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

“And upon what do you base that assumption?”

“It’s no assumption. It’s fact. He told me. I asked him how he knew I’d been a captain, and that was the answer he gave me.”

Read frowned. “He’ll have got that from Lord Mandrake surely, or this Scully fellow.”

“Perhaps,” Hawkwood conceded. “But I’m not so sure. It’s just a feeling I’ve had. It wasn’t so much what he said, it was the way he said it. Friends in high places. He was boasting. He wouldn’t boast about Mandrake, certainly not about Scully. In any case, how did Mandrake know we were on to him? We suspected he might be a turncoat, but Mandrake knew we suspected him. That’s why he left in such a hurry. But how did he know?

“And there’s something else …” Hawkwood paused. “When I told Lee we knew about Thetis, he seemed to find that amusing. Said we only thought we knew. How does he know what we’re thinking? Maybe somebody told him.”

James Read closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, he looked tired, as though sleep had finally begun to catch up with him. He opened his eyes. “You realize what you’re suggesting?”

“I could be wrong,” Hawkwood said.

“And then again, you could be right.” The Chief Magistrate’s expression was grim.

“There’s another thing,” Hawkwood said.

The Chief Magistrate blinked. “What?”

“Christopher Marlowe.”

“Who the bleedin’ ‘ell is Christopher Marlowe?” Jago asked. “Not another mate of Scully’s?”

James Read frowned. “Not is, Sergeant, was. He was a writer of plays. He died over two hundred years ago. Forgive me, Hawkwood, but I fail to see the relevance.”

“You ain’t the only one,” Jago said. “What the hell has this got to do with anything?”

Pointedly, James Read had not echoed William Lee’s surprise at Hawkwood’s familiarity with the playwright. A Bow Street Runner’s duties were many and varied, including personal protection. Among Hawkwood’s more notable and notorious clients had been the actor Edmund Kean. Kean, a small, unattractive man with a sour disposition, had appeared a year before at Covent Garden in a short season of Marlowe’s works. Hawkwood had spent a good part of his time in the theatre wings. Whereas offstage Kean had been a rude and arrogant monster, onstage he was a genius, scorning theatrical convention and enthralling audiences with an ease that was a wonder to behold. When Hawkwood had returned to his regular police work he had taken with him a fascination and grudging respect for the actor’s skills and a lingering appreciation for Marlowe’s work.

“Lee quoted Faustus at me,” Hawkwood said.

Nathanial Jago continued to look blank. The Chief Magistrate rode to his rescue. “Faustus is a character in one of Marlowe’s plays; a doctor who promises his soul to the Devil in exchange for wealth and power.” The magistrate grimaced. “Lee obviously sees a similarity with his current allegiance.”

“Lee also told me where Marlowe died,” Hawkwood said.

The Chief Magistrate’s head turned slowly.

“He told me it wouldn’t only be Marlowe’s death that Deptford would be remembered for.”

There was a pause. “Oh, dear God,” Read said.

“Would somebody please tell me what the hell’s goin’ on!” Jago demanded.

James Read shook his head. “It means, Sergeant, that we have severely underestimated our American friend. By God, Hawkwood, I pray we’re mistaken. If not, then not only is our William Lee an arrogant rogue, he is also possessed of a particularly callous sense of humour.”

Jago looked helplessly from one to the other.

“The ship, Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said, “he was talking about the ship.”

Read turned to Jago. “The ship, Sergeant, remember? We believed Lee’s mission was to destroy HMS Thetis. She’s lying currently at the Deptford yard. We made the mistake of assuming Lee would be making his attack in open water, or at least that he’d wait until Thetis was in the estuary. We were wrong. Lee’s presence in London and his remarks to Hawkwood confirm our misunderstanding. He’s not going to wait. He means to launch his attack now, here! The enemy is not abroad, Sergeant. He is among us!”

The penny dropped. “Sufferin’ Jesus!” Jago breathed.

“The admiral told us she sails on the twenty-seventh,” Hawkwood said.

James Read nodded. “Today, Hawkwood. She sails today! With the Prince of Wales on board!”

Hawkwood’s first reaction was to contradict and say it wasn’t possible, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Lee’s devil-may-care attitude, his off-hand response to Hawkwood’s revelation that his plan had been found out, his farewell remark; they all added up to one thing. They had thought they were one step ahead of the American. In reality, they were two steps behind.

“Which means the submersible’s here,” Hawkwood said.

Silence filled the room.

“So, where the hell is it?”

The Chief Magistrate placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. “That, Hawkwood, is what we must find out. There’s no time to lose.”

“But it could be anywhere!”

“Then we must think carefully. We must apply logic.”

“Logic?”

“We must narrow the field of search.” James Read swung towards his clerk. “Mr Twigg, we’re going to need maps. If you’d be so kind as to fetch Master Horwood’s plans of London; the sheets covering the immediate vicinity of the river will suffice. Sharply now!”

“He must be mad if he thinks he can get away with it,” Jago said, as the clerk hurried away.

James Read shook his head. “Not mad, Sergeant. Imagine if the situation was reversed and it was one of our own captains who’d managed to infiltrate a fireship filled with explosives up the Seine. We wouldn’t call him mad. We’d call him brave, audacious, a hero!”

Not me, Hawkwood thought. I’d call him a bloody idiot. Unless, of course, he got away with it.

Hawkwood thought about the consequences if Lee’s daredevil plan succeeded. Frankly, they didn’t bear thinking about. If, or when, the public learned that a French secret weapon had destroyed a British warship a stone’s throw from the seat of government, there’d be panic in the streets. And the terror wouldn’t end there. No vessel would dare leave harbour for fear of being similarly attacked. And how could Britain command the seas if she couldn’t even protect her own ports or rivers? The effect on trade would be catastrophic. And if the French built a fleet of submersibles, what then? How would the country combat such a deadly threat? How could it re-equip its armies abroad?

Bonaparte had tried to choke Britain into submission before, through decrees issued in Berlin and Milan, forbidding countries under his rule to trade with his mortal enemy. Britain had retaliated by blockading foreign ports and the nations that had implemented the decrees. Admiral Gambier had even destroyed the Danish fleet at Copenhagen. As long as Britain retained mastery over the oceans, Bonaparte’s plan would fail; but if the actions of just one submersible managed to bottle up the entire British Navy, the Emperor could start to breathe again. The balance of power would shift dramatically. The fabric of the nation was at stake.

Ezra Twigg returned, bearing maps. There wasn’t room on the desk so they had to spread them out on the floor. By the time they had been laid out, there wasn’t much carpet visible, but what they had amounted to a bird’s-eye view of the Thames, stretching from Cheyne Walk to the River Lea.

Hawkwood looked despairingly at the distances involved. Nearly eleven miles of waterway, not to mention tributaries, canals and docks. How could they be expected to find one small boat, twenty feet in length?

“By elimination,” James Read said. “For example, a hiding place upriver beyond the London dock is unlikely, otherwise he’d be giving himself too much water and too many vessels to negotiate.”

“If I were Lee,” Hawkwood said, pointing, “I wouldn’t attack from downstream either. It would make more sense to run with the current. Once I’d destroyed the ship, I’d want to get out as quickly as possible.”

The Chief Magistrate stared at the mosaic on the floor. “I agree. But where does that leave us? The area between Bermondsey and the Isle of Dogs, perhaps? A little over three miles, I fancy. So, where would be the best place to conceal a submersible?”

Hawkwood was trying to remember Colonel Congreve’s estimate of the submersible’s speed. Lee probably wouldn’t want to expend too much energy or time manoeuvring the craft into position, and three miles still seemed an awful long way. But then, what else was it the colonel had said? Stealth was more important than speed.

Hawkwood looked down at the remaining map sheets. “The vessel was damaged. That’s why they needed the clockmaker. They couldn’t carry out repairs in the open, it would attract too much attention, too many prying eyes. Which means the thing has to be under cover somewhere. So we’re looking for a shelter, a building, something opening on to the river – a warehouse, for instance. Lee isn’t acting on his own. We know that. He has contacts. Which of them is most likely to have access to a warehouse? Someone who deals with cargoes and such? Some sort of trader? A merchant type, perhaps?” Hawkwood looked pointedly at the Chief Magistrate.