by James McGee
Jacob Quigley was grinning slackly, rocking himself from side to side as he watched the understanding dawn across Hawkwood’s scarred face.
“All right, Jacob, I see it.” Hawkwood traced his hand over the enamel. “And this is what you showed the other gentleman?”
The boy nodded. “ ’T’were on the door.”
“The door of the carriage?” Hawkwood prompted.
Another vigorous nod of confirmation.
Alleluia! Hawkwood thought. “All right, Jacob, you’ve earned your penny.” Hawkwood pressed the coin into the boy’s hand. “Mr Knibbs, tell me about this clock.”
“That one? Er…it’s an eight-day—”
“I’m not interested in its damned workings! I want to know who it’s for. It’s a commissioned piece, is it not?”
“Why, yes.”
“For whom?”
Isadore Knibbs blinked at the aggressive tone.
“Come on, man, hurry!”
But before the old man could respond, it came to him.
It had been the night of the ball. He’d seen the coat of arms on the doors, on the panelling, and on the uniforms of the footmen. How could he have forgotten?
It was the Mandrake family crest.
11
It was almost six o’clock by the time Hawkwood arrived at the Four Swans. The inn was a hive of noisy activity. The early evening coach had just pulled in. Passengers were being disgorged and baggage lay strewn around the yard. Hawkwood picked his way through the crowd, ducked through the open doorway, and entered the tap room.
He did not spot Lomax immediately and wondered if the former cavalryman had grown tired of waiting. Then he saw a darkened figure rise and beckon him from a dimly lit booth in the far corner.
“Good to see you,” Lomax said, resuming his seat. A quarter-full mug of ale and a bowl containing the remains of a fatty stew sat on the table before him. Next to the bowl was a wooden platter bearing several chunks of bread and a wedge of butter.
Lomax looked beyond Hawkwood and signalled to a passing serving girl. “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll take a belch,” Hawkwood said.
Lomax gave the order, ignoring the girl’s stare. He picked up one of the bread chunks with his left hand and began to mop up the gravy from the bottom of the bowl. When the bread was well soaked, he popped it into his mouth, bit down hard and chewed with relish.
“If you’re hungry, I can recommend the mutton,” Lomax said, licking the grease from his fingers before wiping them on his breeches.
The girl returned with Hawkwood’s beer. Hawkwood took a swallow and wondered how, with only one eye, Lomax could see what he was eating. The lighting in the booth was atrocious. The candle in the middle of the table was worn down to a stub. He realized that Lomax had positioned himself so that the injured side of his face was against the wall. It was only when Lomax turned his head that the ravaged side of his face became clear. Hawkwood suspected this was Lomax’s usual ploy. The look on the serving girl’s face had told its own story.
A thin dribble of gravy trickled down Lomax’s chin. Hawkwood averted his gaze but not quickly enough. Lomax had seen the gesture for he lifted his arm unselfconsciously and wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve.
The ex-cavalryman grimaced. “Shaving’s the real bugger. Can’t feel a damned thing. Why, I could slit my own throat from ear to ear. Wouldn’t know it ’til I nodded my bloody head.”
Hawkwood laughed. He couldn’t help it.
Lomax grinned crookedly and raised his mug. “Confusion to the enemy!”
“Amen to that,” Hawkwood said. He was coming to like Lomax’s sense of humour.
Lomax set his drink down and pushed his plate aside. “I left the message because I’ve some information for you.”
Hawkwood sipped his beer.
“It concerns our highwaymen. I presume you’re still hunting them?”
“What have you got?”
Lomax toyed with the handle of his mug. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure. Might be nothing. It came to me after our last meeting. Something one of the coach passengers said. Didn’t think about it at the time, but now, looking back, the more it strikes me as odd.”
“What was it?”
Lomax hesitated. “Got any urgent appointments to keep?”
Hawkwood thought about the need to make contact with Jago and the startling information he had picked up at the workshop, but if Lomax had a lead, his return journey into the rookery could wait. He shook his head. “No, why?”
In answer, Lomax stood and tossed a handful of coins on to the table. “Because I think you and I should pay a little visit.”
“To where?”
Lomax reached for his hat while Hawkwood drained his beer.
“The horse’s mouth.”
The Reverend Septimus Fludde reminded Hawkwood of the vultures he had seen in Spain and South America. Ugly, mean-tempered creatures, with pronounced beaks and beady little eyes. Reverend Fludde even moved like a longlegged bird, in a sort of high-stepping, round-shouldered stalk, giving the bizarre impression that he was about to spread his arms and launch himself into the air. The reverend’s sober plumage—his black clerical garb—added to the illusion.
“He’s a cantankerous old bugger, but he’s the nearest thing we’ve got to a reliable witness,” Lomax had warned as he’d led the way along Bishopsgate to the dilapidated church of St Jude.
“What about the driver and the other passengers?” Hawkwood asked.
Lomax shook his head. “Waste of time. The driver ain’t much more than a gibbering idiot. Took straight to his bed and hasn’t stirred since. Mind you, the poor bastard did see two men killed in front of his eyes, so it’s no small wonder he’s come down with a touch of the vapours.”
“And the rest?”
Lomax gave a snort of derision. “Ah, you mean Justice Coverley and his lady wife.”
“A judge?” Hawkwood could not disguise his astonishment.
“Stipendiary magistrate, to be precise. Presides on a bench over Gloucester way. You didn’t know?” Lomax looked equally surprised.
Hawkwood cast his mind back to his briefing with James Read. The latter had made no mention of the fact, though it did go a long way to explain why the Chief Magistrate’s condemnation of the crime had been so vociferous. Presumably Justice Coverley had used his rank to harness the resources of the Bow Street office to hunt down the thieves who had stolen his wife’s jewellery. How fortunate it was to have influential friends, Hawkwood reflected cynically.
“A right bastard,” Lomax said with feeling. “And his wife wasn’t much better. Mostly wind and piss, of course, and a face on her that’d curdle milk.” Lomax chuckled drily. “Not that I can talk, mind. Anyway, seems they were travelling home after attending some family festivity. A wedding, I believe it was. Told me they weren’t prepared to tarry on account of his honour having to attend monthly assizes. Pity the next poor bloody wretch who comes up before him. The mood M’lud was in, he’ll be after a hanging, and for tying the knot himself, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Which leaves us with the Reverend Fludde…”
“Indeed,” Lomax agreed. “Spitting fire and farting brimstone. Though, if you ask me, his bark’s worse than his bite.”
In the event, it had proved to be more of an indignant squawk than a bark, though of sufficient intensity to indicate the reverend’s displeasure at having the preparation of his Sunday sermon disturbed by a pair of unwanted visitors. His disenchantment was made plain the moment the two men were shown into his gloomy study by the elderly housekeeper.
Seated at his paper-littered desk, Fludde had peered quizzically at the two peace officers. “Officer Lomax, isn’t it? Well, sir, have you apprehended the scoundrels?”
“I regret not,” Lomax said.
It was clear from his glare that this was not the answer the clergyman had been seeking. As if noticing Hawkwood for the first time, the reverend’s head swivelled
. Hawkwood could have sworn he heard joints creak.
“And who, pray, is this?”
“Allow me to present my colleague, Officer Hawkwood, special constable from Bow Street,” Lomax said.
Fludde did not look very impressed. “Really? So, why are you here, instead of scouring the streets?”
Lomax cleared his throat. “I was wondering, Reverend, if I might take you back to the night of the robbery. It was when the passenger was killed. You told me that the man who shot him said something. I wonder if you recall what that was.”
Reverend Fludde’s chin came up sharply. “Of course I can recall! I may be advanced in years, Officer Lomax, but I’m not senile!” The churchman’s Adam’s apple bobbed alarmingly.
“Of course, Reverend. My apologies,” Lomax amended hastily. “I meant no disrespect. But I’d be obliged if you’d repeat what you heard to Officer Hawkwood here.”
“And will this assist you in catching the villains?”
“I’ve every confidence it will, sir, yes.”
Reverend Fludde sighed impatiently. “Oh, very well. Let me think. As I recall…” he said, throwing the excavalryman a withering glance, “…he had his pistol pointed at the fellow’s head.”
To Hawkwood’s amazement, Reverend Fludde stood up, teetered momentarily on his spindly legs, extended his right arm and aimed his long, bony index finger at Lomax’s face. In a thin, reedy voice, he said, “I remember the words exactly. He said, ’All right, Lieutenant. If you insist.’”
“And then he shot him?” Lomax said.
The vicar’s face twisted in painful memory. He lowered his arm. “That is correct.”
“And you are quite certain about the words the killer used. There’s no doubt in your mind?”
“None whatsoever.” Fludde shuddered, then, evidently overcome by his theatrical exertions, he reached for his chair and sat down.
Lomax threw a sideways glance at Hawkwood. Hawkwood stared back at him.
“Thank you, Reverend,” Lomax said. “That’s all I wanted to ask. You’ve been most helpful. Rest assured, we are doing everything in our power to see that the culprits are brought to justice and that your property is restored.”
The reverend smiled sourly. “In that case, Officer Lomax,” he wheezed, “don’t let me detain you. My housekeeper will show you out. Good day.”
And with that, Reverend Fludde returned to his sermon.
“Well?” Lomax said, when they were back on the street. “You do agree? It’s curious, is it not?”
Hawkwood said nothing. He was too preoccupied.
“My thoughts exactly,” Lomax said into the silence. “I don’t know how many highwaymen and footpads I’ve come up against in my time, but it’s a fair few. And I’ll tell you this. There’s not a single one of ’em’d know an admiral from a bloody midshipman! And yet our highwayman referred to the passenger as ’Lieutenant’…” Lomax paused for effect. His one eye glinted brightly. “So, the question we have to ask ourselves is this: how the devil did he know?”
How indeed? As he made his way through the quiet back streets towards the Blackbird, Hawkwood’s brain struggled with the implications. His thoughts were also occupied with his visit to Josiah Woodburn’s workshop, for there too, lurked a conundrum. If the boy Quigley had not been mistaken in seeing Master Woodburn in Lord Mandrake’s carriage—and there was no reason why he should have lied—why had no one heard from the clockmaker since?
As far as the Woodburn case was concerned, the obvious course of action would be to pursue enquiries at Mandrake House. Had Warlock gone down that road? If so, and if the dead Runner had not been merely the victim of a robbery, what chain of events had led to his body ending up on the river bank?
Somewhere in the tangled mess of contradictions there lay solutions to both riddles, though, for the life of him, Hawkwood couldn’t begin to see where those solutions might reside.
But he wasn’t thinking straight. He was tired and he was hungry. He should, he thought, have taken up Lomax’s recommendation and ordered a bowl of stew. No matter, he’d ask Maddie to provide something for him. Even a cold platter would suffice. A couple of hours sleep wouldn’t come amiss either. But before he could lay head to pillow he would have to make his report to Magistrate Read. Food first, therefore, followed by a brief call into the Shop, and then bed. By which time, there might even be a message from Jago. Stirred by the possibility, he quickened his pace.
But when he walked through the tavern door he was barely given a chance to draw breath, let alone put in a request for supper. Maddie was on him before he could stop her.
“I want you to get rid of him! Right away! The little devil’s been hanging around for hours. It’s got so my customers daren’t venture outside for fear of being relieved of their valuables! I told him you weren’t here and that I didn’t know when you’d be back, but he insisted on waiting, cheeky beggar! Wanted to wait inside, as well, but I warned him on no account was he to set foot through that doorway. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had fleas, from the looks of him! I do declare, Matthew Hawkwood, for a police officer, you keep strange company and no mistake!”
It took Hawkwood a moment to realize that Maddie had ceased her remonstration. He smiled. “Go easy, Maddie, you’ve lost me. Who are you talking about?”
“Why, that boy, of course. Who else?”
“Er…what boy?”
“That one!” Maddie’s eyes flashed green fire as she pointed an accusing finger.
Hawkwood looked around. A small, grubby face was peering round the edge of the doorframe. A hand beckoned urgently.
An ominous sigh sounded close by. Hawkwood realized it was emanating from between Maddie’s tightly clenched teeth. He sensed the landlady was about to erupt, spectacularly.
“All right, Maddie,” Hawkwood interposed quickly. “Leave it to me. I’ll deal with it.”
Hawkwood walked to the door and stepped out into the alleyway.
“Davey?”
“Over ’ere, Mr ’Awkwood!”
The urchin emerged from the shadow of a nearby archway. One hand was hidden inside his ragged jacket. He looked around nervously.
“What the hell’s going on, Davey?” Hawkwood asked.
“Got a present for you, Mr ’Awkwood.”
Slowly the boy took his hand from inside his coat. He was clutching something. Hawkwood couldn’t quite make out what it was. “Reckon I should give you this.”
The boy held out his hand. Hawkwood stared at the object. His heart went cold.
It was a Runner’s baton.
Hawkwood found his voice. “Where’d you get it?”
The boy looked down, avoiding Hawkwood’s eye.
“Davey?”
“Sorry, Mr ’Awkwood. It were Ned. I didn’t know he ’ad it, honest.”
Ned? Hawkwood had to think for a moment. Then he remembered it was the name of the boy who had discovered Warlock’s corpse.
“Where did he find it?”
“Said it were next to the body. Half-buried, he told me. Didn’t plan on tellin’ no one on account of he thought he could clean it up and flog it. It were Pen who told me he ’ad it. I made ’im ’and it over.”
Instinctively, Hawkwood reached into his pocket, but the boy shook his head. “Nah, that’s all right, Mr ’Awkwood. Don’t want nothing fer it. You been good to us. Treated us fair and square. That other geezer, too. Don’t seem right, takin’ money off you this time. My way of thinkin’ is you can ’ave this ’un with our compliments.” The boy grinned. “On the ’ouse, you might say.”
Hawkwood gripped the ebony baton tightly. “I’m obliged, Davey. I mean that.”
The boy nodded solemnly. There followed a moment of awkward silence, eventually broken by the urchin. “Well, I’d best be gettin’ back. Don’t like leaving the rest of ’em on their own for too long. No knowin’ what manner o’ mischief they’ll be gettin’ up to without me to ’old their ’ands.”
Hawkwood
nodded. “Take care of yourself, Davey. You tell Ned I said thanks. I owe you.”
The boy laughed. “Think I don’t know that? Next time, we’ll charge you double!”
Still laughing, the boy ran off. Hawkwood, assailed by a sudden and inexplicable feeling of melancholy, turned and walked back into the tavern.
Maddie Teague raised the coffeepot and arched an eyebrow suggestively. “Would the kind gentleman care for anything else?”
Hawkwood sat back as the beverage was poured. The landlady’s free hand rested on Hawkwood’s shoulder. Covertly, her fingers traced the nape of his neck. “Fancy some company later?”
Hawkwood knew he still had to find Billy Mipps to arrange another meeting with Jago. “Sorry, Maddie. Not tonight.”
Framed by the neckline of her bodice, the shadow between Maddie’s breasts darkened invitingly.
“You’re sure?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “Can’t, Maddie. Duty calls.”
Maddie straightened abruptly and tossed her fiery mane in mock annoyance. “Well, there’s a fine thing! It occurs to me, Matthew Hawkwood, that some men don’t know when they’re well off!”
Hawkwood watched Maddie pout and flounce away. Despite the sense of despondency that had gripped him earlier, he couldn’t help but smile at the landlady’s theatrics. Maddie Teague had that effect.
As he followed Maddie’s departure, Hawkwood thought about Catherine de Varesne, her dark sensuality so different from Maddie’s pale, Celtic beauty. Unaccountably, he felt a sharp stab of guilt at having made the comparison, for there had been many occasions when Maddie Teague had been a welcome visitor to Hawkwood’s bed.
Maddie Teague was a widow. Her late husband had held a captaincy with the East India Company and had purchased the inn from profits made on the Far Eastern spice routes. The captain had perished, lost at sea along with the rest of his crew and a cargo of Chinese porcelain, when his ship had foundered on a reef during a storm off the Andaman Islands.