Ratcatcher

by James McGee

  “But he was discovered,” the admiral broke in, shifting in his chair. “He managed to escape by the skin of his teeth, with the drawings of the submersible, but he was severely wounded. He was sheltered by Royalist sympathizers until he was well enough to travel. They then arranged passage for him back to England. He was landed at Dover and was on his way to London when his coach was held up on the Kent Road. He was murdered and his plans of the submersible were stolen…” The admiral paused. “The rest you know.”

  The colonel picked up one of the sketches and stared at it intently. “We believe the submersible boat is now operational and ready to be used against our convoys. We also believe that Bonaparte has contracted Lee to attack a specific target. What we do not know is the nature of that target.”

  Hawkwood was still having trouble with the logistics. “But how does the weapon work? How does it deliver the bombs?”

  “What?” Congreve perked up. “The bombs, you say? Ah yes, of course, well, it’s dashed simple, really.” The colonel smiled suddenly. “But then they say the best inventions always are.”

  Hawkwood wondered if the colonel was alluding to his own experimental rockets. Recalling their erratic behaviour, they had looked anything but simple.

  The colonel picked up the pencil once more. “Now, where are we?” The colonel reached for the sketch of the submersible and pointed. “You see the dome? There’s a barbed spike attached to a rod that sticks out from the top of it. Fulton called it the horn. When the submersible is positioned beneath the target vessel, the bottom of the rod is struck from inside the dome, driving the spike up into the target’s hull. You follow?”

  Hawkwood nodded.

  “When the spike is secure, the submersible detaches itself, leaving the spike embedded in the target’s hull. At the bow of the submersible there’s a windlass controlled from inside the craft. A line runs aft, from the windlass, through a ring in the spike to the submersible’s stern…” the colonel moved the pencil point “…where it’s attached to a copper barrel containing gunpowder and a primer. As the submersible moves off, the line on the windlass is released. When all the line is played out, the forward motion of the submersible is transferred to the barrel by means of the line passing through the hole in the spike. This detaches the barrel, drawing it against the side of the target. The contact causes the primer to spark and ignite the powder.” The colonel grinned. “The rest I’ll leave to your imagination.”

  Ingenious, Hawkwood thought, didn’t begin to describe it. He peered past the pencil point, still hovering above the sketch. “How big would the charge have to be?”

  The colonel shrugged. “Not that great. Twenty pounds, perhaps. That amount of powder will do more damage under water than it would on land. The force of a detonation doesn’t disperse as easily in water as it does in compressible air.”

  Astonishing, Hawkwood thought. And you’d never hear a damned thing until it was too late. “And the hammer and trigger—some kind of timing device?”

  The colonel nodded. “That would be my guess.”

  “And the writing?” Hawkwood asked.

  “Writing?” the colonel said.

  “There,” Hawkwood said, indicating the faint lettering.

  The colonel turned the paper in his hand and peered myopically.

  “It doesn’t make much sense,” Hawkwood said. “The…t-i-s—the rest of the word’s missing.”

  James Read moved to look over Hawkwood’s shoulder.

  The colonel shook his head. “Means nothing to me. What about you, gentlemen? Sir Charles? Admiral?”

  The First Sea Lord frowned, looked down, and his eyes widened. “Good God!” Charles Yorke turned towards the Admiral. He looked to be a man on the verge of a seizure. “Thetis!”

  Dalryde’s face went white.

  Not two words then, only one. Yet Hawkwood was still none the wiser. He threw a glance of mute appeal towards James Read but, to his consternation, the Chief Magistrate appeared equally perplexed, by both the word and the reaction it had provoked.

  “Greek mythology, I believe. Thetis was one of the Nereids, a sea god.” The magistrate’s brow furrowed in doubt as he caught the exchange of looks between Dalryde and Charles Yorke. “Then again,” he said softly, “perhaps it has another significance.”

  The First Sea Lord was the one who spoke. After a further glance at Dalryde he said, “She’s a warship.”

  “Warship?” Read echoed.

  Thetis, it transpired, was not only a Greek deity. HMS Thetis was a brand-new seventy-four-gun Surveyors’ class two-decker currently moored at Deptford naval yard in preparation for upcoming sea trials. After which, the ship was destined to join the Royal Navy’s Channel Fleet.

  James Read looked sharply at the Admiral. “When?”

  Dalryde blinked. “The twenty-seventh—two days’ time. She’s due to call in at Woolwich to be coppered and rigged, then Sheerness to take on armament and the rest of her crew. She’ll be at sea for a week, then it’s across to Portsmouth to join the squadron.”

  There followed a silence, during which the First Sea Lord continued to look pensive.

  “Something else, my lord?” James Read enquired.

  Charles Yorke hesitated, then nodded. “The Prince Regent.”

  The Chief Magistrate looked nonplussed. “Another ship?”

  But that wasn’t what the First Sea Lord meant. He shook his head unhappily. “No, I mean the Prince Regent. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”

  Read stared back at Charles Yorke. “What about him?”

  “It’s His Royal Highness’s intention to visit the ship and accompany her on the first part of her journey.”

  “To Sheerness?” The Chief Magistrate’s face was a picture of incredulity.

  Charles Yorke shook his head again. “Woolwich.”

  Hardly an epic voyage of discovery, Hawkwood thought. It sounded as if the Prince was fulfilling one of his many and increasing fantasies. It was well known that His Royal Highness held several delusions above his already exalted station. It was not unheard of for the Prince to dress up as a famous warrior from history—a medieval monarch, even a Chinese mandarin—and relive scenes from a blood-soaked and glorious military career, usually to the acute embarrassment of friends and sycophants who were either too loyal or too afraid to tell him the truth: that his prowess on the battlefield existed only in his own fertile imagination.

  No doubt, Hawkwood reflected, the Prince’s trip along the river would metamorphose at a later date into a second Battle of the Nile, with the prince a veritable hero of the quarterdeck.

  The Chief Magistrate fixed the First Sea Lord with a gimlet eye. “And why was my office not informed of this?”

  The First Sea Lord shrugged. “Perhaps his Royal Highness did not want to burden you with trivialities.”

  “Trivialities?” Read responded sharply. “I would hardly consider the protection of the Prince Regent a triviality.”

  Charles Yorke sighed. “This was not perceived to be a civilian matter, Read, and His Royal Highness will not want for protection. A contingent of marines has already been drafted in from the Woolwich yard. He’ll be escorted for the entire journey. There’s no cause for concern.”

  “There was no cause for concern,” Read said venomously. “I would submit that circumstances have changed somewhat in light of this new development, wouldn’t you?”

  Charles Yorke straightened. “Good grief, man! His Highness will be perfectly safe. He’s only going as far as Woolwich. It’s not the bloody Baltic!”

  “You still intend him to go through with the visit?” Read said.

  The First Sea Lord gave a tight smile. “It’d take a braver man than me to tell his Royal Highness that his visit’s been cancelled. Word is, he’s already taken delivery of a new uniform from Schweitzer and Davidson. Let’s pray it’s something appropriate and that he doesn’t turn up looking like the Sultan of Ranjipur.” The First Sea Lord lifted a caustic eyebrow. �
��You know what he’s like.” Adding quickly, “No offence, Colonel. I know you count His Highness as a friend, but sometimes…”

  Congreve gave an amused shake of his head and waved a hand. “None taken, my lord.”

  Charles Yorke was being surprisingly indiscreet, Hawkwood thought, though he could well understand the First Sea Lord’s apprehension. The Prince was renowned for his flamboyant costumes, often of his own design, incorporating everything from leopard-skin sabretaches to gold epaulettes, all of which bore little resemblance to any recognizable regimental attire.

  “Besides,” the First Sea Lord continued, “he’s in no danger, not in the middle of London.” He turned to Dalryde. “However, once the ship reaches the estuary, that is a different matter. I want her captain summoned. And send a signal to the senior officer, Sheerness Dockyard. No, better still, issue a dispatch to all commanders on station in the Thames Estuary. ’Utmost vigilance to be employed in the defence of all vessels.’ Best to be on the safe side.”

  As he gave the order, the First Sea Lord moved briskly to the wall above the fireplace. Affixed to the wall were a dozen rolled charts. He chose one and lifted it down. A space was cleared on the table and the chart was unfurled. Hawkwood saw that it covered the mouth of the Thames from Tilbury eastwards to Harwich, then south to Margate. To Hawkwood, it looked to be a vast area. How could you protect a vessel from something you couldn’t see?

  “We can increase patrols,” Yorke said, as if reading Hawkwood’s thoughts. “Lower netting, deploy boats to form a defensive ring, post extra lookouts.”

  “Why not warn vessels to head for port?” Hawkwood suggested.

  “Certainly not!” The First Sea Lord bristled. “You can’t have the ships of His Majesty’s Navy scurrying for cover like frightened rabbits! No, by God, we’ll face this threat with grit and determination. We’ll show Bonaparte it’s still Britain who rules the waves, not some colonial upstart in an upturned bloody rum cask!”

  As the Board Members continued to examine the charts, the Chief Magistrate drew Hawkwood aside. “You see now,” Read murmured, “why it is imperative we track down our highwaymen? We must find out who they were working for.”

  “You think French agents?” Hawkwood said.

  “Quite possibly. We know full well Bonaparte has spies in England. It’s likely Ramillies’ pursuers in France got word to them. It’s probably how they knew Ramillies was on the coach. It’s vital, therefore, that we run our villains to ground. Likewise, we need to know Runner Warlock’s role in all this. How did the plans come into his possession? The Mandrake connection certainly concerns me. I suggest you make enquiries in that direction, especially as we’ve not yet heard from your underworld friends.”

  “There is someone who may be able to help,” Hawkwood said.

  “Good,” Read said. The Chief Magistrate glanced towards Yorke’s broad back. His face was neutral. When he turned back to Hawkwood, he kept his voice low. “Do what you have to do. Whatever it takes.”

  13

  “Why, Captain Hawkwood! You swore to me you were no longer a soldier, I remember distinctly!” Catherine de Varesne arched an eyebrow in mock reproach before smiling and dropping her gaze suggestively. “Yet, here you are, standing to attention like a grenadier!”

  Her hand reached down and Hawkwood winced.

  She paused in her caress. Her eyes widened in concern. “Your wound still pains you?”

  “You took me by surprise, ma’am,” Hawkwood said, grinning.

  The frown lifted and she returned his smile. “In that case, my love,” she murmured softly, “I will be very gentle.” She bent forward and kissed him. While her hand continued with its tender manipulation, her tongue flickered teasingly between his lips. Her dark, cat-like eyes glowed.

  They were seated on her bed, close together, hip to thigh. Lit by candlelight, their bodies projected bold silhouettes on to the canopy above.

  She moved in closer, her lips soft against his cheek. “Tell me what you would like to do with me, Matthew,” she whispered, still stroking him. “Anything you desire…anything.”

  Hawkwood stroked her slender waist and heard her breath catch. She raised her hips, eased herself on to him and lowered herself slowly. She leaned away, pelvis pressed down, head thrown back. Her full breasts lifted provocatively. Hawkwood placed a hand on the base of her spine and pulled her to him. Her arms enfolded him and they began to move as one.

  Afterwards, cross-legged among the tangled sheets, they sipped wine. A plate of pear quarters lay on the bed beside them. She had selected the fruit and used the engraved stiletto to core and split the ripe white flesh. Dipping one of the pear segments in the wine, she offered it up to him. Hawkwood bit down, severing the slice in two. She raised the remaining half to her own lips. As she did so, a drop of juice splashed on to her breast. Stemming the watery trickle with the end of her finger, she traced it around her nipple, raised it to her mouth and, in lascivious display, slowly sucked the juice from her skin. At no time did her eyes leave his face.

  Hawkwood had arrived at the house an hour before midnight, unsure of his welcome. In the event, she had greeted him with a glowing smile and invited him in. And, as before, had offered herself with a hunger that had left him breathless.

  She rose sinuously from the covers and reached for her robe.

  Hawkwood sipped wine, admiring her smooth naked body. “Tell me about Lord Mandrake.”

  Catherine frowned. “Lord Mandrake?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  She smiled brightly. “I know he is rich.”

  “That much I know,” Hawkwood said. “What else?”

  Mandrake’s wealth emanated from many sources, chiefly trade. In their capacity as merchant adventurers, the Mandrakes had, over successive generations, established a lucrative import business, involving tobacco from America, silks and spices from the east, and other luxury goods, including Indian tea, and fine wines.

  She slipped the robe around her shoulders. “Why all these questions, my love?”

  Hawkwood shrugged. “Idle curiosity.”

  “You’re a little jealous, perhaps?” Amusement danced in her dark eyes. She returned to the bed, laughing at his expression. “There’s no need to be.” She climbed up beside him, making no attempt to secure the robe. The material parted. Her dark-tipped breasts moved tantalizingly beneath the silken sheath.

  She took the glass from him, took a slow sip of wine and shrugged. “He’s been a friend to my uncle’s family for many years. They’ve shared several business ventures. Most of the wines imported by Lord Mandrake come from grapes grown in the family’s vineyards in Portugal. When my uncle saw that I intended to remain in Europe, he asked Lord Mandrake for his help. He has been a very loyal friend. He has even given me the use of this house while I am in London. I think he’s one of the kindest men I have known, and he has been most generous in his support for the Comte d’Artois.”

  He could afford to be, Hawkwood reflected, recalling the opulence of the ball.

  “What about his friends?”

  “I know he has a great many. I do believe he even dines with your Prime Minister.” She looked at him quizzically. “Why, Matthew, you sound as if you suspect him of something. Why is that?”

  Hawkwood allowed himself a grin. “I’m a police officer. I suspect everyone.”

  “Even me?”

  Her expression was beguiling, but her words jolted him. She was looking at him over the rim of the glass.

  “No.” Hawkwood smiled. “Should I?”

  She gazed at him perceptively. “Everyone has something to hide, Matthew.” She lifted her palm to his neck and traced the area of bruising. “Isn’t that so?”

  The footman stared at Hawkwood with a mixture of confusion and distrust. Hawkwood, presuming the man had misunderstood his announcement, repeated it.

  “Special Constable Hawkwood, here to see Lord Mandrake.” Hawkwood held out his warrant. He wondered if the s
ervant could even read, but he knew the document’s official seal would probably be enough to gain him access to the house.

  His evening with the insatiable Catherine having yielded no useful information, other than the fact that Lord Mandrake was on nodding if not intimate terms with most of the government of the day, Hawkwood had decided that his only recourse was to take the more direct approach, and revisit Mandrake House.

  The footman’s eyes scanned the warrant. “His lordship’s not at home.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  The footman hesitated, his caution suddenly heightened by Hawkwood’s sharpened tone.

  “Well?” Hawkwood said, returning the warrant to his tipstaff.

  “I’m not certain. His lordship’s gone, you see.”

  “I know he’s gone,” Hawkwood said, with rising exasperation. “You’ve just told me that. Gone where?”

  “His estate at Northwich. I believe it was the Comte’s wish to visit the country.”

  “Comte?”

  “His lordship’s house guest, the Comte de Rochefort.”

  The Frenchman, the student of Montaigne, who had displayed an unusual degree of interest in Hawkwood the night of the ball. Hawkwood wondered what de Rochefort would think of the north. Northwich was in Cheshire, a long way from the capital’s fashionable salons and enticements. There was always fox hunting, of course, though, from Hawkwood’s recollection, the Comte had not looked the type to engage in strenuous activity of any sort, unless it involved pitching dice or fanning a hand of cards.

  The door began to close slowly.

  “Not so fast, culley,” Hawkwood said. Jamming his boot through the gap in the door, he pushed past the servant, and was immediately aware, even as he entered the vast entrance hall, of how quiet the mansion was. It was in complete contrast to his previous visit when the house had been filled with bright lights, music and laughter.

  “Sir, I protest!” But the footman’s objections went unheeded. With the servant trotting abjectly in his wake, Hawkwood checked the ground floor. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the lofty passages. No doubt about it, the cupboard was bare. Hawkwood heard voices, but when he investigated the source, he found only servants performing last-minute chores, cleaning fireplaces and placing dust covers over the furniture.