by James McGee
“We was only goin’ to take a piss, Jago. That’s all,” the man called Hawkins whined.
“An’ I suppose Sparrow was goin’ to hold it for you and give it a wee shake afterwards, right? Sit down, both of you. You can hang on a while longer. What about you, Spiker? You got any plans to answer the call o’ nature?”
“You think you’re so bleedin’ clever, Jago, don’t you?” Scully fixed Jago with a fierce glare. “That bastard’s a Runner. He’s got no right comin’ in ’ere. Do you know how many of our lot he’s taken down?”
“Can’t say as I do, offhand,” Jago said. “But then, anyone who’s stupid enough to get themselves caught probably deserves it. And is that why you were sending these idiots out after ’im? To teach ’im a lesson? Not prepared to do your own dirty work? You ’ave to employ others to do it for you? Maybe I should have let ’em go. They’d have been taught a pretty lesson.”
“We could have taken him,” Sparrow, the slighter of the two men, said truculently. “No trouble.”
Jago threw Sparrow a pitying look. “Don’t make me laugh. You wouldn’t ’ave stood a chance. Believe me, I did you a favour.”
“He’s only one man,” Scully grated.
Jago stiffened. “That he is, but let me tell you about that one man, Spiker. That man was a soldier, an officer in the 95th Rifles. You’ve heard of them, I take it? Hardest regiment in the bloody army. He’s killed more men than you’ve supped pints of ale, and he’s the best officer I ever served under. You saw that scar below his eye? He got that pullin’ me out of the way of a Frog Hussar. Took a cut from a sabre that was meant for me. That makes him more of a man than you’ll ever be, Spiker. So while he’s under this roof, he’s under my protection. You got that? And anyone here who thinks different’ll ’ave me to answer to.” Jago’s right hand curled around the blackthorn staff. “ Is that clear? ”
The men around the table shifted uneasily. All except Scully, whose eyes grew as black and as hard as stone. Scully stood up. His bald head and pockmarked face gave him a forbidding appearance. The chair on which he had been sitting fell backwards with a clatter. The sudden movement and noise brought the brindle dog to its feet. Scully unfastened the leather strap that anchored the dog to the table. The beast growled in anticipation, a low rumble at the back of its throat.
“One day, Jago, you and me are going to have a serious talk, and then we’ll really see who’s king o’ the castle.” Scully jerked hard on the leash and turned away.
Jago watched Scully lead the animal towards the pit on the ground floor. “Any time, Spiker,” he murmured quietly to himself. “Any bloody time.”
6
“I’m sending you, Hawkwood, because there’s no one else available. Besides,” James Read said wearily, looking up from his desk, “I’d have thought you would welcome the diversion.”
Hawkwood gazed disconsolately down at the Chief Magistrate, knowing from the latter’s expression that this was an argument he was unlikely to win.
The diversion, as Read had called it, was a grand ball. It was often the case that Runners were assigned to attend such entertainments to guard against thieves and other miscreants who might view the event as an opportunity to indulge themselves in both petty and grand larceny.
On this occasion, the ball was being held at the London home of Lord Mandrake. Lord Mandrake, who held estates in Cheshire and the Americas, had made his fortune through trade and banking and was a well-entrenched member of the establishment. He was a confidant of several members of parliament, including the Foreign Secretary. There was a rumour, Read told Hawkwood, that the Prince Regent might well put in an appearance.
On hearing this, Hawkwood groaned inwardly, He had attended similar functions and detested them with a vengeance. He would rather have faced a frontal assault from a detachment of French lancers.
“What about Redfern?”
This time Read did not bother to look up. “Redfern’s in Manchester. A forgery case. He’s unlikely to return in the immediate future.”
“Lightfoot, then?”
“Protection duty at the Bank of England, overseeing the transportation of a bullion consignment.”
With studied deliberation, James Read laid down his pen and sighed audibly. “Hawkwood, you are perfectly aware how many special constables I have at my disposal. Precious few. Seven, to be precise, including yourself. Now, whilst I’m not obliged to furnish you with details of their individual assignments, I will do so, if it will help to ease your troubled mind.
“Redfern and Lightfoot, we’ve already mentioned. George Ruthven is in Dublin, attempting to serve a warrant on the embezzler, Patrick Doherty. McNiece is investigating a double murder in York. Lacey is recovering from wounds sustained in the arrest of the Taplin brothers-”
“And Warlock?” Hawkwood enquired desperately, sensing as he did so that it was a futile exercise.
“Also unavailable. The Woodburn case.”
“Woodburn?” Hawkwood queried, mystified; though there was no reason why the name should have meant anything. Given the demands of the job, each Runner was usually too concerned with his own workload to take note of a fellow officer’s assignments.
“The missing clockmaker.”
Hawkwood feared he had misheard. “You’ve sent Warlock off to look for a clockmaker? ”
“Not just any clockmaker,” Read responded sharply, with just a hint of rebuke. “Josiah Woodburn is a master craftsman. A clockmaker to the nobility. Examples of his work grace half the salons in London, not to mention the grandest houses in the country.”
“And he’s disappeared?” Hawkwood said hollowly.
“It would appear he failed to return home from his workshop last evening.”
“Probably spent the night tumbling some Haymarket doxy and lost track of the time.”
There was a pause. A small nerve tremor dimpled the flesh on the magistrate’s left cheek.
“Hardly,” Read said. “The man is sixty-eight years old and a strict Presbyterian.”
The Chief Magistrate frowned suddenly, drew a watch from his pocket and compared the hour with that shown by the tall clock in the corner of the room. “Though perhaps it’s Officer Warlock’s timekeeping that has gone astray. He was supposed to call in and make his report but he has not yet done so. Most curious. It’s not like him to be tardy.” The frown disappeared, to be replaced by a beatific smile. “So, as you can see, Hawkwood, there’s no choice in the matter. You shall go to the ball.”
The expression on Hawkwood’s face spoke volumes.
“Frankly,” Read said, putting his watch away, “I would have thought you’d be flattered.”
“I should? Why?”
“You were requested by name. Upon the recommendation, I understand, of Sir John Belvedere. It seems Sir John was most impressed by the way you conducted yourself at his wife’s recent birthday celebrations.”
Hawkwood recalled the evening a month previously: a well-attended but dull affair in Chelsea, enlivened only by an ill-fated attempt to remove, by stealth, Sir John’s birthday gift to his wife; an ornate and expensive necklace, reputedly once owned by the wife of the first Duke of Marlborough.
Hawkwood had run the thief to ground, ruining a good pair of breeches in the process. In retrospect, though, he had to admit that the night had not been without its reward. Sir John had been effusive with his thanks and generous in his compensation, to the extent that it had almost restored Hawkwood’s faith in human nature. But he still loathed the pomp and ceremony.
“What about the coach robbery?” Hawkwood said, grasping at one final straw.
“I think it most unlikely that a breakthrough will be forthcoming between now and breakfast,” Read said. “Don’t you?”
The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips and sat back. “Your lack of enthusiasm confounds me, Hawkwood. Had any of the others been available for duty, they would probably be fighting to attend.”
Read was pointing out, none too subtly,
a long accepted understanding. A Runner’s salary verged on the pitiful; just over a guinea a week, supplemented by equally meagre expenses should the assignment entail travel to a distant part of the country. A Runner also received a share of the parliamentary awards given for the seizure and conviction of criminals, but by the time the awards were split among the arresting officers the final sum usually amounted to little more than small change. Most Runners made their money through private enterprise; as bodyguards to royalty and politicians, or by hiring themselves out to institutions and wealthy private citizens for investigative and security work.
“Now,” Read continued, ignoring Hawkwood’s pained expression, “while I’m sure you have your reasons for not wishing to attend, they are in this instance irrelevant for, had the others been here, I would still have assigned you, seeing as you’re the only one of my officers who speaks French.”
It was Hawkwood’s turn to frown.
The Chief Magistrate sat back in his chair. “As you may or may not be aware, Lord Mandrake has gained something of a reputation as a benefactor to the less fortunate members of our society: orphans, widows of the parish, war veterans and so forth. Meritorious causes, one and all. And his good works have not been limited to these shores. His patronage has also extended beyond our nation’s boundaries.”
Hawkwood’s attempt to appear interested was only marginally successful.
“Emigres, Hawkwood. One of his most ardent suitors is the Comte d’Artois.”
Hawkwood knew all about the Comte d’Artois, brother to Louis XVIII. In the early months of the Terror, the Comte had fled to England to escape the guillotine and set himself up as leader of the French in exile. Determined to see the monarchy restored, d’Artois and his compatriots, using funds donated by British sympathizers, had been running military training camps at Romsey, on the south coast, in preparation for the eventual overthrow of Emperor Bonaparte.
“I’m told it’s Lord Mandrake’s desire that tonight’s ball will help forge even stronger links between Britain and the legitimate Bourbon government. It’s expected that several of the Comte’s inner circle will be attending the festivities. Hence the request for a French speaker. I need not remind you,” Read continued sternly, “that you are expected to conduct yourself in a manner befitting an officer of the law.”
The Chief Magistrate scribbled on a card. “Here’s the address. You are to present yourself without delay.”
Mandrake House was situated on the corner of St James’s Place and, although the long shadows of evening were still some way off, the mansion was already lit as brightly as a chandelier. Hawkwood, having presented his credentials to Lord Mandrake’s secretary, was watching the scurry of the servants with some amusement. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the first guests began to arrive. The string of carriages would probably stretch around the corner to Pall Mall and beyond. It was imperative, therefore, that Mandrake House was at its most resplendent. So the mirrored walls gleamed, the lights twinkled like stars in the firmament, the gold and silver columns glowed, and the servants ran hither and thither like frightened mice in a granary.
The secretary returned. “His lordship will receive you in the library.”
Hawkwood had never met Lord Mandrake, but of the two men who were present in the comfortable book-lined room, it was not difficult to pick out his employer for the evening. Tall and rotund, with a hooked nose and red-veined cheeks, Lord Mandrake exuded authority and bonhomie in equal measure. He greeted Hawkwood with bluff cordiality.
“Ah, you’ll be Read’s man. Hawkwood, isn’t it?”
Hawkwood confirmed his identity and looked beyond Lord Mandrake’s shoulder towards the room’s other occupant, a thickset man with short, gunmetal grey hair, handsomely attired in formal evening wear, standing by the fireplace, leafing idly, with the help of a conveniently placed candelabra, through the pages of a small leather-bound volume of de Montaigne’s essays. The choice of reading matter suggested to Hawkwood that this was probably one of his lordship’s Bourbon associates.
“Excellent!” Mandrake said. “Now, Magistrate Read’s explained what’s required of you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Splendid, splendid! I must say, Hawkwood, my friend Belvedere was fulsome in his praise. Tells me you’re a damned fine officer. Most reassuring. Not that we’re expecting a similar occurrence, of course.” Lord Mandrake chuckled before turning to indicate the man by the fireplace, still engrossed in his book. “Oh, by the by, this gentleman is a house guest of mine; the Comte de Rochefort. The Comte’s newly arrived from the Continent. Indeed, we’re most fortunate in having several of his countrymen and their ladies here with us this evening.” Lord Mandrake drew close and spoke in a quiet aside. “I’m afraid the Comte’s command of English is lamentably poor, though he assures me he understands it better than he speaks.” Lord Mandrake raised his eyebrows questioningly. “You speak French, I believe?”
Again Hawkwood replied in the affirmative.
“Capital!” Lord Mandrake beamed with pleasure. He turned to the man by the fire and spoke in French. His accent was execrable. “Our man here’s a special constable, come to make sure no one runs off with the knives and spoons, ha! ha! ha!”
Hawkwood glanced towards the Frenchman. While Lord Mandrake chortled loudly at his own wit, the Comte, sensing he was being addressed, looked up from his book. A pair of pale blue eyes passed over Hawkwood with what looked to be complete indifference, before resuming their study of the printed page.
“So, Officer Hawkwood,” Lord Mandrake spoke jovially, “any questions? No? Excellent.” Lord Mandrake smiled and indicated his aide who was waiting patiently, framed in the open doorway. “My secretary, Carrington, will see to all your requirements. Anything you need, he will arrange it.”
And Hawkwood found himself dismissed. It had been smoothly done.
Lord Mandrake watched Hawkwood’s departure with a cool eye before turning to his guest. As the door closed, he addressed the Comte in English. “Well now, there’s an interesting fellow.”
The Comte closed the book, placed it on top of the mantelpiece, and replied fluently in the same language. “He certainly looks capable enough.”
His lordship smiled. “Oh, I’d say he’s a deal more than capable. I’m reliably informed he’s Read’s best man. I’m also told our Captain Hawkwood’s a former army officer-the Rifle Corps, no less-with a very impressive record. Brave, intelligent and resourceful.”
“A formidable combination,” the Comte mused.
“Indeed.” Lord Mandrake nodded. He gazed thoughtfully at his guest for several seconds, as if expecting the other to speak, but the Comte had taken up the book of essays once more. Caught at a loss by the Comte’s marked lack of response, Lord Mandrake fumbled for his pocket watch and feigned surprise at the time on the dial. “Bless my soul, is that the hour? Here we are, engaging in idle chatter, when I have urgent duties to attend.” Lord Mandrake closed the watch lid with a sharp snap. “You’ll forgive me, my friend, if I leave you for a time, but I fear there are retainers to harry and guests to welcome. I’m sure you understand.”
The Comte de Rochefort waited until Mandrake had departed the room before laying his book down once more. Reaching inside his coat, the Comte removed a thin Moroccan leather case. He took a cheroot from the case and placed it between his lips, then returned the case to his coat pocket. Lighting the cheroot from one of the nearby candles, the Comte inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He picked a shred of tobacco leaf from his lip and stared into the candle flame. Then, taking the book of essays, he moved to a nearby chair, lowered himself into the soft leather, took a second draw on his cheroot and began to read.
Hawkwood, dressed in black, felt as conspicuous as a crow in a flock of parakeets. The ball was in full spate, with every room in the Mandrake mansion a vibrant swirl of light and colour.
The women’s dresses caught the eye at every turn. The current fashion for a high waist a
nd low bodice tended to suit the more slender form and for those ladies who were blessed with attractive figures, the effect was exquisite. Several of the women, confident in their looks and with only a passing attempt at modesty, had elected to wear creations of such finely woven material they were almost transparent. Even though he was forced to admire them from the sidelines, Hawkwood thought it small wonder the men were perspiring like dray horses. The underlying odour of sweat mingled uneasily with the sweeter scents of perfume and eau de cologne.
A jewel thief, Hawkwood reflected, might well have thought he’d died and entered paradise. Diamonds, pearls, rubies and sapphires sparkled in the bright candlelight, their brilliance reflected back a thousand-fold in the huge chandeliers.
The male guests were as glitteringly attired as the women. A substantial number wore uniform, bedecked with all manner of sashes, ribbons, medals and stars. By his own reckoning, Hawkwood estimated that upwards of two score regiments and a scattering of naval personnel were represented. Between them, there was enough gaudy plumage to stock an aviary.
Even the servants were not to be outshone. The liveried, bewigged footmen, who at first glance appeared to outnumber the guests by at least five to one, were adorned with so much gold braid they could well have been mistaken for generals. And generals there were aplenty; along with admirals and luminaries from every tier of nobility.
From his discreet observations, Hawkwood could see that the ball was a great success. It was hard to believe that, less than a mile away, in the pitch-black, rat-infested city slums, entire families were dying of disease and starvation. As to the war with France, despite the presence of so many military personnel, it might just as well have been raging on the moon for all the relevance it appeared to have to the immediate festivities.
While Lord Mandrake’s guests disported themselves beneath the bright lights and dined at tables groaning under the weight of enough sumptuous food to feed a small army, British soldiers were dying in Spain. It wasn’t the wealth of the rich that Hawkwood detested. It was their indifference.