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

“I discovered copies of Lee’s drawings of the submersible,” Josiah Woodburn said, “and gave them to Officer Warlock so that he could pass them to the authorities.” The old man shook his head. “But, given what you’ve told me, I don’t suppose he was successful.”

“We found them,” Hawkwood said. “The Admiralty has them.”

So the Chief Magistrate had been correct in his surmise. They were indeed the drawings taken from Lieutenant Ramillies’ corpse during the coach robbery. Serendipity had delivered them into the hands of the clockmaker and the unfortunate Warlock.

The old man let go a long breath. “We had so little time. I had but a moment to write the name of the ship. All I could do was hope that the authorities would make sense of it.”

Which explained the hurried calligraphy, Hawkwood thought.

“We know about Thetis.”

A light flared in the clockmaker’s eyes. “Thank God!”

Suddenly, Hawkwood felt his arm gripped. The clockmaker placed his mouth next to Hawkwood’s ear. “There’s something else, Officer Hawkwood, another reason why I didn’t go with Officer Warlock. I must tell you. I –”

But before the clockmaker could elaborate, there came the rattle of a key in the lock and the door swung open. Hastily, the clockmaker thrust the nail back in its hiding place. Hawkwood had a moment to notice that the hinges had been oiled, like those of the outside door, which had been opened so quietly he hadn’t heard the approach of the person who had knocked him out.

William Lee, grinning broadly, stepped into the room. He held a lantern aloft. “Well, now, I see you two gentlemen have gotten acquainted. I trust you slept well, Master Woodburn?” Lee stared at Hawkwood. “Sparrow tells me Scully’s dead. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from him.” The American clicked his tongue in mock annoyance. “I do declare, Officer Hawkwood, you are one persistent son of a bitch! With the devil’s own luck, too.”

Hawkwood said nothing.

The American frowned. “Was it you that killed him?”

“No,” Hawkwood said. He saw no point in embellishment.

Lee held Hawkwood’s gaze for what seemed like several minutes before he shrugged and said, “No matter. He was a liability and no loss as far as brains are concerned. It means I’m a man short, though, and that’s an irritation I could do without. I swear, Officer Hawkwood, you try a man’s patience, you really do.”

“You can’t win, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “I have men outside.”

Lee shook his head and laughed. “No, you don’t. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. They’d have come running when we carried you in here. We’d be knee-deep in constables. No, sir, you’re on your own. Which means you’re all mine.”

I have one man, Hawkwood thought. I have Jago. Maybe.

A movement behind Lee caught Hawkwood’s eye. Sparrow, he assumed, but then the figure stepped into view – a slim figure, dressed in a dark, tight-fitting coat, matching breeches, and black, calf-length leather riding boots. And suddenly it all began to make perfect sense.

“Good morning, Matthew,” Catherine de Varesne said. The pistol in her right hand was cocked and pointing directly at his heart.

Hawkwood smiled. “Hello, Catherine.”

She frowned. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Hawkwood touched the wound on his head. “It was your perfume. It’s very distinctive.”

Catherine de Varesne’s dark eyes shone with amusement. The pistol barrel did not waver.

Lee grinned. “Well, now, isn’t this something?”

Hawkwood looked at him.

“She’s Bonaparte’s best agent, my friend, and she’s been playing you like a trout on a line.”

Friends in high places, Hawkwood thought.

He closed his eyes and wondered how he could have been so bloody stupid and why it had taken him so long. When he opened his eyes, he saw that she was still smiling.

“We knew you’d been assigned to the coach murders,” Catherine said. “We knew of your reputation, Matthew, your tenacity. What we didn’t know was how to deal with you, how to get you out of the way. The ball presented us with our opportunity.”

Hawkwood recalled his briefing with James Read. It was now clear why Lord Mandrake had asked for him specifically. It had been a heaven-sent opportunity for Mandrake and Lee to observe and take the measure of the man who had been put on their trail.

It was also now clear why Lord Mandrake hadn’t been home when he’d called. It had been Catherine who had alerted him, sending word, probably via her maid, that Hawkwood had begun asking awkward questions.

A thought struck him. “Was Rutherford part of it, too?”

Catherine snorted scornfully. Her eyes flashed. “Rutherford’s an arrogant fool. I merely made use of him.”

“You led Rutherford on,” Hawkwood said, understanding. “He and his friends were drunk. You made them think they could have you, then you acted the innocent, and you waited for me to come to your rescue.”

“My knight in shining armour.” Her dark eyes mocked him. “It was simply a matter of setting the scene. We knew you couldn’t resist helping a lady in distress.”

The servant must have been in on it as well, Hawkwood realized. Which accounted for the man’s less than co-operative attitude when Hawkwood had revisited Mandrake House.

“You knew Rutherford wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Hawkwood said. “You knew that he wouldn’t back down in front of his cronies, that he’d call me out! What were you hoping? That he’d kill me?”

As he spoke, he wondered about Lawrence’s contribution, but knew instinctively that the major could only have been an unwitting and convenient ingredient in the broth.

She smiled. “More likely you’d kill him, Matthew. Either way, we would be rid of you.”

“But you confounded us, Hawkwood,” Lee interposed. “Damn it, man, you let the bugger live!”

Did you kill him?

Hawkwood remembered her question in the carriage, following the duel. That indecipherable expression on her face had been, he now realized, one of half-concealed expectation. He recalled what had happened at the house; how, after she had tended his wound, she had initiated their energetic coupling, leaving him breathless and drained. It had been the knowledge that they had fought over her, that blood had been drawn, that had excited her, igniting the passion.

“Well now,” Lee said, “much as I hate to interrupt this happy reunion, we’ve work to do. So, gentlemen, if you’d be so kind as to follow me. Time and tide, they say, wait for no man, especially today. Oh, and a warning, Captain Hawkwood; if you’re thinking of attempting something heroic, don’t. It won’t be you the mademoiselle’ll shoot first, it’ll be the old man.”

Lee turned and led the way out of the cell, along a stone-flagged passageway. Their shadows, trapped in the lantern light, accompanied them in a flickering procession. Hawkwood had the distinct impression that the passageway sloped downwards and he suspected they were nearing the river. Certainly, the putrid smell of the water seemed to be getting stronger. His suspicions were confirmed when, after turning several corners and descending a narrow flight of stairs, they emerged into the warehouse’s main gallery.

The gallery was long and narrow and must have stretched the full width of the warehouse. The walls were of wood but the stonework at the base of the walls indicated that this was probably the oldest part of the building, resting upon the original foundations. Half the gallery was taken up with the interior loading dock. It was here that cargoes would have been transferred from barrow to barge, and vice versa. The stout wooden doors that Jago had drawn to Hawkwood’s attention earlier were located at the end of the dock. They were still closed, but there was sufficient space between them for daylight to penetrate. Further illumination came courtesy of two narrow, high-set windows and several lanterns hanging from hooks. The place reminded Hawkwood of a flooded church vault.

“Well, then,” Lee said. “What do you think of her?”

Hawkwood stood and stared.

The submersible was tethered to the dock by lines fore and aft. She looked bigger than he had expected; about twenty-five feet long. At first glance, with her wooden deck and tapering bow and stern, the vessel looked like any other small river craft. On closer inspection, however, a number of differences were discernible. Below the shortened bowsprit, protruding vertically from an extended prow, was a thin metal rod from which radiated four elliptical blades, each about two feet in length. Aft, below the stern rail, a similar device, horizontally set, could be seen. There was no mast, Hawkwood noticed; then he looked closer and saw that the mast, with boom and furled sail attached, was in fact lying along the deck. It was hinged, he realized, thus enabling it to be raised and lowered into its socket at will. On deck, immediately forward of the mast socket, was positioned an upturned, barrel-shaped, metallic protuberance; the tower, as Congreve had called it, from where the commander of the craft controlled operations. The rear of the tower was hinged open, forming a hatchway which gave access to the craft’s interior. Hawkwood’s attention moved to the stern of the vessel. Attached to a raised wooden frame was a copper cylinder the size of a small rum keg. A lanyard ran from the cylinder to the tower where it passed through what looked like the eye of a large needle embedded in the tower’s roof before disappearing through a small hole in the forward deck. Hawkwood remembered Colonel Congreve’s description of the submersible and realized with a shock of understanding that he was looking at the submarine bomb, Fulton’s torpedo.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Lee could not keep the pride from his voice.

Hawkwood was silent. There was movement on deck as Sparrow emerged from the hatchway. He now had a pistol stuck in his belt. His fingers brushed against the pistol butt and he stroked the cut on his throat, favouring Hawkwood with a stare of undiluted hatred before stepping nimbly on to the dock.