Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion

“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.

“Émigrés, 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 and 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.

By the late evening, with most of the guests wined and dined to repletion, the atmosphere had relaxed considerably. In the library, declared a masculine domain for the duration, several games of hazard were in progress. Cigar fumes roiled like cannon smoke, while in the drawing rooms the women had gathered in discreet groups to discuss the eligibility of the younger and more handsome male guests. The strains of a minuet drifted from the ballroom, where the more energetic guests continued to take their turn across the dance floor.

Hawkwood, fortified by a plate of cold roast beef and a glass of claret, courtesy of Lord Mandrake’s well-stocked cellar and an over-friendly and well-endowed kitchen maid, made his way along one of the many long corridors in search of trespassers.

He was turning into one hallway when a young couple suddenly appeared around a corner, hand in hand, giggling in unison, faces flushed with excitement. The man paid Hawkwood no heed but the girl caught the Runner’s gaze as she skipped by. She was very pretty, the white feather in her hair bobbing as she ran. It was possible they had taken a wrong turn, but more than likely they were looking for a discreet alcove where they could enjoy each other’s company, away from the prying eyes of the girl’s chaperone. There had been a precocious glint in the girl’s eye that made Hawkwood suspect this was probably not the first time the young lady had managed to slip the leash. Hawkwood grinned inwardly at the thought and left them to their clandestine rendezvous, envying their youth and audacity.

Several women had attracted Hawkwood’s attention during his patrols. Some of them, although only glimpsing him in passing, had been astonishingly forward in their appraisal, raising their fans on the occasions he caught their admiring glances, often just slowly enough for him to read the invitation in their eyes and on their lips before anonymity was re-established. Given the quality of the barely concealed charms on display, it was difficult to remain immune. But the job, Hawkwood reminded himself, always came first. Well, nearly always.

Twice during the evening he had spotted the Comte de Rochefort. The first time, the Comte had been on the other side of the room, Hawkwood having espied him through a gap in the crowd, talking to a portly individual dressed in a general’s uniform. The second time, he had found himself staring into de Rochefort’s calm blue eyes, an experience which he had found faintly disturbing. He didn’t know why. The Comte had not openly acknowledged Hawkwood’s glance but had held the look for a few seconds before turning his attention to another point in the room. It had been as unsettling as it had been curious.

It was warm inside the house, oppressively so, and the narrow servants’ corridors added to the feeling of claustrophobia. In search of a clear head, Hawkwood made his way down a passage towards the rear of the house and let himself on to the first-floor terrace.

The terrace overlooked Green Park. An ivy-covered wall separated the house and gardens from the wide green expanse, but so cleverly was it concealed by trees and shrubbery, it looked as if the grounds extended far beyond their true borders, thus giving the property the feel and appearance of a vast country estate.

The Mandrake family had always been able to afford the best, be it architecture or landscaping, and a great deal of thought had been employed in the layout of the gardens. Thus there was much to please the eye. There were lawns, flower beds, rose-covered terraces, all linked and bisected by gravel pathways bordered by high hedges. Hidden behind the hedges were secluded groves and leafy arbours. There were several fountains and in one corner of the garden there was even a small, intricately patterned maze.

Anticipating that many of his guests would at some point feel the desire to take the evening air, Lord Mandrake had arranged for the grounds to be illuminated by braziers lining the main pathways. In addition, gaily coloured Chinese lanterns hung from the branches of the trees.

Making his way down the steps from the terrace and along the side of the house, Hawkwood checked the time. It was just past midnight. So far, the assignment had proved singularly undemanding, and for that Hawkwood was exceedingly grateful. The past few days had not been without incident and he was looking forward to the comfort of his own bed. He recalled the laughing eyes of the girl in the corridor and smiled to himself.

It was the sound of hurrying footsteps that broke the spell. By the light of a brazier, Hawkwood saw that it was one of the footmen, not quite running, but clearly agitated nonetheless. Seeing Hawkwood, the footman checked suddenly. “Officer Hawkwood?” The footman’s hands fluttered as he spoke. “I fear there’s trouble brewing. Some of Lord Mandrake’s young gentlemen friends …” An expression of anguish moved across the footman’s face. “They’ve been drinking. There’s a young lady … Please, come quickly …”

Hawkwood groaned inwardly. This was all he needed. “All right. Where are they?”

The footman looked behind him and pointed a wavering finger. “By the pavilion. I’m fearful for the lady’s honour … I …”