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

The vicar’s face twisted in painful memory. He lowered his arm. “That is correct.”

“And you are quite certain about the words the killer used. There’s no doubt in your mind?”

“None whatsoever.” Fludde shuddered, then, evidently overcome by his theatrical exertions, he reached for his chair and sat down.

Lomax threw a sideways glance at Hawkwood. Hawkwood stared back at him.

“Thank you, Reverend,” Lomax said. “That’s all I wanted to ask. You’ve been most helpful. Rest assured, we are doing everything in our power to see that the culprits are brought to justice and that your property is restored.”

The reverend smiled sourly. “In that case, Officer Lomax,” he wheezed, “don’t let me detain you. My housekeeper will show you out. Good day.”

And with that, Reverend Fludde returned to his sermon.

“Well?” Lomax said, when they were back on the street. “You do agree? It’s curious, is it not?”

Hawkwood said nothing. He was too preoccupied.

“My thoughts exactly,” Lomax said into the silence. “I don’t know how many highwaymen and footpads I’ve come up against in my time, but it’s a fair few. And I’ll tell you this. There’s not a single one of ‘em’d know an admiral from a bloody midshipman! And yet our highwayman referred to the passenger as ‘Lieutenant’ …” Lomax paused for effect. His one eye glinted brightly. “So, the question we have to ask ourselves is this: how the devil did he know?”

How indeed? As he made his way through the quiet back streets towards the Blackbird, Hawkwood’s brain struggled with the implications. His thoughts were also occupied with his visit to Josiah Woodburn’s workshop, for there too, lurked a conundrum. If the boy Quigley had not been mistaken in seeing Master Woodburn in Lord Mandrake’s carriage – and there was no reason why he should have lied – why had no one heard from the clockmaker since?

As far as the Woodburn case was concerned, the obvious course of action would be to pursue enquiries at Mandrake House. Had Warlock gone down that road? If so, and if the dead Runner had not been merely the victim of a robbery, what chain of events had led to his body ending up on the river bank?

Somewhere in the tangled mess of contradictions there lay solutions to both riddles, though, for the life of him, Hawkwood couldn’t begin to see where those solutions might reside.

But he wasn’t thinking straight. He was tired and he was hungry. He should, he thought, have taken up Lomax’s recommendation and ordered a bowl of stew. No matter, he’d ask Maddie to provide something for him. Even a cold platter would suffice. A couple of hours’ sleep wouldn’t come amiss either. But before he could lay head to pillow he would have to make his report to Magistrate Read. Food first, therefore, followed by a brief call into the Shop, and then bed. By which time, there might even be a message from Jago. Stirred by the possibility, he quickened his pace.

But when he walked through the tavern door he was barely given a chance to draw breath, let alone put in a request for supper. Maddie was on him before he could stop her.

“I want you to get rid of him! Right away! The little devil’s been hanging around for hours. It’s got so my customers daren’t venture outside for fear of being relieved of their valuables! I told him you weren’t here and that I didn’t know when you’d be back, but he insisted on waiting, cheeky beggar! Wanted to wait inside, as well, but I warned him on no account was he to set foot through that doorway. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had fleas, from the looks of him! I do declare, Matthew Hawkwood, for a police officer, you keep strange company and no mistake!”

It took Hawkwood a moment to realize that Maddie had ceased her remonstration. He smiled. “Go easy, Maddie, you’ve lost me. Who are you talking about?”

“Why, that boy, of course. Who else?”

“Er … what boy?”

“That one!” Maddie’s eyes flashed green fire as she pointed an accusing finger.

Hawkwood looked around. A small, grubby face was peering round the edge of the doorframe. A hand beckoned urgently.

An ominous sigh sounded close by. Hawkwood realized it was emanating from between Maddie’s tightly clenched teeth. He sensed the landlady was about to erupt, spectacularly.

“All right, Maddie,” Hawkwood interposed quickly. “Leave it to me. I’ll deal with it.”

Hawkwood walked to the door and stepped out into the alleyway.

“Davey?”

“Over ‘ere, Mr ‘Awkwood!”

The urchin emerged from the shadow of a nearby archway. One hand was hidden inside his ragged jacket. He looked around nervously.

“What the hell’s going on, Davey?” Hawkwood asked.

“Got a present for you, Mr ‘Awkwood.”

Slowly the boy took his hand from inside his coat. He was clutching something. Hawkwood couldn’t quite make out what it was. “Reckon I should give you this.”

The boy held out his hand. Hawkwood stared at the object. His heart went cold.

It was a Runner’s baton.

Hawkwood found his voice. “Where’d you get it?”

The boy looked down, avoiding Hawkwood’s eye.

“Davey?”

“Sorry, Mr ‘Awkwood. It were Ned. I didn’t know he ‘ad it, honest.”

Ned? Hawkwood had to think for a moment. Then he remembered it was the name of the boy who had discovered Warlock’s corpse.

“Where did he find it?”

“Said it were next to the body. Half-buried, he told me. Didn’t plan on tellin’ no one on account of he thought he could clean it up and flog it. It were Pen who told me he ‘ad it. I made ‘im ‘and it over.”

Instinctively, Hawkwood reached into his pocket, but the boy shook his head. “Nah, that’s all right, Mr ‘Awkwood. Don’t want nothing fer it. You been good to us. Treated us fair and square. That other geezer, too. Don’t seem right, takin’ money off you this time. My way of thinkin’ is you can ‘ave this ‘un with our compliments.” The boy grinned. “On the ‘ouse, you might say.”

Hawkwood gripped the ebony baton tightly. “I’m obliged, Davey. I mean that.”

The boy nodded solemnly. There followed a moment of awkward silence, eventually broken by the urchin. “Well, I’d best be gettin’ back. Don’t like leaving the rest of ‘em on their own for too long. No knowin’ what manner o’ mischief they’ll be gettin’ up to without me to ‘old their ‘ands.”

Hawkwood nodded. “Take care of yourself, Davey. You tell Ned I said thanks. I owe you.”

The boy laughed. “Think I don’t know that? Next time, we’ll charge you double!”

Still laughing, the boy ran off. Hawkwood, assailed by a sudden and inexplicable feeling of melancholy, turned and walked back into the tavern.

Maddie Teague raised the coffeepot and arched an eyebrow suggestively. “Would the kind gentleman care for anything else?”

Hawkwood sat back as the beverage was poured. The landlady’s free hand rested on Hawkwood’s shoulder. Covertly, her fingers traced the nape of his neck. “Fancy some company later?”

Hawkwood knew he still had to find Billy Mipps to arrange another meeting with Jago. “Sorry, Maddie. Not tonight.”

Framed by the neckline of her bodice, the shadow between Maddie’s breasts darkened invitingly.

“You’re sure?”