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

This was lunacy. Hawkwood couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was aware that the woman was looking at him. He tried to interpret the expression on her face. Bewilderment? Apprehension? Or something else? He couldn’t tell. Her outburst had identified her as French though evidently she understood English and had had no trouble following the exchange. Was she now expecting him to withdraw his remarks and run away, tail between his legs?

It was Neville who attempted to restore a sense of order by laughing nervously. “Good lord, Ruthers, you can’t call him out! Why the fellow ain’t even a gentleman!”

At which Campbell nodded vigorously. “He’s right, old man. Wouldn’t do at all.”

For a moment it appeared as if their words might be having a calming effect. One look at Rutherford’s face, however, and the still clenched fists, told Hawkwood that the youth was strung as tight as a bow string.

Then, as he watched, Rutherford’s expression changed. As quickly as it had appeared, the fire in Rutherford’s eyes flickered and died, to be replaced by a cold and calculating gleam.

“Why, I do believe he’s afraid. That’s it! D’you see, Campbell? Neville? Go on, tell me if the fellow ain’t scared witless!”

It was then that Hawkwood felt it; a swift and savage loathing and a desperate urge to wipe the supercilious smile from Rutherford’s face.

“Well?” Rutherford smirked. “Hawkwood, did you say? What’s it to be? Speak up! Are you man enough to face me, or are you going to hide behind your warrant and slink away to your sewer like the gutter rat you are?”

It had gone deathly quiet, as if time was standing still and nothing around them existed; not the gardens, the summer house, the distant music, the scent of the flowers, not even the woman. It was just the two of them, face to face.

From a great distance Hawkwood heard himself say, “I have no second.”

The smile on Rutherford’s face was that of a spider enticing a fly into its silken web. He bowed in mock deference. “In that case, may I offer you the services of my companion here? Neville, my dear fellow, perhaps you’d consider acting for our chivalrous friend?”

Neville, clearly stunned by the escalation of events, blinked dazedly. But before he could respond, a voice behind Hawkwood broke the tension.

“That will not be necessary. I’ll gladly act as his second, if he so wishes.”

Everyone turned. Emerging from under the trees was a stoutly built, ruddy-faced individual in full dress army uniform. Peering out from behind the officer’s back was the missing footman. Something about the newcomer struck Hawkwood as immediately familiar. The officer took a step closer and in the lantern light his face became clear. Hawkwood found himself staring into the stern features of Major Lawrence of His Majesty’s 40th Regiment of Foot.

Lawrence ignored Hawkwood’s astonishment, his gaze moving over the small gathering, settling briefly on Rutherford, and continuing on to the woman, whereupon he bowed formally. “Major Douglas Lawrence at your service, ma’am. You’re safe, I trust? The servant here advised me of your predicament.”

The woman inclined her head. “Quite safe, Major. Thank you.” The words, spoken in English, carried a soft yet distinct accent. “Perhaps I should not have ventured out alone, but it did not occur to me that I might be in need of protection. Had this gallant gentleman not come to my assistance, I fear …” The woman’s voice faltered and her hand went to her throat.

Hawkwood recalled the shadowy figure he thought he’d seen beneath the trees. Yet the woman said she had been alone. It must have been his imagination, after all.

Lawrence, apparently oblivious to Hawkwood’s stare, was sympathy personified. “Quite so. Most fortunate.” The major nodded towards the footman. “However, may I now suggest you allow our man here to accompany you back to the house. My friend and I have private business to discuss with these … er … gentlemen.”

The woman nodded. She looked directly at Hawkwood. “I’m in your debt, monsieur.”

Hawkwood was struck by the depth of colour in her eyes. The irises were very dark. Touched by the lantern glow they seemed to burn with a feline intensity. Her full lips parted slightly as if she was about to speak further then, without a word, she turned and was gone, the footman in her wake. Hawkwood was left with a curious sense of loss, the hint of a message left unspoken, and the realization that he didn’t even know her name.

Lawrence watched her depart. “Exquisite,” he murmured. “Quite exquisite.” He waited until she had disappeared behind the trees. Abruptly his mood changed. He turned to Rutherford. “You’ll allow us a moment?” Without waiting for a reply, the major took Hawkwood’s elbow and led him aside.

“Well now, Captain, I’ll confess I’d not expected our paths to cross quite so soon.” Lawrence’s eyes bored into Hawkwood’s own. In a low voice he said, “Oh yes, Captain Hawkwood, I know who you are. I knew you when we met at the Blind Fiddler. Truth is, I saw you earlier this evening, but after our last meeting I was hesitant about making myself known.” Lawrence’s grip tightened. “Tell me you don’t really intend to go through with this?”

“The die’s been cast, Major, though I appreciate your concern.”

“But this is madness!”

“Quite possibly,” Hawkwood admitted.

“Good God, man, you don’t have to fight him. Arrest him, for Christ’s sake!”

Hawkwood sighed. “Major, he has two witnesses who’ll vouch for the fact that he helps old ladies across the street and gives alms to the poor. My threat to arrest him was an attempt to dissuade. There’s little chance I could make the charge stick.”

“But the risk! Have you forgotten the last time? And you’re a police officer! You’d forfeit another career? What if he bests you? What then?”

Hawkwood smiled thinly. “In that case, it won’t matter a damn, will it?”

Lawrence emitted a groan of despair.

“It’s not too late to change your mind, Major,” Hawkwood said.

But Lawrence shook his head. “No, I’ve said I’d stand with you and I’ll not go back on my word.” An unexpected wry grin transformed the major’s face. “Fact is, I should probably thank you for enlivening an exceedingly dull evening. I’m a soldier, damn it. I’ve no time for these affairs. What do these fops know of campaigning? Closest most of ‘em have ever come to a battle is attending one of those bloody pageants at Astley’s. Frankly, I’m sick of the lot of them. Now that we’ve got Boney on the run, I can’t wait to get back to my regiment. I leave for Spain in two days and, between you and me, it won’t be a moment too soon.” Lawrence looked suddenly contrite. “Forgive me. Didn’t mean to stir up memories. My apologies.”

“Forget it, Major. It was a long time ago.”

Lawrence acknowledged the gesture. “Aye, well, I meant it all the same. But look here, let me speak with our hot-headed friend over yonder, see if I can’t persuade him to withdraw. You’ll not begrudge me that?”

Hawkwood looked on as Lawrence walked over to the three men. It was Campbell to whom Lawrence spoke. Hawkwood couldn’t hear what was being said, but there was no hiding the surprise that blossomed on Campbell’s face as he listened to the major. He watched as Campbell left Lawrence and hurried to confer with his principal. Suddenly, Campbell didn’t look so tipsy.

Campbell and Rutherford exchanged words, Campbell looking agitated. Rutherford’s head came up sharply and he stared at Hawkwood. Something moved in his eyes. Unease? Doubt? Campbell took hold of his friend’s sleeve. Rutherford came out of his trance, jerked free and shook his head violently. It was an unhappy Campbell who walked back to Lawrence. The major listened as Campbell relayed Rutherford’s response and gave what looked like a resigned shrug. In a gesture that told Campbell to wait, Lawrence came plodding back. His anger was apparent.

“The fool! The arrogant bloody fool!”

Hawkwood waited.

“I thought if I told them you weren’t without experience in these affairs, they might reconsider. I was mistaken.”

“You tried, Major. Can’t blame yourself for that.”

“Either too proud or too stupid to back down, the idiot! I’d hoped Campbell might persuade him to see sense but I fear my attempt to procure a peaceful resolution has fallen on deaf ears. The man will not listen to reason.”

“You really didn’t expect otherwise, did you?” Hawkwood said.

Lawrence shrugged. “Maybe I was being a trifle optimistic. Still, if that’s his game, so be it. The boy’s made his choice, ‘tis he who must live with it.” The major drew himself up. “Now, seeing as I can’t dissuade either of you from continuing with this reckless adventure, there’s the matter of venue and weapons to arrange.” Lawrence fixed Hawkwood with a penetrating eye. “You were the one challenged, so the choice is yours. What should I tell them?”

And Hawkwood smiled.

7 (#ulink_95fb76f2-3d03-57a8-8b36-270bd15d5d4d)

The meeting place had been carefully chosen. Situated adjacent to the southern boundary of Hyde Park, close to the bank of the Serpentine, the grassy clearing, hidden inside a small stand of trees, was known locally as the Dell.

The location was one of several similar venues, dotted around the city, that had, over the years, become synonymous with the settling of personal scores. To the north, the stretch of pathway known as the Ring Road was also a favoured spot, as were Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Bloomsbury Square.

It was an hour past sunrise. A watery sun hung low above the city’s smoky rooftops, bathing the scene in a hazy orange glow. With the grass still damp and silvery from the morning dew, the park was at its most peaceful. To the uninitiated it might have seemed an incongruous choice for trial by combat, but the remoteness of the place and the early hour lessened the risk of uninvited spectators or discovery by the authorities.

Accompanied by the major, Hawkwood had arrived to find his adversary already in place. Their welcome was in the form of a curt nod from both Neville and Campbell. It could have been Hawkwood’s imagination, but he had the impression that Rutherford was somewhat surprised to see him, as if he hadn’t expected the Runner to turn up. It was with some satisfaction that Hawkwood marked the possibility that he may have caught his opponent temporarily off guard, and any advantage, no matter how slight, was always welcome. In any case, failing to meet with Rutherford had not been an option.

Rutherford scowled darkly and turned his back. Standing to one side in sickly isolation, a frail-looking figure wrapped in a dark cloak sniffled into a sodden handkerchief.