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

And suddenly, things became infinitely clearer.

“It was you,” Hawkwood said. “You held up the mail coach.”

Who better to have recognized a lieutenant’s uniform than an ex-seaman?

Hawkwood said, “You shot the courier. You cut his hand off.”

Scully’s knowing grin said it all.

Lee grimaced. “A mite excessive, I’ll grant you, but we had to retrieve the plans. Couldn’t risk your Admiralty boys getting their hands on them. Oh, I know they’ll have had access to Fulton’s earlier designs, but there’ve been a few improvements since then. No sense in making it easier for them. Mind you, full marks to that agent of yours. Led Bonaparte’s men a right merry dance. Why, they lost him so many times, they didn’t know whether they were coming or going. Sheer luck we were able to pick up his trail. Found out he’d taken passage on a smuggler’s ketch out of St Valery. Turns out the contrabandist was another of Scully’s old cronies. Been worth his weight in gold, has Scully. Ain’t that so?”

Hawkwood said, “So, who was your partner on that job, Scully? Who was it killed the driver’s mate? One of your mutineer friends?” Hawkwood’s gaze shifted to William Lee. “Or maybe it was you.”

Scully laughed. “It were neither, squire. An’ if I told you, you’d never believe me. If you only knew …”

Jago? Surely to God, not Nathaniel!

But, even as that thought entered his mind, Hawkwood knew it couldn’t have been either Lee or Jago. From the witnesses’ descriptions, the robbers were like master and apprentice. Both Lee and Jago were too old.

“That’s enough!” Lee said, the warning implicit.

The grip on Hawkwood’s shoulder tightened perceptibly. Hawkwood tasted a coppery wetness on his lip. Blood, he guessed; Scully’s blow having split the skin.

Lee clicked his tongue. “Y’see, Captain, there’s the rub. You ask too many damned questions. And right now, I ain’t inclined to provide any more answers. Which means you’ll just have to die in ignorance.” The American shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Captain, but I don’t have a choice. You’ve become a nuisance. You might not know every last detail, but you’re still a risk we can do without.”

We?

“Come on now,” Lee said reassuringly. “Don’t look so aggrieved. You did damned well to get this far.”

This far? Hawkwood thought. As far as he could see, he hadn’t got anywhere. He’d managed to follow a half-cold trail which had led him precisely nowhere. A dead end. Literally, as it was turning out.

Lee pushed himself away from the table. “All right, Scully, I guess his time’s up. I’ll leave you to it.”

Hawkwood said desperately, “We know about Thetis.”

Lee smiled and shook his head. “No, you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Scully hissed. “My oath, I am.”

The big seaman reached into his belt. Hawkwood was expecting him to draw the sword. Instead it was a length of blue metal. Hawkwood felt his stomach turn over. It was a marlinespike.

“And this time,” Lee said, his hand on the door latch, “make sure and hide the body. We don’t want him found like the other one.”

“Don’t you worry.” Scully gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve got just the place.”

Hawkwood said, “Whatever you’re planning, Lee, you won’t get away with it.”

The American smiled, unperturbed.

“The Devil will come for your soul, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “You’ll burn in hell for this.”

The American raised an eyebrow in surprise. “The Devil? Why, Officer Hawkwood, don’t tell me you’re a student of Marlowe? And here was I thinking you were just a simple peace officer. You continue to amaze me, you really do. But it’s a tad late I’m afraid.” Lee smiled disarmingly. “What was it the good doctor said? ‘My heart’s so hardened. I cannot repent’?”

“They’ll hunt you down,” Hawkwood said. “They’ll find you and they’ll hang you.”

“They can try,” Lee said, “but they’ll be too damned late.” He pulled the door open. “Your servant, Captain.” The American paused. “By the way, did you know that Kit Marlowe died in Deptford? Curious that, don’t you think? A brawl over an unpaid bill, I believe. Well, I’ll warrant it won’t be a playwright’s death that Deptford’ll be remembered for. Not after I’ve done.” Lee winked, jammed the stub of the cheroot between his lips and bowed mockingly. The door closed behind him.

“Just you and me now, squire,” Scully said, breaking into Hawkwood’s confused thoughts. He tapped the marlinespike suggestively against the palm of his hand. His eyes were as black as stone.

An image of Henry Warlock’s shattered skull leapt uninvited into Hawkwood’s mind. Pierced, Dr McGregor had said, possibly by a chisel. As Hawkwood stared at the pointed shaft of metal in Scully’s meaty fist, it looked such an obvious murder weapon it was hard to believe they could have considered anything else.

“You’ll swing for this, Scully. You’ll be crow bait, too.”

“Funny,” Scully said. “That’s what your mate said, and look what ‘appened to ‘im.”

Hawkwood tugged at the chains, knowing it was futile. “Christ Almighty, Scully! The bastard’s working for the French!”

“So?”

“So, they’re the enemy, in case you’ve forgotten!”

“I ain’t forgotten nothing, squire. I ain’t forgotten the stinkin’ pay nor the stinkin’ food. I ain’t forgotten the bleedin’ arse-wipes who called themselves officers, neither, nor the floggings. You ever been flogged, Captain Hawkwood? Nah, don’t suppose you ‘ave. Christ, you sound like you expect me to be grateful! Why d’you think I went over to the bleedin’ Frogs in the first place? You can’t be that bloody stupid?” Scully hefted the spike. “Come on, I’ve ‘ad enough of this. Time to die!”

Surprise, Hawkwood knew, was his only weapon. Scully would be expecting him to draw back, to shrink away. Hawkwood decided that attack was the best policy. He knew he’d only get the one chance. He had already braced himself. When Scully stepped forward, Hawkwood clamped his manacled hands around the arms of the chair and heaved himself to his feet. Scully grunted and jerked back. Hawkwood twisted his body, driving the side of the chair into Scully’s hip. If he could tip him off balance …

But Scully was ready for him and it had always been an unequal contest. Sidestepping with ease, Scully kicked Hawkwood across the thigh. Hawkwood’s legs folded. Unable to put his hands out to break his fall and encumbered by the chair, he crashed on to the deck. He landed on his side, his elbow striking the wooden boards with a sharp crack. The pain was excruciating. Scully, spitting profanities, moved in. His free hand moved to his belt. This time it was the sword, the blade short and broad: a navy cutlass.

“Nice try, culley, but you’re dead. I’m going to break your skull, then I’m going to chop you up. The night soil men can take the pieces downriver. They’ll be burying your bones with the rest of the shit, come morning.”

Hawkwood couldn’t move. His right arm was paralysed. He was as helpless as a turtle on its back. He tried aiming a double-footed kick at Scully’s ankles, but it was a futile gesture. The chair hampered all movement.

Scully laughed contemptuously. “Thought you’d put up a fight, did you? Won’t do you no good.” Scully juggled the marlinespike in his hand. “Y’know, your mate was tougher than he looked. I spiked ‘im hard. Thought ‘e was dead when we put ‘im in the boat. We were goin’ to take ‘im upriver and dump ‘is body, too. Couldn’t believe it when ‘e went over the side. Figured ‘e’d gone under for good when we couldn’t find him. I ‘eard ‘e actually made it to shore. Game sod!”

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to crawl.

“Rot in hell, Scully!”

Scully raised the marlinespike. Hawkwood turned his head away and waited for the blow.

The door crashed open. “SPIKERRRR!”

Scully whirled, the grin dying on his lips as the body hurtled towards him. The cutlass swept down. The sound of the blade carving into flesh was sickeningly loud.

Hawkwood looked on in horror as Weazle’s body hit the floor beside him. Blood was pumping from the gaping wound in the little man’s throat. The dwarf’s eyes were wide open, but Hawkwood doubted Weazle had even seen the blow that had struck him. A gag had been tied round Weazle’s mouth to prevent him from crying out a warning. As he watched, Hawkwood saw the light in the dwarf’s eyes flicker and die.

The speed and force of Jago’s shoulder-charge lifted Scully off his feet and pitched the seaman across the table. As the two men tumbled backward, the cutlass point struck the overhead lantern, sending it smashing against the bulkhead. Burning oil splashed over the unmade bunk, igniting mattress and blanket. Small flames began to lick the deck.

Jago got to his feet. His right hand was clamped around a heavy wooden cudgel.