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

“Stop him, Eli! He’s here to hurt Mother!” The old woman’s voice pierced the room.

The attack, when it came, was sudden. For a man of his huge bulk, Eli Gant moved with surprising speed.

But Hawkwood was quicker. Even as the cudgel was raised, he swung his foot and kicked Gant hard between the legs. Eli’s jaw went slack. Dropping the club, he doubled over. A baton appeared in Hawkwood’s hand. Without losing momentum, he sidestepped and drove the short club viciously against the side of Gant’s head. The ground shook as Gant’s body hit the earthen floor. Staring down at the wheezing, prostrate form, Hawkwood shook his head wearily. He’d seen it all before.

When he looked up, Mother Gant had disappeared.

Hawkwood cursed and turned. “Rafferty!”

A bulky figure materialized behind him. Red-faced and coarse-featured, wearing the uniform of a conductor of the watch: black felt hat, double-breasted blue jacket and matching waistcoat. His eyebrows rose as he took in the man on the ground.

His eyes widened further as Hawkwood leapt over the stricken Gant, crossed the room and ripped away the ragged curtain that hung on a rail on the opposite wall. Concealed behind the curtain was an open doorway. Pausing on the threshold, Hawkwood peered into the darkness that lay beyond. A cold draught caressed his face and a vague shuffling noise sounded from somewhere ahead, then his eyes caught the feeble glow of a lantern and a hunched, dark-clothed figure scurrying away. Mother Gant, having abandoned her idiot son to guard her back, was on the run.

Hawkwood knew he had to act quickly. There was no telling how far the tunnel stretched or where it emerged. Given the nature of the area, it was likely the shaft led into a honeycomb of passages, trap doors, hidden stairwells and twisting alleyways running above and below ground level. And the old woman, of course, would know the place like the back of her crabby hand.

There was no time to find a lantern of his own. He’d have to rely on the faint light ahead of him as a guide. He turned and nodded past the constable’s legs to where the hapless Eli Gant was still curled foetally on the floor. “Watch him.” Clasping the baton firmly, he plunged into the hole.

The smell was dreadful. It was the stench of damp and decay, pungent enough to clog the nostrils and make the eyes water. The floor of the tunnel was firm underfoot, but here and there the ground squelched alarmingly, sucking at his heels. More than once, his ears picked up the faint squeak of rodents and he felt the soft touch of their tiny paws as they ran across the toe of his boot.

It was hard to tell what the walls were made of. Sometimes his fingers brushed brick, sometimes wood, often so rotten it flaked off in his hand. Similarly, it was impossible to determine if it was sky over his head or stone. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he began to make out openings in the tunnel walls: junctions leading to even more escape routes. Occasionally, through a chink in a wall, he caught a glimmer of light, the flicker of a candle flame, a sign that somewhere within this strange subterranean world there existed vermin of a higher intellect than rats and mice. And always the fluttering lantern carried by the Widow Gant drew him further into the maze.

Abruptly, the glow ahead of him died. He paused, listening. He moved forward cautiously, senses alert for the slightest movement. He wondered how far he had come. It seemed like a mile, but in the darkness, distance was deceptive. It was probably no more than a hundred paces, if that.

He could just make out a pale crescent of light ahead. It appeared to be low down, perhaps an indication that there was a dip in the tunnel or a stairway. And then he saw there was a bend in the passage. He continued slowly, the baton held tightly in his fist.

He turned the corner and saw that the lantern had been placed on the ground next to what looked to be the old woman’s shawl. He bent to examine it.

It was then that the wizened, bat-like creature detached itself from the wall to his right, accompanied by a scream of such intensity it was almost impossible to imagine the source could be human.

Even as he turned, dropping the shawl, the glow from the lantern caught the glint of the knife blade as it curved towards his throat. Hawkwood hurled his body aside. The sliver of steel whipped past his face and he heard the grunt as the old woman realized she had missed her target. Christ, but she was fast! Faster than he would have thought possible, and hate had given her added impetus. Already she was turning again, driving the weapon towards his heart.

He felt the cloth tear on his upper arm as the razor-sharp blade sliced through his coat sleeve, the material parting like grape skin. Transferring the baton to his left palm, he struck upwards to turn the strike away, at the same time reaching for her wrist with his other hand. Her arm was no thicker than a child’s, but the power in the reed-thin body was astonishing. His fingers encircled her wrist, deflecting the blade’s cutting edge. At the same time, he struck down with the baton and heard the brittle snap of breaking bone. The knife dropped to the floor and her squeal of pain reverberated off the walls.

But, incredibly, she wasn’t finished. In the next second, her left hand was reaching towards his face as she launched herself at him, spitting and swearing as if possessed by devils, clawing for his eyes with nails as sharp as talons. So ferocious was the force of her attack, he was slammed against the wall of the tunnel. Air exploded from his lungs.

One-handed, she clung to him, kicking and gouging. Flecks of spittle landed on his face. He felt, too, her hot breath on his cheek, as rancid as a midden, and knew that somehow he had to finish it. He hooked the end of the baton into her stomach, felt the grip on his collar loosen, used his full body weight to drive his fist under her ribcage and punch her away.

There was a flat thud as the back of her head hit the wall, the screech dying on her lips as her frail body slid to the ground. She landed awkwardly, winded, legs akimbo, dress around her knees, thin breasts rising and falling as she gasped for air.

Hawkwood straightened and wiped the smear of phlegm from his jaw.

“Bitch.”

The crumpled figure at his feet let out a low moan.

Slipping the ebony baton inside his coat, he bent to retrieve the discarded shawl. He used the shawl to bind her wrists, making no allowances for the broken arm. In the vapid glow from the lantern, he could see that her eyes were glazed with pain. Her resistance was clearly spent.

When he had finished trussing her arms, he picked up the lantern. Holding it aloft, he lifted the old woman by the collar of her dress and began to retrace his steps down the tunnel, dragging her limp, unprotesting body behind him.

2 (#ulink_f0ae846c-8a75-58c0-bc4c-ccc237bf8414)

In the kitchen of the house, Constable Edmund Rafferty scratched his ample belly and gazed at the display of valuables on the table. He cast a wary eye on the figure of Eli Gant who, having recovered from the baton blow, was seated on the floor, his back to the wall, rocking slowly from side to side, while staring mournfully down at the handcuffs that had been fastened around his wrists. In his present predicament, he looked as harmless as a puppy.

Rafferty stole another surreptitious glance at the table and started as a voice behind him said, “We caught four of the little beggars, Irish. What should we do with ‘em?”

The speaker was a thin, ferret-featured individual dressed similarly to Rafferty, save for the colour of his waistcoat, which was scarlet instead of blue. His right hand was clamped around the collar of a small boy. He was holding the boy in such a way that the tips of the child’s toes only just touched the cobbles. The child was trying to pull away. His attempt to escape, however, was instantly curtailed when his captor cuffed him violently round the back of the head.

Rafferty eyed the figure at the door with scorn. “You hold on to ‘em, Constable Warbeck, until I tells you otherwise. Now, take him outside, there’s a good lad.”

The constable touched his cap and moved away, and Rafferty breathed a sigh of relief. It was Rafferty’s considered opinion that Constable Warbeck hadn’t the brains he’d been born with, and his habit of addressing Rafferty as “Irish” was also beginning to irk considerably. Unfortunately, Warbeck was married to Rafferty’s younger sister, Alice, who had persuaded her brother to sponsor Warbeck’s entry into the police force; an act of charity about which he was beginning to have severe misgivings. Not least, regarding the said constable’s apparent inability to look the other way at opportune moments. Clearly, the man had much to learn. Still, Rafferty concluded, it was early days.

Moving to the table, Rafferty eyed the small array of pocketbooks and jewellery with increasing interest. Looking over his shoulder to ensure he was not being observed, he investigated the contents of the pocketbooks. Several of them, to his delight, held banknotes. He extracted one crisp note from each and replaced the pocketbooks on the table. Then his eyes alighted on the watch.

It was a very fine watch; gold-cased, with matching chain. Undoubtedly the property of a gentleman. Rafferty held the timepiece up to his ear. The ticking was like a tiny heartbeat. He inserted the end of a blunt fingernail under the clasp and was about to flick open the cover when his ears detected footsteps and a curious scraping sound. Quickly, Rafferty dropped the watch into the deep pocket of his coat. Just in time. He grinned expansively as Hawkwood emerged from behind the curtain, dragging the body of Mother Gant into the room.

“Well now, Captain, there I was wondering where you’d got to. Thought we might have to send out a search party, so I did.” Rafferty’s glance dropped to the body of the Widow Gant, who had regained consciousness and was staring up at Hawkwood with a degree of malevolence that was chilling in its intensity.

“See you caught the old crone, then?” Rafferty studied the rent in Hawkwood’s sleeve and frowned. “Gave you a bit of trouble, did she?”

Hawkwood hauled the old woman across the floor and dropped her next to her son. When he looked up his eyes were as dark as the grave.

“How many?”

Rafferty sighed. “Four. The rest scarpered. My lads’ve got ‘em outside.” Rafferty found himself wavering under the other man’s gaze. There was something in that hard stare that made Constable Rafferty’s blood run cold. To his relief, Hawkwood merely nodded in acceptance.

“Probably as many as we deserved. All right, you know what to do. Take them away.”

Rafferty nodded. “Right you are.” The constable aimed a kick at Eli Gant’s shin. “On your feet! You, too, Mother, else you’ll get my boot up your skinny arse!”

Hawkwood turned away as Rafferty bundled his charges out of the house.

“Wait!”

The command cut through the air. Rafferty paused on the doorstep. A cold wind touched his spine. When he turned around he found that Hawkwood was looking at him, and his breath caught in his throat.

The bastard knew!

Hawkwood held out his hand. “I’ll take the watch, Rafferty.”

“Eh?” Instinctively, in voicing that one word of feigned innocence, Rafferty knew he’d betrayed his guilt. Conceit and fear, however, dictated that he make at least a half-hearted attempt to extricate himself from the mire.

“Watch? And what watch would that be, then? Sure, and I don’t know what you mean.”

Hawkwood’s expression was as hard as stone. “I’ll ask you once more, Constable. You’ve already made one mistake. Don’t compound the error. Hand it over.”

Even as he blustered, Rafferty knew the game had been played to its conclusion. His only recourse was to try and retire with as much bravado as he could muster. He frowned, as if searching his memory, and then allowed a broad smile to steal across his face.

“Och, sweet Mary! Why, of course! What was I thinking? Sure and didn’t I just slip it into my pocket for safekeeping and then forget all about it? Memory’ll be the death of me, so it will. Here it is, now! I’m glad you reminded me, for it’s likely I’d have walked off with it, so I would.”