by James McGee
It was as he followed the dwarf through the racks of suffering that his nose had begun to detect another strange aroma, sweet and syrupy. When he saw the weak glow coming from inside the cramped cubbyholes and the pipes, he understood.
He’d seen it before, in the cellars of St Giles and the worst of the Wapping doss houses, and it had always intrigued him. It had begun with the Orientals-Chinese and Lascars mainly-but the habit had started to spread among the Europeans. Forced to exist in the most primitive living conditions, without furniture, bedding, warmth or comfort, it was small wonder that so many of these forgotten folk had turned to crime or begging. While others had resorted to a less arduous means of escape.
It had been the ships of the Elizabethan Levant Company that had first brought the black mud into the country. During that time the dealing had been controlled by Turkish merchants. Now, the opium was shipped in by the East India Company, and it was an expanding business. Controlled by legitimate concerns like the Apothecaries’ Company, the main brokers operated out of Mincing Lane. Auctions were held at Garraway’s Coffee House, close to the Royal Exchange. Over druggists’ counters it could be purchased as Kendal Black Drop or the Elixir. In the more disreputable districts of the East End, it was the pipe. The main dens were run by the Chinese, in Stepney, Poplar, the Limehouse Causeway, and Shadwell. In those areas, the Chinese also ran strings of lodging houses. It was a captive market.
What struck Hawkwood most as he ducked past the lolling smokers were the blank stares and the emaciated state of their bodies. He watched one of the addicts prepare his smoke. The tiny ball of opiate was placed on the point of the needle with great care, before being turned in the lamp flame. The bamboo pipe was placed over the lamp and the sticky knobule was inserted into a hole in the pigeon eggshaped bowl. The smoker drew carefully on the pipe, his effort rewarded by a low gurgling sound. The look on the man’s face transfixed Hawkwood. He had expected hopelessness, yet what he saw was a kind of serenity, something completely at odds with the foetid surroundings.
“Don’t mind them,” Weazle said. “They won’t bother you none.” The dwarf chuckled throatily. The sound was not dissimilar to that made by the gurgling pipes.
A few paces further on, the little man halted outside a heavy wooden door. “Here we are-Captain’s cabin.” Weazle winked broadly. “Let’s see if he’s at ’ome.”
Weazle opened the door and Hawkwood followed him in.
The cabin was low-ceilinged. Large stern windows indicated it had probably been the master’s quarters. A lantern hung from the underside of a deck beam. There were a few items of furniture: table and chairs, a battered dresser, a wooden bunk bearing a stained mattress and several grubby blankets.
“Well, it’s about bleedin’ time. We’d just about given you up!” The gravelled voice came from behind, while a dark form detached itself from the shadows by the window and moved into view. A handsome face, grey hair cut short, the features quite recognizable.
Instinctively, Hawkwood spun, his hand clawing for the baton beneath his jacket. But he was too late. He felt the cold kiss of steel against his throat, and watched the grin spread wide across Weazle’s face.
“Move an inch, culley, and I’ll split you like a hog. They’ll be scooping your innards up with a spoon.”
The speaker moved into view. Bull-necked, shavenheaded, and a twisted smile of triumph on his lips. The bruiser from the dog pit.
Scully.
And the thought that flashed through Hawkwood’s mind was as painful as someone plunging a blade between his ribs.
For the last person he would have expected to betray him was Nathaniel Jago.
15
“Sorry about the restraints, Officer Hawkwood.” The greyhaired man smiled pleasantly. “Barbaric, of course, but useful when the need arises.”
They had relieved Hawkwood of his baton. A still grinning Weazle had produced a set of manacles and secured his wrists and ankles, looping the wrist chain through the arms of the chair. Job done, the dwarf touched his forelock in mock salute and left the cabin.
“I was told you’d gone north with Lord Mandrake,” Hawkwood said. Unobtrusively, he tried twisting his wrists inside the manacles, but there was no give at all. He was held fast.
Another smile. “You were misinformed.”
“I was also told you didn’t speak much English,” Hawkwood said.
“Wrong again.”
“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that your name isn’t de Rochefort, either.”
“What do you think?”
“It’s a wild guess,” Hawkwood said, “but I think your name’s William Lee.”
“Well now, aren’t you the clever one. And how did you figure that?”
“There was an American officer fought with Sherbrooke at Talavera. You sound just like him.”
“Do I now? That’s interesting. And how come an American was fighting for an English king?”
“I don’t remember,” Hawkwood said. “How come you’re fighting for Bonaparte?”
And why was Jago working for the enemy?
Lee folded his arms. “I have my reasons.”
“Money.” Hawkwood spat out the word as if it were an obscenity.
Lee’s face hardened. “You think that’s what this is about?” The American smiled thinly. “Oh, they’re paying me well, friend. I’ll not deny that. But the money ain’t the main incentive, Captain Hawkwood. It never was.”
The American fell silent.
Hawkwood waited, but Lee seemed wrapped in thought.
“So, what was Mandrake’s price?” Hawkwood asked.
And Jago’s.
“Ah, now, that’s more straightforward. We made him an offer. Advised him, quietly of course, that if he didn’t help us, the United States Government would no longer guarantee the integrity of his…how shall I put it?…overseas investments? As you know, Lord Mandrake still enjoys a substantial income from the tobacco trade-plantations in Virginia, and so forth.”
As if to add emphasis to the explanation, Lee reached into his pocket and extracted a half-smoked cheroot. The American opened the lantern and lit the cigar from the flame. Taking a long, luxuriant draw, Lee held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds before exhaling.
“As you may have deduced, not only is my Lord Mandrake a remarkably astute businessman, he’s also a pragmatist.” William Lee smiled once more and examined the end of his cheroot.
“You mean he’s a bloody turncoat!”
“That kind of depends which side you’re on, doesn’t it?” Lee took another appreciative pull on his cigar.
“Are we going to top the bastard, or not?”
Hawkwood had forgotten Scully. The voice in his ear and the hand on his shoulder reminded him.
Lee flicked ash. “Easy, Scully. Me and the captain here are having a conversation.”
Hawkwood said, “How did you know I was a captain?”
Fool! Because Jago would have told him.
Lee rested his haunches on the table and rolled the cheroot between fingers and thumb. “Oh, you know, friends in high places. Word gets around. I know quite a lot about you. Question is, how much do you know about me?”
“We know everything,” Hawkwood said. Even as he said it, he knew it didn’t sound very convincing.
“Oh, I doubt that,” Lee said drily, picking a shred of tobacco from his lip. “I really do.”
“We know about the plunging boat.” Immediately, Hawkwood wondered if that had been a wise admission.
“Well, of course you do,” Lee said. “I’d be mightily surprised if you didn’t.”
The American’s nonchalance was disconcerting. Hawkwood was gaining the distinct impression that he was missing an important part of the picture. How come Lee was so damned cocky? Notwithstanding he wasn’t the one tied to a chair.
“If you kill me,” Hawkwood said, “they’ll only send someone else.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Lee said jovially. “I
surely do. But by then it’ll be too late.”
“Can I do ’im now?” Scully, pleading.
“Patience, Scully. You’ll get your chance. My apologies again, Captain, but Scully here don’t take kindly to police officers, or any kind of officer, come to that. Ain’t that right, Scully?”
“They’re all sons of bitches, every man jack of ’em. Alive or dead, makes no difference.”
“See what I mean?” Lee said.
“The bastard belongs in Bedlam,” Hawkwood said. “How come he’s working for you?”
“What’s he say?” Scully demanded.
“He doesn’t like you,” Lee said. “He thinks you should be in an asylum.”
“Does he now?” Scully said.
Scully’s fist thudded against the side of Hawkwood’s skull. For several seconds the world went dark. Hawkwood wondered if his jaw was broken. He probed the inside of his mouth with his tongue. A couple of teeth felt loose.
“Looks like the feeling’s mutual,” Lee observed.
The American took another lingering pull on his cheroot. “Actually, Scully here was recommended. Came across a shipmate of his in Le Havre. Said he’d sailed with Scully in the old days. Told me that he knew the river like the back of his hand and that he didn’t take much to authority. Told me he didn’t care much for your King George either. Sounded like a perfect combination to me. A man I could use.”
Scully grinned then. Hawkwood was reminded of a dog wagging its tail at the mention of its name.
“Funny,” Scully said, “but you ’as to laugh. Don’t see a bloody officer for months, then three of ’em come by all at once. Am I lucky, or what?”
It took a moment for the words to sink in.
“You killed Warlock,” Hawkwood said hollowly.
“Warlock?” Scully frowned. “You mean your Runner pal? Aye, s’pose I did, when you think about it. Enjoyed every minute of it, too.”
Only the manacles prevented Hawkwood from going for Scully’s throat. He stared at Lee. “On your orders?”
Lee was coming to the end of his cheroot. He blew out smoke and shook his head. “Your colleague’s death was regrettable and it wasn’t my choosing. His lordship overreacted, I’m afraid. Though once your friend had blundered in, we couldn’t just let him walk away.”
So, like the good bloodhound that he was, Warlock had followed the clockmaker’s trail to Mandrake House. Somehow, he’d discovered a connection between the clock-maker’s disappearance and Lee’s plan for the submersible, and made a run for it with the drawings. But then he’d been found out, and they’d killed him. Or rather Scully had.
“Does that mean the old man’s dead too?”
“The clockmaker?” Lee shook his head again. “He’s more use to us alive.”
But Scully had said something about three coming by all at once. What did he mean…?
And suddenly, things became infinitely clearer.
“It was you,” Hawkwood said. “ You held up the mail coach.”
Who better to have recognized a lieutenant’s uniform than an ex-seaman?
Hawkwood said, “You shot the courier. You cut his hand off.”
Scully’s knowing grin said it all.
Lee grimaced. “A mite excessive, I’ll grant you, but we had to retrieve the plans. Couldn’t risk your Admiralty boys getting their hands on them. Oh, I know they’ll have had access to Fulton’s earlier designs, but there’ve been a few improvements since then. No sense in making it easier for them. Mind you, full marks to that agent of yours. Led Bonaparte’s men a right merry dance. Why, they lost him so many times, they didn’t know whether they were coming or going. Sheer luck we were able to pick up his trail. Found out he’d taken passage on a smuggler’s ketch out of St Valery. Turns out the contrabandist was another of Scully’s old cronies. Been worth his weight in gold, has Scully. Ain’t that so?”
Hawkwood said, “So, who was your partner on that job, Scully? Who was it killed the driver? One of your mutineer friends?” Hawkwood’s gaze shifted to William Lee. “Or maybe it was you.”
Scully laughed. “It were neither, squire. An’ if I told you, you’d never believe me. If you only knew…”
Jago? Surely to God, not Nathaniel!
But, even as that thought entered his mind Hawkwood knew it couldn’t have been either Lee or Jago. From the witnesses’ descriptions, the robbers were like master and apprentice. Both Lee and Jago were too old.
“That’s enough!” Lee said, the warning implicit.
The grip on Hawkwood’s shoulder tightened perceptibly. Hawkwood tasted a coppery wetness on his lip. Blood, he guessed; Scully’s blow having split the skin.
Lee clicked his tongue. “Y’see, Captain, there’s the rub. You ask too many damned questions. And right now, I ain’t inclined to provide any more answers. Which means you’ll just have to die in ignorance.” The American shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Captain, but I don’t have a choice. You’ve become a nuisance. You might not know every last detail, but you’re still a risk we can do without.”
We?
“Come on now,” Lee said reassuringly. “Don’t look so aggrieved. You did damned well to get this far.”
This far? Hawkwood thought. As far as he could see, he hadn’t got anywhere. He’d managed to follow a half-cold trail which had led him precisely nowhere. A dead end. Literally, as it was turning out.
Lee pushed himself away from the table. “All right, Scully, I guess his time’s up. I’ll leave you to it.”
Hawkwood said desperately, “We know about Thetis.”
Lee smiled and shook his head. “No you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t.”
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Scully hissed. “My oath, I am.”
The big seaman reached into his belt. Hawkwood was expecting him to draw the sword. Instead it was a length of blue metal. Hawkwood felt his stomach turn over. It was a marlinespike.
“And this time,” Lee said, his hand on the door latch, “make sure and hide the body. We don’t want him found like the other one.”
“Don’t you worry.” Scully gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve got just the place.”
Hawkwood said, “Whatever you’re planning, Lee, you won’t get away with it.”
The American smiled, unperturbed.
“The Devil will come for your soul, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “You’ll burn in hell for this.”
The American raised an eyebrow in surprise. “The Devil? Why, Officer Hawkwood, don’t tell me you’re a student of Marlowe? And here was I thinking you were just a simple peace officer. You continue to amaze me, you really do. But it’s a tad late I’m afraid.” Lee smiled disarmingly. “What was it the good doctor said? ’ My heart’s so hardened. I cannot repent ’?”
“They’ll hunt you down,” Hawkwood said. “They’ll find you and they’ll hang you.”
“They can try,” Lee said, “but they’ll be too damned late.” He pulled the door open. “Your servant, Captain.” The American paused. “By the way, did you know that Kit Marlowe died in Deptford? Curious that, don’t you think? A brawl over an unpaid bill, I believe. Well, I’ll warrant it won’t be a playwright’s death that Deptford’ll be remembered for. Not after I’ve done.” Lee winked, jammed the stub of the cheroot between his lips and bowed mockingly. The door closed behind him.
“Just you and me now, squire,” Scully said, breaking into Hawkwood’s confused thoughts. He tapped the marlinespike suggestively against the palm of his hand. His eyes were as black as stone.
An image of Henry Warlock’s shattered skull leapt uninvited into Hawkwood’s mind. Pierced, Dr McGregor had said, possibly by a chisel. Staring at the pointed shaft of metal in Scully’s meaty fist, it looked such an obvious murder weapon it was hard to believe they could have considered anything else.
“You’ll swing for this, Scully. You’ll be crow bait, too.”
“Funny,” Scully said. “That’s what your mate said, and look what ’appened to ’im
.”
Hawkwood tugged at the chains, knowing it was futile. “Christ Almighty, Scully! The bastard’s working for the French!”
“So?”
“So, they’re the enemy, in case you’ve forgotten!”
“I ain’t forgotten nothing, squire. I ain’t forgotten the stinkin’ pay nor the stinkin’ food. I ain’t forgotten the bleedin’ arse-wipes who called themselves officers, neither, nor the floggings. You ever been flogged, Captain Hawkwood? Nah, don’t suppose you ’ave. Christ, you sound like you expect me to be grateful! Why d’you think I went over to the bleedin’ Frogs in the first place? You can’t be that bloody stupid?” Scully hefted the spike. “Come on, I’ve ’ad enough of this. Time to die!”
Surprise, Hawkwood knew, was his only weapon. Scully would be expecting him to draw back, to shrink away. Hawkwood decided that attack was the best policy. He knew he’d only get the one chance. He had already braced himself. When Scully stepped forward, Hawkwood clamped his manacled hands around the arms of the chair and heaved himself to his feet. Scully grunted and jerked back. Hawkwood twisted his body, driving the side of the chair into Scully’s hip. If he could tip him off balance…
But Scully was ready for him and it had always been an unequal contest. Sidestepping with ease, Scully kicked Hawkwood across the thigh. Hawkwood’s legs folded. Unable to put his hands out to break his fall and encumbered by the chair, he crashed on to the deck. He landed on his side, his elbow striking the wooden boards with a sharp crack. The pain was excruciating. Scully, spitting profanities, moved in. His free hand moved to his belt. This time it was the sword, the blade short and broad: a navy cutlass.
“Nice try, cully, but you’re dead. I’m going to break your skull, then I’m going to chop you up. The night soil men can take the pieces downriver. They’ll be burying your bones with the rest of the shit, come morning.”
Hawkwood couldn’t move. His right arm was paralysed. He was as helpless as a turtle on its back. He tried aiming a double-footed kick at Scully’s ankles, but it was a futile gesture. The chair hampered all movement.