."

"In other words, we watch our backs."

"And everything else," Hawkwood said.

"The others don't seem to share our concerns," Lasseur pointed out.

"They haven't had the benefit of Tom Gadd's opinion or the Widow Flynn's experience of dealing with the man. All they see is the gold at the end of the rainbow and the thanks of a grateful Emperor."

"Some might think that was sufficient," Lasseur said.

"Not me," Hawkwood said. "But, as you once pointed out, I'm a suspicious bastard. I've been around long enough to know that you don't get anything for nothing."

Morgan's warning about keeping within the grounds and the presence of pickets had suddenly taken on a new meaning. Now that Morgan had revealed his grand plan, it was clear those precautions were intended not only to keep unwanted visitors at bay, but to ensure that information did not escape from the compound. It occurred to Hawkwood that one form of prison had been replaced with another. Admittedly, as Denard had stated, there was a deal more comfort, but it was still a gaol of sorts. And one from which Hawkwood had to find a way out.

"You seem well informed about Deal," he said to Lasseur.

The privateer laughed. "Never walked the streets, but British merchantmen use the Downs as an anchorage and there are rich pickings along that stretch of coast for a crew with enough nerve and a fast ship."

"And the Scorpion's a fast ship," Hawkwood said.

"That she is, and the fortress makes a good landmark for navigation. Mind you, I've felt the breeze from those thirty-six- pounders a few times, too. Had my run-ins with the locals as well. They're fine seamen. There's more than one privateer that's been chased away from its target by a pack of sharp-sighted Deal boatmen."

"They're well armed?"

"Pistols and swords, usually, but their boats are . . . were . . . so damned fast. They'd be on you and under your guns before you'd have a chance to disengage. They've no shortage of courage, I'll give them that."

"That's what makes them such good free traders," Hawkwood said. "It'll be a family business for most, I expect, and there's no greater bond than family."

Save a man's regiment, where comrades in arms were often as close as brothers; closer, sometimes, Hawkwood thought, remembering.

"Stealing a wagonload of gold isn't the same as hefting two dozen tubs of brandy up a beach," Lasseur pointed out.

"No, it isn't," Hawkwood agreed. "But it's a bloody sight more profitable."

"Damned right!" Lasseur said, his eyes lighting up. "I've taken some prizes in my time, but nothing like this. By God, Matthew, say what you like about Morgan, he doesn't do things by halves!"

Lasseur was right about that, Hawkwood conceded. It sounded as though the privateer was warming to the man. But then, why wouldn't he be? Morgan was providing him with a roof over his head, victuals and a passage home, not to mention a share of the profit from a strike against a hated enemy, something at which Lasseur excelled anyway. From Lasseur's point of view, and indeed from that of Masson and Le Jeune and the rest of them, it was their sworn duty to harass and inflict damage on the enemies of France. For them, Morgan's mission was a golden opportunity.

Literally.

Watching the thrill of the chase expand across Lasseur's face and hearing the excitement in his voice, Hawkwood knew a primeval change was taking place. He was reminded of a wolf scenting blood and knew that Lasseur was reverting from prisoner back to privateer, his true character. Hawkwood recalled the story of the scorpion that asked the frog to carry him across a stream, promising the frog it would not be stung. And yet when they were halfway across, the scorpion reneged on its promise and stung the frog to death, thus precipitating its own demise. When the frog had asked why, the scorpion replied, "Because I'm a scorpion. It's my nature."

Lasseur's nature was to sail the oceans in search of prey, using every means at his disposal. Perhaps the name of his ship was just a coincidence, Hawkwood thought. With a growing sense of disquiet, he realized that once again Lasseur had become his enemy.

Which meant he was on his own.

He saw that Lasseur was looking over his shoulder.

Hawkwood tensed as he turned. It was the groom, Thaddeus.

The groom jerked a thumb in the direction of the main house.

"Mr Morgan wants to see you," he said.

Morgan was seated at his desk when Hawkwood and Lasseur entered the room. He was dressed as he had been during his morning walk, in dark breeches and jacket and a navy waistcoat. Hawkwood looked for the two mastiffs and was relieved to see they were nowhere in sight. The blackthorn stick, however, was propped against the side of the desk.

Morgan nodded at the groom, who backed away and closed the door behind him. Pepper, who was standing behind Morgan, looking out of the window, turned, his good arm held behind his back.

Morgan moved out from the desk and walked to a circular table upon which stood a bottle and four glass goblets. "Drink, gentlemen?" He did not wait for a reply but reached for the bottle.

"I think this will be to Captain Lasseur's liking. It's from the Bertin vineyard. I'm told it's Emperor Bonaparte's favourite tipple." He glanced towards his lieutenant. "Cephus?"

Pepper stalked over. Morgan passed out the drinks and raised his glass. "Here's to profit!"

The four men drank. Hawkwood took stock of the room. There was a marked lack of frills, making it undeniably masculine in style. Apart from a comfortable-looking settee facing the fireplace, it was more of an office than a sitting room. On first impression, it reminded Hawkwood a little of Hellard's quarters back on Rapacious. On closer inspection, however, he saw that the furnishings, although plain, were of a superior quality. And in contrast to Hellard's cabin, there were a clutch of paintings on the walls, mostly equine in character. He wondered if Morgan had a family. With the goblet in his hand, the smuggler looked every inch the prosperous gentleman farmer, while Pepper, dressed in grey, had the veneer of an efficient, albeit intimidating, estate manager.

Morgan addressed Lasseur. "You slept well, Captain? Captain Hooper tells me that new surroundings make it hard for him to settle."

"Not me," Lasseur said. "Though I'm more used to beds that sway."

"Ah, of course. And they have hammocks on the hulks, don't they? By the way, did I mention that you and Cephus here have something in common? Cephus was at sea, too, before we joined forces. Weren't you, old friend?"

Lasseur regarded Pepper with renewed interest. "You were in the navy, Mr Pepper?"

"It was a long time ago," Pepper said.

There was no attempt to elaborate. Lasseur glanced at the remains of Pepper's left arm but made no comment. Whether it was out of politeness or in deference to Pepper's demeanour, Hawkwood couldn't tell.

"That was before he found a more lucrative line of work," Morgan added.

"The Trade?" Lasseur said.

"That's right." Morgan smiled. "The wine's to your liking, Captain?"

"I'm happy to report that His Majesty has excellent taste," Lasseur said.

"And what's the point of being in the business if you can't sample the goods, eh?" Morgan took a sip from his glass and compressed his lips in appreciation. "Find a seat. Make yourselves comfortable."

Hawkwood took a chair. Lasseur moved to the settee.

Morgan put down his glass and held open a veneered wooden box. "Manila?"

Lasseur, with an exclamation of pleasure, helped himself to a cheroot. He held the roll of tightly wrapped tobacco leaf under his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

Hawkwood declined. Morgan took a cheroot for himself and offered the box to Pepper, who shook his head.

This is all very civilized, Hawkwood thought warily, and wondered what it was leading up to. Morgan didn't seem the sort to indulge in social chitchat, and Pepper looked as if he'd rather chew his good arm off than engage in conversation, polite or otherwise.

As Lasseur lit up and drew on his cheroot, Morgan said, "That was an interesting stroke you pulled back there, Captain."

Lasseur leant back on the cushions and expelled smoke. "But fair, I think, considering the return, especially when you're expecting men to risk their lives." Lasseur raised his goblet, flicking a glance towards Hawkwood as he took a sip. "In any case, I think you would have gone to twenty-five."

Morgan's eyes widened. Then the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as he jabbed his unlit cheroot towards Lasseur's face. "I might have, at that." He turned to Hawkwood. "What about you, Captain Hooper? You haven't had much to say for yourself so far. Something tells me there's more going on in here than you let on." Morgan tapped the side of his head. "I'll wager those scars of yours could tell some tales. Am I right?"

"They just mean I was slow getting out of the way," Hawkwood said. "And all soldiers carry scars."

He took a sip of wine. Lasseur was right. The taste was exceptional.

"That's true, but some run deeper than others, eh?" Morgan said.

Hawkwood did not reply and watched as a shadow moved across Morgan's face.

"We have a situation, gentlemen."

"Situation?" Hawkwood said guardedly.

Morgan paused to light his cheroot. Hawkwood suspected it was to give him time to think.

When the leaf was glowing to his satisfaction, Morgan continued. "We've been having some problems with the Revenue. An occupational hazard, I know, but there's a particular Riding Officer who's been sniffing at our heels. He's developing into something of a nuisance."

Hawkwood wondered how Morgan was expecting them to respond. It didn't seem the moment for platitudes. He took another sip of wine, and waited. Lasseur was obviously of the same mind. The privateer expelled a thin plume of tobacco smoke and made a play of looking unconcerned while picking a shred of leaf from his bottom lip.

Morgan continued. "He was only appointed a few months back and he's been trying to make a name for himself ever since. Probably thinks we haven't been taking inventory, but we have.

Thing is, he's not from round here. Usually, the Revenue recruits from the local area. It's not like the militia: that lot reckon there's less chance of someone perverting the course of justice if there are no family connections to the immediate district. That's why Kent lads have been freezing their balls off in Dumfries, poor sods, and Dungeness had to put up with a company from Flintshire."

Morgan took a pull on his cheroot before removing it from his lips and rolling it between his fingers. He studied the end and looked up.

"As I was saying, he was brought in from another county. His name's Jilks, by the way, and he's proving rather more . . . conscientious than we were led to expect."

"I take it you've tried inducements?" Hawkwood said.

Morgan nodded. "They haven't worked. Prides himself on keeping to the straight and narrow. Anyway, over the last month or so, a number of our runs have been intercepted. There was a landing at Sandwich a couple of weeks back; we lost a hundred kegs and two men wounded. We've discovered he was behind the Warden ambush. The last thing we need is for him to find out about the Deal job and pass the word. That happens and we're all buggered. That means you, me, Bonaparte's ability to pay his troops, future landings - the whole damned trade. We can't risk that." Morgan paused. "We need to neuter the son of a bitch before it's too late."

"Neuter?" Lasseur said.

Hawkwood felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation worm its way down his spine.

"Remove," Morgan said, taking a long draw on his cheroot and letting the smoke fill his lungs.

The word hung ominously in the air.

"You want him dead," Lasseur said flatly.

"That would be the preferred option."

Lasseur sat up slowly as the light dawned.

The pins and needles invading Hawkwood's spine suddenly felt more like chips of ice.

There'll be a price to pay.

"And you want us to take care of it," Hawkwood said.

Morgan jabbed towards Hawkwood with the now glowing tip of his cheroot. "You, sir, are as perceptive as your friend here." He turned to Pepper. "Didn't I say they'd be a pair to be reckoned with?"

Lasseur lowered his glass. "Why us?"

Morgan put his head on one side. "Delivering the gold to Bonaparte is my gesture of good faith. This would be yours."

"I don't follow," Lasseur said. Unseen by Morgan, he threw Hawkwood another sideways glance.

"No?" Morgan sucked on his cheroot stem, making a play of savouring the taste. "Well, y'see, back in the refectory, when I was outlining my little plan, I got it into my head that somehow you and Captain Hooper weren't warming to the notion quite as quickly as the others. Which is a pity, because Cephus and I took the two of you for a cut above the rest and we'd hate to think we might have made a mistake in judgement.

"That's not to say it hasn't happened before, mind. You know how it is; you hold out the hand of friendship to someone, only to find they don't quite measure up to expectations. Creates all sorts of regrets and recriminations. Bottom line is, Cephus and I need to know who we can depend on. Which is why I don't think it's unreasonable to ask for proof of your commitment, do you?"

"By asking us to kill a Revenue man?"

"To prove you're fully on board." Morgan smiled engagingly. "I mean, it's not as though the pair of you are choirboys, is it? There's the matter of that incident back on the hulk. How many were killed? Five, wasn't it? That's a very impressive total. One might even say excessive. That drew our attention right away, didn't it, Cephus?"

"Certainly did," Pepper said. It was the first time Morgan's lieutenant had employed emphasis.

"All we're asking is that you put your expertise to good use," Morgan said.

"You take us for assassins?" Lasseur said.

Morgan shook his head. "The thought never entered my head.

But you are still at war, aren't you? Which means Riding Officer Jilks is the enemy and, given what's at stake, I'd say that makes him as much a threat as a Royal Navy frigate or a regiment of dragoons. Wouldn't you?"

"The man's got a point," Hawkwood said.

"And there's nothing to connect him with either you or Captain Hooper," Morgan said. "Complete the job and in a few days you'll be on your way home, considerably richer."

"You're implying that we have an obligation?" Lasseur said.

"I'm suggesting you're both supremely practical men who are about to embark on a vital mission. What's the life of one man when weighed against the future of France?"

"And your investments." Lasseur played with the stem of his glass. "Let's not forget those."

"Without which your Emperor will be considerably poorer and your army less well equipped." If Morgan felt any rancour at Lasseur's reply, he gave no sign. "It's your duty to turn that fortune around, Captain."

Lasseur looked at Hawkwood.

"He's right, my friend," Hawkwood sighed. "If we were on the Scorpion and we spied a fat merchantman lying at anchor off the Downs, we wouldn't be having this conversation. We'd be sanding the decks and running out the guns and Devil take the hindmost. I say if this Jilks is the only thing standing between me and a Goddamned fortune, the bastard's fair game." Hawkwood lifted his glass. "And you know it."

He turned to Morgan. "You want him taken care of? Consider it done."

Chief Magistrate James Read stood by his window, looking down on to the scene below. Bow Street echoed with the sounds of a city going about its daily toil. The clatter of hooves mingled with the rumble of carriage wheels while the wavering cries of the street vendors rose into the air in a discordant chorus of strangulated vowels.

Read's eyes were drawn to the opposite side of the road and the exterior of the Brown Bear public house. A small boy, one of the countless street urchins that roamed the area, had just attempted to fleece a passing pedestrian of his pocket watch and was being beaten roundly about the head by his intended victim. The boy was struggling like a minnow on a hook. Read couldn't help but admire the young pickpocket's nerve, plying his trade only strides from the entrance to the Public Office. He shook his head despairingly as the boy kicked his aggressor in the shins and ran off through the crowds. It took only a matter of yards before he had vanished from view. It was interesting, Read thought, that no one from downstairs had seen the altercation and thought to intervene. He would have to make enquiries. Perhaps a constable stationed permanently by the front entrance would rectify the situation.

Read made a mental note and returned to his desk. As he sat down, there was a knock at the door. It opened and Ezra Twigg entered.

"A communication from the Admiralty, sir. Just delivered by courier. I've told him to wait in case there's a reply."

"Thank you, Mr Twigg."

Read slit open the seal while Twigg hovered. His eyes skipped unerringly to the signature at the bottom of the page. The message was from Ludd.

Ezra Twigg watched as the magistrate's brow darkened.

"I take it there's been no word, sir?" Twigg said.

Read did not reply. He laid the letter on his desk and said in a subdued tone, "You may tell the courier he can go. There is no reply."

Twigg nodded and headed for the door. He hesitated and turned. "Is everything in order, sir?"

Read looked at his clerk. "You were correct in your assumption, Mr Twigg. Captain Ludd informs me that there has been no word from Officer Hawkwood since he escaped from his confinement. Nor has there been any word of him."

Twigg blinked behind his spectacles as he regarded the Chief Magistrate's solemn expression. The clerk had worked for James Read long enough to know that look. Read's appearance, from the swept-back silver hair and aquiline face to his dark conservative dress, was everything one might expect from a senior public servant. It led those who did not know him to suppose he was an official who performed his duties with a puritanical zeal and a man who had no personal regard for anyone who did not adhere to his own exacting standards. Ezra Twigg knew differently.

Behind the prim facade there resided a man who was fully and often painfully aware of the responsibilities he carried on his slim and elegantly clad shoulders. Read was indeed dedicated to his job. He was also dedicated to the men who worked for him. The Chief Magistrate knew the dangers facing his officers. The Runners were an elite band and few in number. They were thinly stretched and, by the nature of their assignments around the country, often placed in harm's way. Read knew them to be highly competent, resourceful and sometimes ruthless. It wasn't unusual for an officer to remain out of contact for a time. But that didn't stop Read from feeling concern for their welfare or their safety.

And Read's pensive look told Ezra Twigg all he needed to know.

The Chief Magistrate was worried.

"Is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

Read looked up. His face remained serious and thoughtful.

"Yes, Mr Twigg, there is. I'd be obliged if you could deliver a message for me."

"Very good, sir." Twigg waited expectantly. After a pause, he said, "And to whom am I delivering this message, sir?"

Read told him.

Twigg's eyebrows rose. "Do you think he'll come?"

Read nodded. "He'll come."

"I'll leave right away." Twigg made for the door.

"Mr Twigg?"

The clerk turned. "Your Honour?"

"Please tread carefully," Read said.

Twigg permitted himself a small smile. "I always do, sir."

Read nodded. The clerk closed the door behind him. Read looked at the clock in the corner of the room. He took a watch from his pocket and consulted the dial. Walking to the clock he reached up and moved the minute hand to a quarter past the hour.

Perhaps it was an omen, he thought. Time was ticking away.

In the outer office, Ezra Twigg sent the waiting courier on his way and reached for his hat.

He wasn't sure if he should offer a prayer for his safe return before he left.

For he was, after all, about to pay a visit to the Holy Land.

The Hanged Man public house lay in a dark alleyway behind Buckbridge Street. It was not the sort of establishment frequented by gentlemen or ladies of a genteel disposition. It catered mostly for those who lived on the edges of conventional society, the borderland between the criminal and the lawful. Gamblers, tricksters, forgers and debtors; opportunists, seducers, procurers and paramours all frequented its dim-lit, beer-steeped, smoke-filled interior.

At the back of the main room on the first floor, four men wreathed in tobacco fumes were playing dominoes. The men's faces were serious as they concentrated on the game before them. Their moves were brisk and confident. There was little banter. The position of the counters in front of each player face down, in two rows of three - and the pile of coins by each participant's elbow testified to the spirit in which the game was being played.

One man seemed to be ahead in his winnings. He was stocky, with a craggy face and short, pewter-coloured hair. His back was to the wall. When he was not concentrating on his counters, his eyes watched the room. There was no fear in his gaze but there was caution. A glass of brandy stood by his right arm. Every so often he would raise the glass to his lips and take a sip before laying his counters down. Despite his watchfulness, he gave the impression of a man at ease with himself, his insalubrious surroundings and with the company he was keeping.

Occasionally, his gaze would pass over a solitary male customer seated at a table at the top of the stairway leading down to the ground floor. The man sat with his back to the panelled wall. He was young, with a strong face and dark, intelligent eyes. Whenever he raised his drink to his lips, he performed the movement with such economy it suggested his partaking of the spirit was purely a means of keeping his hand and arm occupied rather than a desire to savour the contents of the glass. The moment a customer ascended from the pub's lower floor, he would place his drink carefully on the table before him, leaving his hands free. Sometimes, he caught the grey-haired man's glance, but mostly he kept his eye on the stairway. The young man's name was Micah.

A new round commenced. Counters were laid down in quick succession, interspersed with a rap of knuckles whenever a player was unable to follow on. Table stakes notwithstanding, the atmosphere was friendly and relaxed.

With one domino left in his hand and with a line of counters snaking unevenly across the table top, the pewter-haired man undertook his reconnaissance, scanning the departures and arrivals, faces unknown and familiar, assessing whether they were likely to be friend or foe.

His eyes moved to the table by the stairs and he stiffened imperceptibly. Micah was no longer alone. Standing next to his table was a small, bow-legged, bespectacled man dressed in a black coat and breeches and wearing a faded three-cornered hat. A powdered wig which had seen better days poked from beneath the hat's folded brim. The older man was talking. Micah was listening. Finally, Micah nodded, turned and looked towards the domino table.

The pewter-haired man laid down his final counter and collected his winnings. Pushing his chair back, he stood up and swept the pile of coins into his palm and then into his pocket.

"Thanks for the game, boys. Deal me out of the next one - business calls." Ignoring the protests of the other players, he stepped away from the table and headed for the stairs.

Ezra Twigg watched him approach.

As the pewter-haired man reached his table, Micah rose to his feet.

"Well now, Mr Twigg -" Nathaniel Jago gazed down at the clerk and sighed heavily - "your being here can only mean one thing. What's the daft beggar gone and done now?"

The four riders crested the rise and urged their mounts towards the edge of the wood. Moonlight dappled the men's features and the foliage that concealed their passing. Their attention was focused on the outline of a low-roofed cottage which lay some three hundred yards away, set back from the road. The rest of the village lay beyond it, perhaps a dozen houses in all. Another one hundred paces separated the cottage from its nearest neighbour.

"Looks quiet," McTurk murmured. The observation made, the Irishman hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat the result into the bushes.

Lasseur wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"See anything?" McTurk whispered to the horseman on his left.

The horseman, whose name was Croker, shook his head and growled, "Coast's clear, I reckon."

McTurk turned to Hawkwood. "You set?"

"We're wasting time," Hawkwood said. "Let's get on with it."

They coaxed their horses out of the wood and back on to the path, riding two abreast, McTurk and Croker leading the way.

A soft breeze caressed Hawkwood's cheek. It brought with it the scent of the sea, which lay less than a mile distant. He thought he could hear waves lapping against shingle, but dismissed it as his imagination, though when he looked to his right, he could see the occasional shimmer of moon on water through gaps in the trees.

McTurk and Croker did not speak and Lasseur was silent beside him. Progress was marked by the steady perambulation of the horses and the faint gleam of candlelight from the houses ahead of them.

It had been a while since Hawkwood had ridden. The last time had been in Spain, when he'd fought alongside the guerrilleros in hit-and-run raids against the French. He had never considered himself to be anything other than an average horseman, with an ambivalent attitude to the animal as a species. Yet when he'd lifted himself into the saddle in Morgan's stable yard and thrust his boots into the stirrups, it was as if the years had rolled away.

Lasseur looked perfectly at home, handling the reins as if he had been born to it, which he probably had, Hawkwood concluded. He recalled Lasseur telling him how his wife had died and Hawkwood suspected that the privateer, despite his chosen profession, was an accomplished rider and had probably accompanied his late wife on early morning gallops whenever he was home. He knew that Lasseur's unease was due to the morality of their task and not the fear of falling off and breaking his neck or being trampled to death by flying hooves.

A night bird called out from the darkness and the horses' ears pricked up. Hawkwood laid a calming hand on his mount's neck and felt the muscles relax beneath the smooth brown pelt. They were some two hundred yards from the house when Lasseur leaned over and whispered in French, "I have no stomach for this, my friend."

"And I told you that I'd take care of it," Hawkwood said, in the same language.

Lasseur sat back in his saddle and fell silent, his face thoughtful.

Hawkwood didn't think the men ahead spoke French, but he watched them for any sign of reaction. There weren't any, though it could have been because they were good actors.

"I'm sending two of my best scouts with you," Morgan had told Hawkwood. "You say you want Captain Lasseur at your shoulder, but Pat and Jack know the paths and they'll identify Jilks. After that, it's down to you. If you do run into trouble, which I doubt you will, they're good men to have at your side in a skirmish."

Hawkwood had been expecting one man to accompany them.

Morgan's announcement that there was to be a second was unwelcome news, as was Morgan's next proviso.

"It's possible Jilks may have a woman with him. I don't wage war on women. She's not to be harmed."

"Wife?"

Morgan had shrugged. "Housekeeper. Does it matter? She's not to be touched. I have your word on that?"

"I don't wage war on women either," Hawkwood said, and thought about the murderess, Catherine de Varesne, and how he had put a bullet into her throat on a London quayside.

They halted. The cottage was less than one hundred paces away. Somewhere in the darkness a dog barked and Hawkwood soothed his mount once more. At McTurk's signal, they guided the horses off the path into the shelter of a spinney where they dismounted.

Hawkwood looked towards the cottage. There was no movement. A light was showing in one of the downstairs windows. He drew the pistol from his belt and turned to McTurk. "We go together. Croker stays here with Captain Lasseur to guard the horses and keep watch."

McTurk didn't look too happy at being on the receiving end of an order. His eyes narrowed as he considered his response. Finally, judging that Hawkwood's command made sense, he glanced towards Croker and nodded. He was an inch or two shorter than Hawkwood; sinewy but strong, with dark Celtic features. His own pistol sat in a holster secured to a bandolier across his chest. A stout wooden club was thrust in his belt. He looked, Hawkwood thought, agile and tenacious.

In contrast, Croker was stocky with large hands and a hard face that would not have looked out of place on the neck and body of a pugilist.

Hawkwood spoke to Lasseur in French. "Keep an eye out and watch your back."

"You, too," Lasseur said, his face grim.

Hawkwood jerked his head at McTurk and switched to English. "Let's go."

Hawkwood took the lead. Using the spinney as cover, they moved in a line towards the trees at the back of the cottage. There was a small outbuilding, which Hawkwood assumed was a stable. He could smell wood smoke and for a second he was reminded of his first sighting of Jess Flynn's farm. A twig cracked behind him and he stopped and stood still. When he looked around he found that McTurk had drawn his pistol.

The light was coming from a side window. It guttered as Hawkwood and McTurk moved forward and Hawkwood had a vague image of a shadow passing between the flame and the glass, and then the light dimmed further as a curtain was drawn across, obscuring the view within.

As they drew closer to the back door, McTurk reached inside his waistcoat. When his hand emerged it was holding two cloth hoods. He held one out to Hawkwood and pulled the other one over his head. Even close to, the painted skull was frightening enough to make the heart lurch. Hawkwood steeled himself and put the hood on. The sense of claustrophobia as he lowered it over his head was immediate, as was the familiar tightening of his throat muscles. Then his eyes found the holes denoting the skull's eye sockets and, as his vision was restored, the moment of discomfort passed. He adjusted the material over his face and heard the brittle ratchet sound as McTurk cocked the hammer of his pistol.

Hawkwood stood aside as McTurk placed his hand on the door latch. McTurk looked at him and Hawkwood nodded. McTurk raised his boot, lifted the latch and kicked.

The door flew back with a crash. Hawkwood and McTurk, pistols held high, stepped through together, McTurk to Hawkwood's right.

The kitchen was not large. There was a hearth and a cooking range, with pots and pans and cooking utensils hanging from hooks. A table occupied the centre of the floor. A man was seated at the table in shirt and breeches, his waistcoat unbuttoned. A fork was poised halfway to his lips. A uniform jacket hung over the back of his chair. He stared at his hooded visitors, his jaw dropping in shock and the blood draining from his face at the sight of the guns. His eyes moved briefly to the top of a sideboard upon which lay two pistols.

"No," McTurk warned, his pistol pointing unerringly at the seated man's head. "Don't."

McTurk nodded at Hawkwood and released the hammer of his pistol. "He's all yours."

McTurk realized his mistake in the quarter second it took for Hawkwood to slam his pistol barrel against the front of McTurk's skull; by which time it was far too late. McTurk went down as if pole-axed, the unfired pistol slipping from his fingers. The seated man was out of his chair; the fork dropping with a clatter, as Hawkwood swept his pistol round, pulling back the hammer as he did so. "Sit down."

Shaking, with the muzzle of Hawkwood's pistol pointed at his forehead, the man at the table retook his seat.

"Sit on your hands," Hawkwood said. "Palms down."

The man did as he was told. His eyes remained wide open. He had a long, lined face, with close-cut fair hair and well- tended sideburns that reached almost to his jawline. Hawkwood estimated he'd probably aged ten years in the last three seconds.

Hawkwood reached up and removed his hood. He knew there wasn't much time.

The seated man's eyes widened further.

"You are Riding Officer Henry Jilks?" Hawkwood said.

The seated man nodded mutely. His eyes moved from Hawkwood to the body on the floor. He looked utterly bewildered. Keeping his pistol trained on Jilks's chest, Hawkwood stuffed the hood inside his jacket, then retrieved McTurk's weapon.

"Don't look at him," Hawkwood said. "Look at me. Don't speak; just listen."

Jilks's head lifted.

"I mean you no harm. My name is Matthew Hawkwood. I'm a special constable. I work for Chief Magistrate James Read of the Bow Street Public Office in London."

Hawkwood watched the astonishment blossom across Jilks's face.

"There was a plot to kill you tonight. Ezekiel Morgan is the man behind it. He doesn't like the way you've been interfering in his business. The one on the floor is Patrick McTurk. He's one of Morgan's lieutenants. There's another man close by, so we don't have much time."

At the mention of McTurk and Morgan, Jilks's face lost more colour.

"Pay attention," Hawkwood snapped. "I need you to convey a message for me."

"Message?" Jilks found his voice and frowned, and then his jaw sagged. "To London?"

"Chatham," Hawkwood said. "To the dockyard; the Transport Board office, for the attention of Captain Elias Ludd."

"Chatham? Why Chatham? I don't understand." Jilks shook his head in confusion.

"You don't need to understand," Hawkwood said curtly. "I told you; all you have to do is listen. I don't care how you do it, but you're to contact Captain Ludd. You tell him that Morgan and his men are planning to steal a consignment of bullion from the Admiral's residency in Deal in three days' time. He is to take all necessary precautions. Tell him the message came from me. He's the one who will understand."

The man at the table stared at Hawkwood aghast.

Hawkwood said to Jilks, "You've a horse in the stable outside?"

Jilks nodded.

"Warn Ludd. It's imperative. Have you got that?"

"Yes," Jilks said, though indecision still showed clearly in his face.

"What?" Hawkwood said sharply.

Jilks flushed. "Forgive me, but how do I know you are who you say you are?"

"You're still alive," Hawkwood said. "That's the only proof I can give you."

At that moment a sound came from the shadows beyond an open doorway in the corner of the room.

Hawkwood turned.

"In here, now!"

There was no response.

"I said now, damn it!"

The woman who stepped into the room was wearing work clothes and an apron. She was several years younger than Jilks. Her hair hung loose about her face. She moved to the table and stood behind the seated man's shoulder, staring at the pistols in Hawkwood's hands as if held in some kind of thrall.

"What's your name?" Hawkwood demanded.

"Esther." Her voice was a whisper as she stared at the body on the floor; hand moving to her mouth when she saw the painted skull where McTurk's face should have been.

The woman Morgan had told him about. Housekeeper? Wife? Lover? There was no time for an interrogation.

A groan sounded from the floor. The woman jerked back. McTurk was stirring.

Hawkwood addressed Jilks. "You know what you have to do?"

Jilks released his hands. His expression grew quizzical. "What about you?"

Hawkwood grimaced. The scars on his cheek burned white. "I'm making it up as I go along."

Another groan sounded from the floor.

Hawkwood turned, aimed his pistol at the body on the floor and fired. The ball tore through the soft hood, entered McTurk's right eye socket, and burst from the back of his skull with a spray of blood, bone and tatters of black cloth. McTurk's corpse jerked with the impact before settling into the floor in an ungainly heap.

Jilks jumped, releasing his hands, and the woman let out a cry. They stared down at the body, the horror on their faces as much a reaction to the speed of events as to the violence they had just witnessed.

"Why?" Jilks asked hoarsely.

"I couldn't leave him alive. I have to report back to Morgan."

"What will you tell Morgan?"

"That you fought back and got away."

The woman stared at him in disbelief.

"It's the best I can come up with," Hawkwood said. "Wait until we're gone, then you ride. Travel light; you'll make better time." He turned to the woman. "You'd best make yourself scarce, too. If you know what's good for you, you'll forget what you've seen here."

Hawkwood placed the spent pistol in McTurk's bandolier. "Quickly - give me a hand to lift him up."

Jilks hesitated and then moved to help. Hawkwood got his arm under McTurk's armpit and together they lifted the corpse up so that it appeared as if it was resting across Hawkwood for support after a heavy night out.

"Grab a pistol." Hawkwood nodded towards the sideboard. "When I say fire, you fire."

Jilks moved to obey. "What am I shooting at?"

"As long as it's not me, I don't give a damn," Hawkwood said. "Ready?"

Jilks nodded.

"Now," Hawkwood said.

Jilks aimed his pistol into the hearth and pulled the trigger. The pistol jerked in his hand.

The woman flinched.

Hawkwood aimed his remaining pistol at the window and fired. A ragged hole appeared in the glass, which did not shatter.

"Don't delay," Hawkwood said. Tucking the pistol in his belt and taking the dead weight on to his shoulder, he hefted McTurk's body towards the open door.

Back in the trees, Croker grinned at the sound of the first pistol shot. "That's the bastard done for!"

Lasseur did not respond. He felt the knot tighten in his belly.

When the second shot cracked out of the night, the horses shied and Croker turned towards the cottage. Moonlight illuminated the look of disquiet on his face. The third shot, coming in quick succession, caused him to curse violently and draw his pistol from his belt. His eyes tried to pierce the darkness. "Something's up."

The dog barked again, but it was the only sign of life beyond the cottage, implying that none of the hamlet's human inhabitants had either the desire or the nerve to venture out and investigate the disturbance.

Lasseur followed Croker's line of sight and looked towards the house. A dim light was still visible through the curtained window but the glow from the open doorway was interrupted as two figures, bound together, stumbled into the open.

"Shite!" Croker spat fiercely. He took a hard grip on the horses' reins and pulled them round.

Fifty paces from the cover of the trees, Hawkwood adjusted his hold around McTurk's shoulders and tried quickening his pace. It was never easy, hauling dead weight. That was the trouble with corpses; they had no sense of coordination. He heard a snuffle in the darkness and saw Croker and Lasseur guiding the horses towards them.

"What the bloody hell happened?" Croker snarled. "Aw, Jesus!" he gasped.

"The bastard fought back." Hawkwood feigned shortness of breath. "I thought this was supposed to be easy? McTurk's hit. I don't know how badly." Hawkwood pretended to lose his grip and cursed as McTurk's body slid from his grasp.

Croker bent down and hurriedly drew the hood off McTurk's face. He stared at the ruin that had been the back of McTurk's skull. "Christ Almighty! He's dead!" He looked at Hawkwood, his expression hard. "Jilks did this?"

Hawkwood nodded. "He had a pistol. Took Pat by surprise. We both got a shot at him, but he made a run for it. With Pat down, I thought it best to get out before the neighbours started creating. What should we do?"

Croker stood up. "We get the hell out of here, that's what."

Lasseur stared down at the body. "What about him?"

Croker, beset by indecision, chewed his lip.

"He's your mate," Hawkwood said, turning the screw.

"Christ's sake!" Croker spat angrily. "Bloody Christ's sake!" Then he said, "All right, get him on to his horse. See if there's a tie in the saddlebag. We'll take him with us. Anyone comes after us we'll have to leave him. Make it quick!" Croker tossed the hood aside.

They lifted McTurk across his horse and secured his arms and legs together by passing a cord beneath the animal's belly. They left, leading McTurk's mount behind them. As he mounted his own horse, in the darkness over his shoulder, Hawkwood thought he heard the sound of a latch dropping into place.

It might have been the sound of a stable door closing.

Henry Jilks reloaded his discharged pistol and felt the sweat break from his armpits as he recalled the moment the two men had stepped through his door. His gaze moved to the floor and the dark stain that showed where McTurk's brains had leaked through the hood and on to the tiles. Jilks thought about the dark-haired man and the lack of emotion he'd displayed when he'd pulled the trigger, dispatching McTurk into whichever afterlife he'd been assigned. Jilks assumed it was Hell. Either way, he knew he would shed no tears, even though McTurk's death had not been a merciful one.

He thought about the man who'd sent Hawkwood and McTurk to his home and his pulse quickened. Jilks had been under no illusions about the dangers when he'd taken the post of Riding Officer. The life was hard and poorly paid. Intimidation was commonplace, as were the opportunities for despair and corruption. For every officer who had been forced to flee his post because of threats to his family, there were half a dozen who had succumbed either to drink or bribery.

Jilks's last but one predecessor had been a former cavalryman called Haggard. Haggard had left the area with his wife and daughter after they had returned to their house one day to find their daughter's pet kitten hanging from one of the rafters in the kitchen. In contrast, Haggard's successor, a sexagenarian drunkard by the name of Rigsby, had spent more time in his cups than on his horse, and had expired in a drunken haze in a local drinking den after a night carousing with a group of men known to be tub carriers and scouts for one Ezekiel Morgan.

It hadn't taken Henry Jilks long to discover the degree of influence Morgan exerted over the local Trade. Knowledge, however, was not proof. Aware that the chances of finding Morgan's hand in the jar were remote, Jilks had concentrated on keeping his head down but his eyes and ears open. His perseverance had begun to pay off. In the time he had been patrolling his district - an area extending six miles inland from and including the stretch of coast between Shellness Point and South Foreland - his successes had been few in number though incrementally significant, as had been confirmed by the amount of contraband seized and the fact that Ezekiel Morgan considered him enough of a liability to have dispatched men to kill him.

Jilks wasn't sure whether he should feel aggrieved or flattered.

He did know, however, that the wisest option was to follow Special Constable Hawkwood's directive and make himself scarce. He thought about the information that Hawkwood had asked him to deliver. It sounded too fantastical to be true, but the look in Hawkwood's blue-grey eyes had been too persuasive to ignore, as was the realization that, if it was true, then he had been granted a unique opportunity to bring Ezekiel Morgan's reign to an end once and for all.

Jilks buttoned his waistcoat, pulled on his jacket and gathered both pistols. It was time to go. Esther was in the stable, having slipped out earlier to saddle his horse. He thought about Esther, who had become more than a housekeeper. He thought about asking her to go with him and wondered what her answer would be. He could send for her later, when he was safe.

Which brought him to the matter of which direction to take. Riding Officers were required to conduct regular patrols by day and by night, and Jilks had come to know the back roads well. The Wingham Road was the best route, he decided, and then on to Boughton. With luck he'd be at the dockyard gates by morning, if he didn't push the mare too hard.

He paused before letting himself out of the cottage. It had been a good ten minutes since Hawkwood had left with McTurk's body. He wanted to be sure the coast was clear. It sounded quiet. Jilks took a deep breath, opened the door and headed for the stable.

The mare was in her stall and fully saddled. She snorted softly when Jilks entered.

"Easy, girl," he whispered, and stroked the mare's haunch, wondering where Esther had got to. He placed the pistols in their holsters on his saddle. It was then that he noticed his sabre was missing. The scabbard was there, hanging from the saddle, but it lay empty. Curious, Jilks thought, trying to recall if he'd taken it into the cottage with him.

"Esther?" he called.

He heard a footstep behind him, and turned.

The sabre thrust took Jilks by surprise, piercing his waistcoat and entering his belly with ease. At first, he felt nothing, but as the sword-point continued on its path the pain took him, spreading through his body like liquid fire. Jilks clasped his hands to his stomach, curving them around the blade in a desperate effort to prevent the sword from penetrating further, but all he felt was numbness in his fingers as the tempered steel bit into his flesh. Jilks stared at his killer, an expression of stupefaction on his face, as the sabre blade was withdrawn. His hands felt suddenly warm. He looked down and watched, curious, as the dark stain spread across his waistcoat and the blood dripped on to his boots. With a groan, he fell forward on to the straw. It was odd, he thought, how his hands were still warm while the rest of him was so cold. He was still thinking that when his eyes closed for the last time.

The gatehouse picket stepped forward and lifted up McTurk's head. Gazing at the shattered eye socket and the matted mess at the back of the skull, his face clouded in grim recognition. Wordlessly, he let the head drop and moved aside.

Croker led the horses through the archway in silence and in single file.

The journey back to the Haunt had been accomplished without incident, save for the one occasion when they thought they had heard hoofbeats coming up behind them in the distance, not long after leaving the cottage. They had taken cover in a thicket, but after an anxious ten-minute wait, with no evidence of pursuit, they had continued on their way.

The lanterns were burning as they entered the yard. Light issued from the stable doors. Hawkwood had no timepiece, but he knew it was late. He wondered if there was a run on or perhaps there were difficulties with the new foal. There had been no ghostly friars on the road.

Morgan appeared through the stable doorway as they dismounted, wiping his hands with a cloth. His eyes moved to McTurk's horse and the body across its back. He looked to Croker.

"It all went to shit," Croker said savagely. "That bastard, Jilks - he did for Pat."

"What happened?" Morgan sounded remarkably calm, Hawkwood thought.

Croker nodded towards Hawkwood. "Ask him."

"I was about to." Morgan regarded Hawkwood. "Well?"

"Your man Jilks is what happened. He put up more of a fight than we were expecting."

"Explain."

"What's to explain? He heard us coming. He shot at us. We shot at him. McTurk's dead. Jilks lives to fight another day. My guess is he's still running."

"We thought it best to bring Pat back with us," Croker said, avoiding Hawkwood's gaze. "Didn't seem right to leave him behind."

Morgan turned abruptly. "Bring him inside."

Croker took the bridle of McTurk's horse and led it into the stable, pulling his own horse after him. Hawkwood and Lasseur followed.

The groom, Thaddeus, was in the first stall, wiping down a bay mare. He looked up as the men entered, saw McTurk's corpse and his hand stilled.

Morgan nodded towards the body. "Help Jack lift him down."

Hawkwood and Lasseur tethered their mounts as Croker and the groom undid the ties and laid the corpse on the straw.

In the lantern light, the groom's lined face looked cracked and yellow.

"Looks as if you had a lucky escape," Morgan said as Hawkwood and Lasseur stored their saddles across the top rail of the stall.

"No thanks to McTurk," Hawkwood said. "He made enough noise to wake the dead."

"Really?" Morgan said, stepping away. "That's not what I heard. I heard he went quietly and the poor sod didn't even know what hit him. When you're ready, Cephus."

Pepper emerged from the shadows, a pistol in his right hand. He was not alone. A slight figure stepped out behind him and Hawkwood knew that his troubles were only just beginning.

"You've met Esther," Morgan said.

She had forsaken the dress, swapping it for a short coat and breeches. Her hair was tied in a ribbon at the back of her neck. Her eyes blazed with anger. "He's the one," she said, pointing at Hawkwood. Her voice was cold.

Hawkwood looked for an escape route. The only way out was through the main doors, and that wasn't an option because the two men who had been concealed behind the doors walked into the light. Both carried cocked pistols. Each had a cudgel in his belt. One of them was Del.

"Move and you're dead," Morgan said. "You, too, Captain Lasseur."

Hawkwood stood still. There wasn't much else he could do.

Lasseur raised his hands and looked around. "What is happening here?"

Croker rose to his feet, equally perplexed. "What the hell's going on?"

"We've been deceived, Jack," Morgan said. "We've another fox in the run." He looked at Lasseur. "Maybe two."

"What?"

"Seems our Captain Hooper's been a tad economical with the truth. Turns out he's not an escaped prisoner after all. He's probably not even a captain. He sure as hell isn't an American."

"What are you talking about?"

"He's the law, Jack; sent to spy on us. His name's not Hooper, it's Hawkwood. And according to Esther he's a special constable working out of - where was it? - Bow Street? You know what that means? I reckon we've gone and caught ourselves a bloody Runner!"

"Jesus!" Croker, teeth bared, clapped a hand to the butt of his pistol.

"No!" Morgan said sharply. "Not here. Take their weapons."

"He killed Pat," the girl said, her thin face all angles and shadows in the lantern light. "Shot him in cold blood, the murdering bastard!"

"That's why we're taking their weapons," Morgan said patiently. He gestured to the men by the door. To Hawkwood and Lasseur, he said, "Take out your pistols. Fingers and thumbs only. Lay them on the ground. Step away."

Hawkwood and Lasseur did as they were told. Morgan's men retrieved the guns.

Lasseur stared at the girl. "Who is this woman? What is she saying?"

Morgan feigned surprise. "Of course, I forgot. Esther, this is Captain Lasseur. Captain, allow me to present young Esther. She's family; daughter of a cousin of mine. Grand girl, smart as a whip, takes after her mother, God rest her soul. Esther's father was killed by the Revenue, five years back. Her brother, Tom, was sent down two years ago; seven years' transportation. Coincidentally, he was three months in the hulks before they shipped him off. Small world, isn't it? Means she has no love for the Revenue or the law, so it's no use trying to appeal to her better nature - she hasn't got one. That's why we placed her in Officer Jilks's employ. Got her a job as his housekeeper so she could keep an eye on him for us. What is it they say? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer? Been a mine of information, Esther has.

"Oh, and by the way, Captain - Officer - Hawkwood, whatever the hell it is you call yourself, just so you know: Jilks won't be delivering your message. He didn't make it. Esther made sure of that. Don't feel bad, though. It wasn't your visit that hastened his end. His days were already numbered."

Morgan smiled. "Remember that conversation we had when you asked me about the Warden affray and I told you we always have reinforcements standing by? Well, that's our Esther. She was all set to deal with Jilks, but it seemed a good idea to have you and Captain Lasseur save her the bother. Goes to show how hard it is to find good help these days.

"I have to say, Esther did the business. Even took his horse and rode here to warn us. She was worried she'd run into you on the road, but we were lucky, she took another track. Managed to beat you to it. That's Jilks's mare over yonder, the one Thaddeus is rubbing down."

The hoofbeats they had heard: Esther overtaking them in the darkness.

"The Frenchie's in on it?" Croker grated, turning flint eyes towards Lasseur.

Morgan gazed at Lasseur, a thin-lipped smile on his face. "Now that's a very good question."

"Captain Lasseur didn't know," Hawkwood said.

"Is that right?" Morgan turned. "You really had no idea your Captain Hooper was really a police officer?"

Lasseur stared at Hawkwood.

"Oh, I admit, he's a cut above the rest of them," Morgan said brightly. "Posing as a Yankee and speaking French the way he does, but it doesn't alter the fact he's a damned infiltrator. He'd have sold us all down the river and not thought twice about it."

Hawkwood shrugged. "Nothing personal, Captain. It was business."

Morgan looked pensive. "I've got to be honest; I can't see what your motive would be for helping him; which makes me inclined to believe Officer Hawkwood here is telling the truth when he says you were in the dark as much as we were. It's a dilemma, right enough."

"One way to find out," Pepper said. He threw Morgan a penetrating look.