by James McGee
Coincidence? It couldn’t be that simple, surely? But there wasn’t time to dwell on the matter, the man was on the move, heading towards the timber yard. Hawkwood, increasingly conscious of the dead weight he was carrying on his own shoulder, considered his lack of options and set off in cautious pursuit.
For one nerve-shredding moment, Hawkwood wondered if his quarry knew he was being followed. At the end of the gangway spanning the loading dock, the man paused suddenly and looked behind him. Hawkwood turned away quickly. When he looked back the man had resumed his journey. He’s being careful, Hawkwood thought. He doesn’t know he’s being followed, but he’s checking to make sure, and that in itself was cause for thought.
They were approaching the end of the quay. The warehouse and yard lay directly ahead, and the crowd was beginning to thin. Suddenly, twenty paces in front of Hawkwood, the man turned away from the river and ducked into an alleyway. Hawkwood paused, adjusted the sugar sack on his shoulder, then followed around the corner. He found himself unexpectedly at the top of a short wooden stairway. At the bottom of the stairway was a door. Hawkwood’s quarry was there, knapsack at his feet, fumbling with a key. As Hawkwood’s boot hit the top step, the man looked up. Hawkwood was given no time to turn aside. Startled, the man’s eyes widened in shock, then recognition. His hand snatched towards his waist.
Hawkwood hurled the sugar down the stairs. The heavy sack struck his target full in the chest, knocking him off balance. The knife he’d drawn from his belt rattled to the ground. Hawkwood went down fast. His boot thudded into the man’s crotch. As his victim collapsed in a gargling heap, hand clutching his genitals, Hawkwood picked up the knife and jabbed the point of the blade under the unshaven chin.
“Now then, culley, that’s no way to greet an officer of the law.”
No response, other than a low whimper.
Hawkwood bent low. “Sorry? What’s that? Can’t hear you.”
Another groan of pain.
Hawkwood sighed. “All right, let’s start with your name.”
“S-Sparrow.” The reply came in a whisper. “W-Will Sparrow.”
“You’re Spiker’s mate,” Hawkwood said.
Sparrow stared at him. “S-Spiker’s dead.”
“I know that,” Hawkwood grated. “I watched him die.”
Fear drove the last of the colour from Sparrow’s face.
“So,” Hawkwood said, “I’m wondering what brings you to this neck of the woods. Running errands for William Lee? Rushing to tell him the news about Spiker, maybe? That it, Sparrow? Is Lee inside?” Hawkwood reached out and pulled the knapsack towards him. He put a hand inside. Some bottles, a loaf of bread and what felt like a slab of cheese. “What’s this then, breakfast for the troops?” Hawkwood pressed the point of the knife under the skin of Sparrow’s throat. A tiny bubble of blood appeared beneath the tip of the blade. “I think you and me should have a little talk, culley. In private, where no one can hear us. What do you say?”
Sparrow blinked fearfully. Then his eyes moved and Hawkwood heard the faint hiss of breath. Sparrow wasn’t looking at him, he realized. He was looking at something behind him, in the doorway. Hawkwood started to turn, but he was about a thousand years too late. He sensed the shadow above him, heard the soft footfall, followed by a massive explosion of pain as he was struck hard behind the right ear.
The thought that passed through his mind as he went down was, curiously, not how much the blow had hurt, but that this was the second time he’d been taken by surprise in nearly as many hours. It was getting to be a nasty habit. Or maybe it was a sign that he was growing too old for this sort of game. The second thing that struck him as he began to slip away was that the attack had clearly affected his sense of smell. He could have sworn that the impact upon his skull had been accompanied by the faint yet unmistakable scent of lemons.
17
Hawkwood saw the rat as soon as he opened his eyes. It was impossible to miss. It was huge, at least a foot and a half long from nose to tail. There were rich pickings to be had along the waterfront and the rodent looked well fed and healthy, its pelt as shiny as velvet. Unafraid, the rat sat back on its hind legs, front paws raised, and sniffed the air, whiskers twitching. Finally, curiosity overcoming caution, it dropped back to all fours and scampered fluidly across the floor. Six feet away, it paused and stared at Hawkwood with bright, beady-eyed expectation.
Hawkwood raised his head. A big mistake. Pain lanced through his skull. He groaned and closed his eyes, willing the hurt to subside. He opened his eyes again, cautiously, his cheek against the cold stone. The view hadn’t changed. The rat was still there, watching him.
Something touched his shoulder. Instinctively, Hawkwood jerked away and regretted it instantly as another bolt of lightning seared along his optic nerve.
“Easy, my boy, easy.” The voice was gentle and soothing. “Here, let me help you up.”
Hawkwood felt guiding arms around his shoulders as he was assisted into a seated position against the wall. He put a hand to the back of his skull and winced as his fingers explored broken skin and what felt like dried blood. Slowly, he raised his aching head.
“Master Woodburn, I presume?”
The elderly man who was looking down at him with anxious eyes frowned then smiled. “You’ve the advantage of me, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“My name’s Hawkwood.”
“So, Mr Hawkwood, what brings you to my humble abode?”
“I’ve been looking for you,” Hawkwood said.
The old man’s eyebrows lifted. “Have you, indeed?”
“I’m a special constable. A Runner.”
What might have been a flicker of hope flared briefly in the old man’s eyes, to be replaced almost immediately by a weary resignation. The clockmaker regarded Hawkwood’s unshaven face, lank hair and smoke-blackened clothing and nodded sagely. “Well, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, my boy. I only wish it could have been in more propitious circumstances.” The old man waved a hand expansively, then beckoned. “Come, let’s get you on the bed so that I can examine your wound. I assume, from the manner of your arrival, that you were set upon by the same ruffians who are holding me here?”
As the old man helped him up, Hawkwood took note of their surroundings. A low trestle bed sat in the corner. The only other items of furniture were a table and chair. On the table sat a bowl and jug, a tin cup, and a plate containing bread and cheese; the groceries collected by Sparrow. High on the opposite wall, a small, square, barred window admitted a solitary shaft of sunlight. Had Hawkwood not known otherwise, he might well have thought himself inside one of the cells at Newgate.
Josiah Woodburn patted the bed. “Sit, my boy, sit.”
As his scalp was examined, Hawkwood made his own diagnosis. He could see that the clockmaker’s face was pale and that his clothing, dark coat and breeches, which at first glance had appeared without blemish, was in places soiled and stained. Hawkwood was no physician but, even to his untrained eye, Josiah Woodburn looked like a man who, faced with unaccustomed adversity, was trying bravely to hold on to both his dignity and his sanity.
The old man clicked his tongue in sympathy. “ ’Pon my word, you look as though you’ve been in the wars. You’ll live, though, have no fear. The skin’s broken, nothing more.” He patted Hawkwood’s knee paternally. “So, how did you find me?”
Hawkwood was about to answer, when the old man held up a hand. “Let me attend to Archimedes first. If he doesn’t get his breakfast, he’ll only make a nuisance of himself.”
Archimedes? It took Hawkwood a second to realize the old man was talking about the rat. Intriguingly, the animal was still there, staring up at them, whiskers twitching, still without a trace of fear. Hawkwood watched as the old man took a small wedge of cheese from the plate on the table and tossed it on to the floor. As soon as the morsel had stopped rolling, the rat darted forward, picked up the cheese in its mouth and scampered back the way it had come, disappear
ing through a dark crevice in the corner of the room.
“There,” the clockmaker said with affection. “He won’t bother us again. So, tell me, what clue guided you here? Was it Officer Warlock? Did he manage to evade their clutches?”
Hawkwood felt as if he had just been struck by one of Reuben Benbow’s uppercuts. He stared at the old man in amazement. “Warlock was here?”
To Hawkwood’s consternation, the clockmaker appeared to find the question surprising.
“But, of course, before his escape, we—”
The old man broke off, struck by the expression on Hawkwood’s face.
Hawkwood found his voice. “What do you mean ’before his escape’?”
Josiah Woodburn gasped. Hawkwood looked down and found he was gripping the clockmaker so tightly that the old man’s wrist had turned white. He let go quickly.
The clockmaker looked at Hawkwood in confusion. “But I thought that was how you came to be here. Did Officer Warlock not get word to the authorities?”
“Officer Warlock’s dead,” Hawkwood said. “They killed him.”
The clockmaker’s face fell. “Then how…?”
“I think it should be me asking you that question,” Hawkwood said, and waited expectantly.
It took some time before the clockmaker had composed himself sufficiently to explain, but once started, the tale did not take long in the telling. It transpired that Warlock had followed the old man’s trail by the simple expedient of questioning Lord Mandrake’s coachman. This had been as a consequence of his visiting Josiah Woodburn’s home and workshop and his meeting with the boy Quigley, who had told him, as he had told Hawkwood, that he’d seen Master Woodburn in Lord Mandrake’s carriage. Warlock had subsequently made his way to Limehouse, where he’d managed to gain entry to the warehouse, only to fall into the clutches of Lee and his fellow conspirators. Which answered a number of questions; all but the most important ones. How had Warlock managed to effect an escape and why hadn’t he taken the clockmaker with him?
“Effecting your colleague’s escape was no problem, Officer Hawkwood,” Josiah Woodburn said matter-of-factly. “I simply opened the door for him.”
Hawkwood thought he must have misheard. Either that or the blow to his head had done more damage than had first been supposed.
“You forget, my boy, I’m a clockmaker. I’ve been crafting delicate timepieces for more than fifty years.” The old man smiled and held up his hands. “These are my tools. Simple locks hold no secrets from me.”
As Hawkwood continued to stare in astonishment, the clockmaker reached under the bed. His hand emerged holding a bent iron nail. “You see?”
Hawkwood looked at the nail then at the old man. “Why didn’t you go with him?”
The old man twisted the nail in his hand and sighed. “Because I couldn’t risk my granddaughter’s life. She’s everything to me, my dear, darling Elizabeth. When my daughter Catherine died, I almost lost my faith. But now, when I look at my granddaughter, I know Catherine’s still with me. She lives in her, you see?” The old man clenched his fists. In a voice that was close to breaking, he added, “They threatened to kill Elizabeth if I didn’t do what they asked. They said she would be taken from me and I’d never see her again. She’s only a child, an innocent child! I couldn’t bear the thought of what they might do to her, so I didn’t dare try to escape. You do see that? I had no choice. That is why I did what he asked of me.”
“William Lee?”
The old man nodded and laid a hand on Hawkwood’s arm. “A duplicitous rogue. He is plotting something terrible.”
“We know about the undersea boat,” Hawkwood said.
Josiah Woodburn nodded again. “His submersible; ah, yes, a remarkable device.” Gathering himself, the old man said, “I knew of Fulton’s invention, of course. In fact, I actually met the fellow once. We’ve a mutual acquaintance, Sir Joseph Banks. Sir Joseph was on the committee convened by Prime Minister Pitt to evaluate the submersible’s potential six years ago, just before Trafalgar.”
Hawkwood recalled his conversation with Colonel Congreve. This would have been the same committee that had deemed the submersible technically feasible, but likely to be impracticable in combat.
“Tell me about Lord Mandrake,” Hawkwood said.
The old man sighed. “He told me he had a close friend who wanted to commission a timepiece. Said his friend was confined to his bed and unable to call personally. He offered me the use of his carriage to take me to the client. Alas, it was but a ruse to deliver me into the hands of our captor.” Josiah Woodburn looked up. “Has his lordship been detained?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “Not yet, but he will be. And then he’ll hang.”
Josiah Woodburn gave a dry smile. “I suspect Lord Mandrake will be made to answer to a much higher authority for his brand of treachery.”
“But why you?” Hawkwood asked. “What did Lee need you for?”
“They were sailing the submersible here when they were hit by a storm in mid Channel. The timing device was damaged. It’s clockwork, you see, and very delicate. They needed someone with special skills to repair it; a clockmaker such as myself.”
“A timing device for what?” Hawkwood cut in.
Josiah Woodburn looked puzzled, as if the question had been superfluous. “Why, for his submarine bomb, of course. His torpedo.”
So the madman really was going to go through with it, Hawkwood thought.
“I discovered copies of Lee’s drawings of the submersible,” Josiah Woodburn said, “and gave them to Officer Warlock so that he could pass them to the authorities.” The old man shook his head. “But, given what you’ve told me, I don’t suppose he was successful.”
“We found them,” Hawkwood said. “The Admiralty has them.”
So the Chief Magistrate had been correct in his surmise. They were indeed the drawings taken from Lieutenant Ramillies’ corpse during the coach robbery. Serendipity had delivered them into the hands of the clockmaker and the unfortunate Warlock.
The old man let go a long breath. “We had so little time. I had but a moment to write the name of the ship. All I could do was hope that the authorities would make sense of it.”
Which explained the hurried calligraphy, Hawkwood thought.
“We know about Thetis.”
A light flared in the clockmaker’s eyes. “Thank God!”
Suddenly, Hawkwood felt his arm gripped. The clockmaker placed his mouth next to Hawkwood’s ear. “There’s something else, Officer Hawkwood, another reason why I didn’t go with Officer Warlock. I must tell you. I—”
But before the clockmaker could elaborate, there came the rattle of a key in the lock and the door swung open. Hastily, the clockmaker thrust the nail back in its hiding place. Hawkwood had a moment to notice that the hinges had been oiled, like those of the outside door, which had been opened so quietly he hadn’t heard the approach of the person who had knocked him out.
William Lee, grinning broadly, stepped into the room. He held a lantern aloft. “Well, now, I see you two gentlemen have gotten acquainted. I trust you slept well, Master Woodburn?” Lee stared at Hawkwood. “Sparrow tells me Scully’s dead. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from him.” The American clicked his tongue in mock annoyance. “I do declare, Officer Hawkwood, you are one persistent son of a bitch! With the devil’s own luck, too.”
Hawkwood said nothing.
The American frowned. “Was it you that killed him?”
“No,” Hawkwood said. He saw no point in embellishment.
Lee held Hawkwood’s gaze for what seemed like several minutes before he shrugged and said, “No matter. He was a liability and no loss as far as brains are concerned. It means I’m a man short, though, and that’s an irritation I could do without. I swear, Officer Hawkwood, you try a man’s patience, you really do.”
“You can’t win, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “I have men outside.”
Lee shook his head and laughed. “No you don’
t. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. They’d have come running when we carried you in here. We’d be kneedeep in constables. No, sir, you’re on your own. Which means you’re all mine.”
I have one man, Hawkwood thought. I have Jago. Maybe.
A movement behind Lee caught Hawkwood’s eye. Sparrow, he assumed, but then the figure stepped into view—a slim figure, dressed in a dark, tight-fitting coat, matchingbreeches, and black, calf-length leather riding boots. And suddenly it all began to make perfect sense.
“Good morning, Matthew,” Catherine de Varesne said. The pistol in her right hand was cocked and pointing directly at his heart.
Hawkwood smiled. “Hello, Catherine.”
She frowned. “You don’t seem surprised.”
Hawkwood touched the wound on his head. “It was your perfume. It’s very distinctive.”
Catherine de Varesne’s dark eyes shone with amusement. The pistol barrel did not waver.
Lee grinned. “Well, now, isn’t this something?”
Hawkwood looked at him.
“She’s Bonaparte’s best agent, my friend, and she’s been playing you like a trout on a line.”
Friends in high places, Hawkwood thought.
He closed his eyes and wondered how he could have been so bloody stupid and why it had taken him so long. When he opened his eyes, he saw that she was still smiling.
“We knew you’d been assigned to the coach murders,” Catherine said. “We knew of your reputation, Matthew, your tenacity. What we didn’t know was how to deal with you, how to get you out of the way. The ball presented us with our opportunity.”