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

“Do I now? That’s interesting. And how come an American was fighting for an English king?”

“I don’t remember,” Hawkwood said. “How come you’re fighting for Bonaparte?”

And why was Jago working for the enemy?

Lee folded his arms. “I have my reasons.”

“Money.” Hawkwood spat out the word as if it were an obscenity.

Lee’s face hardened. “You think that’s what this is about?” The American smiled thinly. “Oh, they’re paying me well, friend. I’ll not deny that. But the money ain’t the main incentive, Captain Hawkwood. It never was.”

The American fell silent.

Hawkwood waited, but Lee seemed wrapped in thought.

“So, what was Mandrake’s price?” Hawkwood asked.

And Jago’s.

“Ah, now, that’s more straightforward. We made him an offer. Advised him, quietly of course, that if he didn’t help us, the United States Government would no longer guarantee the integrity of his … how shall I put it? … overseas investments? As you know, Lord Mandrake still enjoys a substantial income from the tobacco trade – plantations in Virginia, and so forth.”

As if to add emphasis to the explanation, Lee reached into his pocket and extracted a half-smoked cheroot. The American opened the lantern and lit the cigar from the flame. Taking a long, luxuriant draw, Lee held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds before exhaling.

“As you may have deduced, not only is my Lord Mandrake a remarkably astute businessman, he’s also a pragmatist.” William Lee smiled once more and examined the end of his cheroot.

“You mean he’s a bloody turncoat!”

“That kind of depends which side you’re on, doesn’t it?” Lee took another appreciative pull on his cigar.

“Are we going to top the bastard, or not?”

Hawkwood had forgotten Scully. The voice in his ear and the hand on his shoulder reminded him.

Lee flicked ash. “Easy, Scully. Me and the captain here are having a conversation.”

Hawkwood said, “How did you know I was a captain?”

Fool! Because Jago would have told him.

Lee rested his haunches on the table and rolled the cheroot between fingers and thumb. “Oh, you know, friends in high places. Word gets around. I know quite a lot about you. Question is, how much do you know about me?”

“We know everything,” Hawkwood said. Even as he said it, he knew it didn’t sound very convincing.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Lee said drily, picking a shred of tobacco from his lip. “I really do.”

“We know about the plunging boat.” Immediately, Hawkwood wondered if that had been a wise admission.

“Well, of course you do,” Lee said. “I’d be mightily surprised if you didn’t.”

The American’s nonchalance was disconcerting. Hawkwood was gaining the distinct impression that he was missing an important part of the picture. How come Lee was so damned cocky? Notwithstanding he wasn’t the one tied to a chair.

“If you kill me,” Hawkwood said, “they’ll only send someone else.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Lee said jovially. “I surely do. But by then it’ll be too late.”

“Can I do ‘im now?” Scully, pleading.

“Patience, Scully. You’ll get your chance. My apologies again, Captain, but Scully here don’t take kindly to police officers, or any kind of officer, come to that. Ain’t that right, Scully?”

“They’re all sons of bitches, every man jack of ‘em. Alive or dead, makes no difference.”

“See what I mean?” Lee said.

“The bastard belongs in Bedlam,” Hawkwood said. “How come he’s working for you?”

“What’s he say?” Scully demanded.

“He doesn’t like you,” Lee said. “He thinks you should be in an asylum.”

“Does he now?” Scully said.

Scully’s fist thudded against the side of Hawkwood’s skull. For several seconds the world went dark. Hawkwood wondered if his jaw was broken. He probed the inside of his mouth with his tongue. A couple of teeth felt loose.

“Looks like the feeling’s mutual,” Lee observed.

The American took another lingering pull on his cheroot. “Actually, Scully here was recommended. Came across a shipmate of his in Le Havre. Said he’d sailed with Scully in the old days. Told me that he knew the river like the back of his hand and that he didn’t take much to authority. Told me he didn’t care much for your King George either. Sounded like a perfect combination to me. A man I could use.”

Scully grinned then. Hawkwood was reminded of a dog wagging its tail at the mention of its name.

“Funny,” Scully said, “but you ‘as to laugh. Don’t see a bloody officer for months, then three of ‘em come by all at once. Am I lucky, or what?”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

“You killed Warlock,” Hawkwood said hollowly.

“Warlock?” Scully frowned. “You mean your Runner pal? Aye, s’pose I did, when you think about it. Enjoyed every minute of it, too.”

Only the manacles prevented Hawkwood from going for Scully’s throat. He stared at Lee. “On your orders?”

Lee was coming to the end of his cheroot. He blew out smoke and shook his head. “Your colleague’s death was regrettable and it wasn’t my choosing. His lordship over reacted, I’m afraid. Though once your friend had blundered in, we couldn’t just let him walk away.”

So, like the good bloodhound that he was, Warlock had followed the clockmaker’s trail to Mandrake House. Somehow, he’d discovered a connection between the clockmaker’s disappearance and Lee’s plan for the submersible, and made a run for it with the drawings. But then he’d been found out, and they’d killed him. Or rather Scully had.

“Does that mean the old man’s dead too?”

“The clockmaker?” Lee shook his head again. “He’s more use to us alive.”

But Scully had said something about three coming by all at once. What did he mean …?