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

“Jesus,” Lawrence muttered. “Bloody surgeon looks to be on his last legs. I wonder which grog shop they dragged him from.”

Hawkwood refrained from comment. It wasn’t the surgeon’s duty to be hale and hearty, merely discreet. Both principals were required to contribute to his fee. This covered not only his services but, more importantly, his silence. The surgeon would be the only one guaranteed to profit from the morning’s activity.

Forsaking preamble, Neville stepped forward, his manner brisk and officious. “Good morning, gentlemen. If neither of you has any objection, I shall be conducting the proceedings. No? In that case, to business. First, I must ask – now that both parties have had some hours to reflect upon the matter – if either of you has reconsidered.”

Campbell, acting for Rutherford, looked pensive and shook his head. Lawrence, after throwing Hawkwood a wistful look of appeal, followed suit.

Neville accepted each man’s response with a grim nod. “So be it. This way, then, if you please.”

Neville led the way to the edge of the clearing, where a small folding table had been erected under the trees. Upon the table lay a fold of black velvet. As they drew closer it was clear from the contours of the cloth that something lay concealed beneath the material.

Neville moved to the table and lifted away the edge of the cloth to reveal a flat mahogany case. Wordlessly, Neville opened the lid of the case and stepped away. He addressed Hawkwood. “I trust they meet with your approval?”

Hawkwood looked down and nodded.

“Very well, if the seconds would care to make their examinations?”

The pistols were identical Mortimers, with sixteen-inch octagonal barrels; in their simplicity, supreme examples of the gun maker’s art. Hawkwood and Rutherford stood to one side while their respective seconds examined the pistols. Mutual satisfaction expressed, Neville gestured towards the case. “So, gentlemen, if you’d each be so kind as to choose your weapon.”

Hawkwood removed his coat and handed it to Lawrence. He lifted out the pistol nearest to him. He had no qualms over his choice. He knew Lawrence would have ensured that each weapon contained exactly the same-sized ball and an equal charge of powder.

Neville cleared his throat. “You will stand back to back. On my count you will each walk away for a distance of twelve paces, at which point, upon my signal, you will turn and fire. Is that understood?”

Both men nodded. Hawkwood found that his throat was as dry as sand. As he took up his position, he wondered if his opponent was experiencing the same degree of discomfort and stomach-gnawing apprehension. He could feel Rutherford’s shoulder blades chafing against his own.

It had been like this when he had fought Delancey; the same coldness running down his spine, the prickle of wetness under the arms, the gut-wrenching fear that in less than a minute he might be dead. Or worse, severely wounded, with no future other than to roam the streets with all the other cripples, begging for scraps and shelter. All things considered, he thought death was probably the better option.

But at least he wouldn’t die in ignorance.

Her name, he had discovered, was Catherine de Varesne.

She had vanished by the time Hawkwood and Lawrence had returned to the house – no doubt having made her departure in order to avoid further confrontation with Rutherford and his associates – so the major had taken it upon himself to make discreet enquiries.

Not French, as Hawkwood had first supposed, but half French and half Portuguese, on her mother’s side. Her father had been the Marquis de Varesne, a minister under Louis XVI, and one of the hundreds of aristos sent to the guillotine. More relevant was the fact that he had been a close associate of the Comte d’Artois, currently in exile in England, and friend to Lord Mandrake, which explained her presence at the ball.

“I’ll say one thing, my friend,” the major had commented, “you’ve excellent taste in women, but by God your method of making their acquaintance leaves a lot to be desired.”

The sound of Neville’s voice brought Hawkwood out of his reverie.

“On my mark, gentlemen.” There was a pause. “Begin!”

Glancing to his right, Hawkwood saw that Lawrence was talking to himself. He realized with a jolt that the major was counting off the paces in accompaniment to Neville’s metronomic drone.

“Two … three … four …”

Their footsteps fell soft and silent on the damp grass. Rutherford was facing north, Hawkwood south. The direction was deliberate. It meant neither man had the advantage of the sun at his back.

“Five … six … seven …”

Hawkwood adjusted his grip on the pistol butt and felt warm beads of perspiration slide beneath the hairs at the back of his neck.

“Eight … nine … ten …”

Something nagged at Hawkwood. He couldn’t think what it was. Then he realized. There was no birdsong. Not a chirrup, not a whistle, not a single note broke the silence. He laid his thumb across the hammer of the pistol, curled his finger round the trigger, felt the cold curve of the barrel touch his right cheek.

“Eleven …” Followed by a pause that seemed to last for ever.

“Twelve … Gentlemen, you may turn and fire.”

Hawkwood spun quickly, sucked in his stomach muscles.

A bright flash as the powder in Rutherford’s pistol ignited. The crack of the report was surprisingly loud in the crisp morning air. The sound echoed around the glade.

Hawkwood felt the strike on his left side, a moment of acute pain and a fierce burning sensation as the ball parted the cloth of his shirt and the flesh beneath, searing across his exposed ribcage with the ferocity of a white-hot poker.

The powder smoke dispersed slowly, revealing Rutherford frozen in shock at the sight of his opponent, not only still standing but with pistol not yet discharged. A second passed. Two seconds stretched to three. Hawkwood watched the blood drain slowly from Rutherford’s face. With great deliberation, Hawkwood extended his right arm, winced as the edge of his shirt rasped against his wound, took careful aim, and fired.

Rutherford spun around. The pistol dropped from his fingers, and he went down. White faced, left hand clamped around the wound in his right arm, he stared up at Hawkwood as if unable to comprehend the fact that he had been shot. Hawkwood, feet braced, looked down at him for several moments before slowly lowering his pistol. Absently, he ran his hand along his belly. When he pulled it away it was smeared red.

Lawrence was the first to recover. He ran up quickly, his face ashen. “Jesus! You’re shot! Here, let me see!” The major expelled air and looked around. “Goddammit! Where the hell’s that bloody sawbones?”

Hawkwood grunted as Lawrence’s fingers probed his side. “It’s all right, Major. Only a flesh wound. I’ll live. The boy has greater need of him than I do.”

Accompanied by a still fussing Lawrence, Hawkwood walked over to where Rutherford lay, supported by his second. By the time they got there the sleeve of Rutherford’s shirt had already been ripped away. It was steeped in blood. The surgeon’s mottled hands shook as he examined the wound. Teeth gritted, Rutherford writhed at the touch. Hawkwood couldn’t see if the ball had passed through the arm, but he suspected the bone was probably broken. He tossed the spent pistol on to the grass. “I believe that concludes our business.”

Rutherford, blinking away tears, looked up. “You could have killed me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Why didn’t you?”

Hawkwood shrugged. “Take your pick. It’s a beautiful morning. I’ve got better things to do. I’ve a criminal investigation to deal with; places to go, people to see. But you pay heed, boy. You ever get the urge to throw down the gauntlet again, you’d better be damned sure you can win.”

Hawkwood retrieved his coat from Lawrence. “We’re done here, Major. Time to go. I’ve no wish to try and explain my presence to a roving police patrol. I’m in enough bloody trouble as it is.” He nodded to Neville and Campbell, who were looking back at him with something like awe on their faces. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“You do know,” Lawrence said, as they left the clearing, “if it had been you who’d shot first and missed, it’s unlikely the boy would have been so merciful.”

“You’re probably right,” Hawkwood admitted. “But then I wouldn’t have missed.”

Lawrence threw a look at the Runner, but there was no humour or arrogance in Hawkwood’s expression. He had been stating a fact.

“My God, you wanted him to shoot first! You expected him to miss? Jesus, you took a chance.”

Hawkwood shrugged. “It was a calculation. I doubt he’s ever pointed a loaded pistol at anyone before. I had a feeling his nerves would get the better of him.”

“Bloody hell,” Lawrence said. “So that’s why you spared him?”

They emerged from the other side of the trees. A swathe of broad green meadow stretched before them.

“There’s a time and place, Major. This wasn’t it. Call it a lesson in life.”

Lawrence regarded Hawkwood with some doubt. “He’ll bear you a considerable grudge.”