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

“Good to see you,” Lomax said, resuming his seat. A quarter-full mug of ale and a bowl containing the remains of a fatty stew sat on the table before him. Next to the bowl was a wooden platter bearing several chunks of bread and a wedge of butter.

Lomax looked beyond Hawkwood and signalled to a passing serving girl. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll take a belch,” Hawkwood said.

Lomax gave the order, ignoring the girl’s stare. He picked up one of the bread chunks with his left hand and began to mop up the gravy from the bottom of the bowl. When the bread was well soaked, he popped it into his mouth, bit down hard and chewed with relish.

“If you’re hungry, I can recommend the mutton,” Lomax said, licking the grease from his fingers before wiping them on his breeches.

The girl returned with Hawkwood’s beer. Hawkwood took a swallow and wondered how, with only one eye, Lomax could see what he was eating. The lighting in the booth was atrocious. The candle in the middle of the table was worn down to a stub. He realized that Lomax had positioned himself so that the injured side of his face was against the wall. It was only when Lomax turned his head that the ravaged side of his face became clear. Hawkwood suspected this was Lomax’s usual ploy. The look on the serving girl’s face had told its own story.

A thin dribble of gravy trickled down Lomax’s chin. Hawkwood averted his gaze but not quickly enough. Lomax had seen the gesture for he lifted his arm unselfconsciously and wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve.

The ex-cavalryman grimaced. “Shaving’s the real bugger. Can’t feel a damned thing. Why, I could slit my own throat from ear to ear. Wouldn’t know it ‘til I nodded my bloody head.”

Hawkwood laughed. He couldn’t help it.

Lomax grinned crookedly and raised his mug. “Confusion to the enemy!”

“Amen to that,” Hawkwood said. He was coming to like Lomax’s sense of humour.

Lomax set his drink down and pushed his plate aside. “I left the message because I’ve some information for you.”

Hawkwood sipped his beer.

“It concerns our highwaymen. I presume you’re still hunting them?”

“What have you got?”

Lomax toyed with the handle of his mug. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure. Might be nothing. It came to me after our last meeting. Something one of the coach passengers said. Didn’t think about it at the time, but now, looking back, the more it strikes me as odd.”

“What was it?”

Lomax hesitated. “Got any urgent appointments to keep?”

Hawkwood thought about the need to make contact with Jago and the startling information he had picked up at the workshop, but if Lomax had a lead, his return journey into the rookery could wait. He shook his head. “No, why?”

In answer, Lomax stood and tossed a handful of coins on to the table. “Because I think you and I should pay a little visit.”

“To where?”

Lomax reached for his hat while Hawkwood drained his beer.

“The horse’s mouth.”

The Reverend Septimus Fludde reminded Hawkwood of the vultures he had seen in Spain and South America. Ugly, mean-tempered creatures, with pronounced beaks and beady little eyes. Reverend Fludde even moved like a long-legged bird, in a sort of high-stepping, round-shouldered stalk, giving the bizarre impression that he was about to spread his arms and launch himself into the air. The reverend’s sober plumage – his black clerical garb – added to the illusion.

“He’s a cantankerous old bugger, but he’s the nearest thing we’ve got to a reliable witness,” Lomax had warned as he’d led the way along Bishopsgate to the dilapidated church of St Jude.

“What about the driver and the other passengers?” Hawkwood asked.

Lomax shook his head. “Waste of time. The driver ain’t much more than a gibbering idiot. Took straight to his bed and hasn’t stirred since. Mind you, the poor bastard did see two men killed in front of his eyes, so it’s no small wonder he’s come down with a touch of the vapours.”

“And the rest?”

Lomax gave a snort of derision. “Ah, you mean Justice Coverley and his lady wife.”

“A judge?” Hawkwood could not disguise his astonishment.

“Stipendiary magistrate, to be precise. Presides on a bench over Gloucester way. You didn’t know?” Lomax looked equally surprised.

Hawkwood cast his mind back to his briefing with James Read. The latter had made no mention of the fact, though it did go a long way to explain why the Chief Magistrate’s condemnation of the crime had been so vociferous. Presumably Justice Coverley had used his rank to harness the resources of the Bow Street office to hunt down the thieves who had stolen his wife’s jewellery. How fortunate it was to have influential friends, Hawkwood reflected cynically.

“A right bastard,” Lomax said with feeling. “And his wife wasn’t much better. Mostly wind and piss, of course, and a face on her that’d curdle milk.” Lomax chuckled drily. “Not that I can talk, mind. Anyway, seems they were travelling home after attending some family festivity. A wedding, I believe it was. Told me they weren’t prepared to tarry on account of his honour having to attend monthly assizes. Pity the next poor bloody wretch who comes up before him. The mood M’lud was in, he’ll be after a hanging, and for tying the knot himself, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Which leaves us with the Reverend Fludde …”

“Indeed,” Lomax agreed. “Spitting fire and farting brimstone. Though, if you ask me, his bark’s worse than his bite.”

In the event, it had proved to be more of an indignant squawk than a bark, though of sufficient intensity to indicate the reverend’s displeasure at having the preparation of his Sunday sermon disturbed by a pair of unwanted visitors. His disenchantment was made plain the moment the two men were shown into his gloomy study by the elderly housekeeper.

Seated at his paper-littered desk, Fludde had peered quizzically at the two peace officers. “Officer Lomax, isn’t it? Well, sir, have you apprehended the scoundrels?”

“I regret not,” Lomax said.

It was clear from his glare that this was not the answer the clergyman had been seeking. As if noticing Hawkwood for the first time, the reverend’s head swivelled. Hawkwood could have sworn he heard joints creak.

“And who, pray, is this?”

“Allow me to present my colleague, Officer Hawkwood, special constable from Bow Street,” Lomax said.

Fludde did not look very impressed. “Really? So, why are you here, instead of scouring the streets?”

Lomax cleared his throat. “I was wondering, Reverend, if I might take you back to the night of the robbery. It was when the passenger was killed. You told me that the man who shot him said something. I wonder if you recall what that was.”

Reverend Fludde’s chin came up sharply. “Of course I can recall! I may be advanced in years, Officer Lomax, but I’m not senile!” The churchman’s Adam’s apple bobbed alarmingly.

“Of course, Reverend. My apologies,” Lomax amended hastily. “I meant no disrespect. But I’d be obliged if you’d repeat what you heard to Officer Hawkwood here.”

“And will this assist you in catching the villains?”

“I’ve every confidence it will, sir, yes.”

Reverend Fludde sighed impatiently. “Oh, very well. Let me think. As I recall …” he said, throwing the ex-cavalryman a withering glance, “… he had his pistol pointed at the fellow’s head.”

To Hawkwood’s amazement, Reverend Fludde stood up, teetered momentarily on his spindly legs, extended his right arm and aimed his long, bony index finger at Lomax’s face. In a thin, reedy voice, he said, “I remember the words exactly. He said, ‘All right, Lieutenant. If you insist.’”

“And then he shot him?” Lomax said.