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

“That’s what they told me.”

“You believed them?”

“Yes.”

The Chief Magistrate looked sceptical. “I wish I shared your confidence. Still, I’ve no doubt you know your informants. I will, therefore, trust your judgement. Now, regarding the investigation, you’re the only Runner immediately available to me, so I’m placing you in charge. I’d hoped to recall Lightfoot from his protection duties but the bank will require his services for at least another day. I’ve also had a word with Lacey’s physician. He tells me Officer Lacey may be able to return to light duties, but again it won’t be for a day or two. Until then, I’m afraid you’re on your own. I’ve arranged for reward notices to be posted and I’ve ordered extra constables to begin enquiries in the area. Though, frankly, I’ve little expectation of them discovering anything of note. I can assign one of them to assist you directly, if you feel it necessary.”

“I don’t,” Hawkwood said quickly. It had been Hawkwood’s experience that, with very few exceptions, constables were about as much use as watchmen, which meant none at all. He refrained from voicing his opinion out loud and was relieved when the Chief Magistrate did not seem too surprised at his decision.

“As you wish.” Read massaged his temples. “By the way, I take it from your lack of report that there has been no progress with regards to the coach murders?”

“Not so far.”

“I see,” the Chief Magistrate said pensively. “That is most regrettable.”

“I’m going to need information on all Warlock’s cases,” Hawkwood prompted.

“What?” For a second, the magistrate’s thoughts appeared to be centred elsewhere. “Ah, yes, of course. Well, see Mr Twigg. Use him to your best advantage.” James Read grimaced. “At least we know now why Warlock failed to report the other evening.”

Hawkwood moved towards the door.

“A moment, Hawkwood. There’s another matter that concerns me.”

Hawkwood tensed. The sudden coldness in the Chief Magistrate’s tone was unmistakable. Hawkwood knew instinctively what was coming. Squaring his shoulders, he looked back to find that James Read had returned to the sanctuary of his desk.

The Chief Magistrate laid his palms flat. He looked to be composing himself. “Tell me, Hawkwood, did you give any thought as to what the consequences might have been had the Rutherford boy died?”

The clock in the corner sounded unnaturally loud. The seconds ticked away into minutes.

Hawkwood felt his stomach muscles contract. The skin around the wound in his belly tightened violently.

The Chief Magistrate shook his head in despair. “You astound me, Hawkwood, you really do. When I learned of this morning’s incident I racked my brain to come up with a logical explanation, but I confess you have me at a complete loss. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to enlighten me. In short, sir, would you mind telling me what, in the name of God, you thought you were doing?” The magistrate’s voice vibrated with anger.

Despite the question, Hawkwood had the distinct impression that it would be in his best interest to remain silent and let the Chief Magistrate vent his wrath. He fixed his concentration on a point six inches above James Read’s head, and waited for the sky to fall.

James Read rose to his feet and spread his arms to encompass the room. “I’m intrigued. Were you somehow under the illusion that being part of this grants you some kind of immunity? Was that it? Well, I’m here to inform you, sir, that it does not!”

The Chief Magistrate paused. “You know, Hawkwood, after my implicit instruction to you about upholding the reputation of this office, I’m unsure which grieves me most. The fact that you allowed yourself to become embroiled in such a fiasco, or that you actually harboured the ludicrous belief that I wouldn’t find out!”

The Chief Magistrate closed his eyes as if in pain and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ignoring Hawkwood, he moved to the window and stared out. Eventually, he spoke.

“By rights I should relieve you of your duties, pending further investigation. However, current circumstances give me little choice in the matter.” The Chief Magistrate turned to face the room. “The fact is, I need you.”

There was a stony silence. But Hawkwood sensed that James Read had not finished. He was also wondering how the Chief Magistrate had found out. Lawrence had assured him that Rutherford and his seconds would remain silent, and the surgeon’s and servant’s palms had been well greased. The woman? Unlikely. Which left Lord Mandrake, who, as far as Hawkwood had been aware, had remained in ignorance of the event. Certainly Lord Mandrake had made no reference to the contretemps when Hawkwood had left the house. Hawkwood’s mind turned to the figure he thought he’d seen in the undergrowth. Maybe there had been someone there, after all. But he knew further speculation was pointless. The cat was out of the bag and he was about to suffer the consequences.

Read’s eyes bored into him. “Mark this, sir, and mark it well. While I’m not without influence in certain quarters, my position here is purely transitory. There will come a time when I’m no longer able to use my authority to protect you. You would do well to remember that.

“Your foolish actions have placed me in an invidious position, Hawkwood. That is not something I enjoy. Fortunately for you, I’ve discussed the matter with the boy’s father and persuaded him that it would be in neither his nor his family’s best interest to advertise or pursue the matter. He has agreed. Not unsurprisingly, given the humiliation you visited upon his son. But beware, Hawkwood, you’re treading on very thin ice. I’ve allowed you a great deal of freedom in the past, but you would be wise not to try my leniency too far. For if there should come a time when I am required to choose between the good name of this office and the conceit of one of my officers, be assured that I will not shirk my responsibilities. Should you feel the need, therefore, to engage in any more personal vendettas, you’d be well advised to seek an alternative means of employment.” The Chief Magistrate placed his hands behind his back and stood feet apart. “I’m placing you on notice, Hawkwood. Do I make myself clear?”

Hawkwood felt a wave of relief wash over him. Reprieve, of a kind, had been granted. “Yes, sir.”

The magistrate threw him a long, piercing stare, followed finally by a sharp nod of acknowledgement. “So be it. We shall discuss the matter further when this case is concluded. You may go. Mr Twigg will furnish you with details of Runner Warlock’s most recent assignments.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Officer Hawkwood …”

Hawkwood glanced back. “Sir?”

The expression on the Chief Magistrate’s face was one of wry cynicism.

“You look fatigued. In future, I suggest you keep your nocturnal exertions to a minimum.”

“What the hell do you mean, there’s no record?” Hawkwood stared at Ezra Twigg in disbelief.

The little clerk blinked behind his spectacles and shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Mr Hawkwood, but Officer Warlock never had a chance to make his preliminary report. He never came back, you see.” Twigg shrugged helplessly.

“Well, do you have any information? Who reported this damned clockmaker missing in the first place?”

“His manservant.”

Hawkwood waited while Twigg, anxious to give the impression that all might not be lost, rifled through a stack of documents at his elbow. With a grunt of satisfaction, the clerk extricated a single sheet of paper and held it to the light. “Yes, here we are … Luther Hobb, manservant. It seems the staff became concerned when Master Woodburn failed to return home for his supper. The servant came to alert us. Officer Warlock was then dispatched to investigate.”

“And that’s the last time anyone from this office saw him alive?”

Ezra Twigg nodded unhappily.

The fact that Warlock had not been missed for a couple of days may have seemed incongruous to an outsider, but in reality it was not that unusual. Being few in number, Runners tended to spread themselves thinly, so it was not uncommon for an officer to delay his reporting back to Bow Street in order to pursue urgent and specific lines of enquiry. Thus Warlock’s absence might have been frowned upon, but it had not given immediate grounds for concern; unlike the disappearance of clockmaster Josiah Woodburn.

Which didn’t leave a vast amount to go on, Hawkwood reflected ruefully.

“All right, so what do we know about this clockmaker? Any skeletons in the cupboard, besides his being a strict Presbyterian?”

There was nothing. At least nothing that Ezra Twigg had been able to find. London clockmakers enjoyed a reputation second to none. And within that august fraternity the Woodburn name was held in the highest regard. The family had been making clocks for almost two hundred years. They had designed and crafted timepieces for kings and princes, merchants and maharajas. The Woodburn name was synonymous with the finest quality. Of Josiah Woodburn himself, there was little to relate. Sixty-eight years of age and a widower for ten years. The only item of note was the fact that he shared his house with his granddaughter, the child having been orphaned when her parents – Woodburn’s daughter and son-in-law – had perished in a fire. Adversity being no barrier to good character, the man was looked upon by all as a veritable pillar of society.

All of which, though of moderate interest, added little to Hawkwood’s store of knowledge. Which left only one option. To start from the beginning and retrace Warlock’s steps; a time-consuming but necessary exercise.

“I assume we do have an address?” Hawkwood said. “Or is that too much to hope for?”

Ezra Twigg, feigning indignation, sighed resignedly. “They do say, Mr Hawkwood, that sarcasm is quite the lowest form of wit.”

“Do they indeed?” Hawkwood said, unmoved by the clerk’s put-upon expression. He waited in silence as Twigg scribbled.

The clerk passed the information across. “Oh, and there was a message left for you.”

“A message?” He assumed it was from Jago. And about bloody time, too. But his relief was short-lived for the message was not from Jago. It was from Lomax, the ex-cavalry captain in charge of the horse patrol, who wanted Hawkwood to meet him at the Four Swans in Bishopsgate between five and six that evening. Hawkwood frowned. He supposed it had something to do with the coach hold-up. Twigg, however, was unable to elaborate.

Hawkwood tucked the clockmaker’s address into his waistcoat pocket and reached for his coat. A sound made him turn.