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

“We have indeed,” Lawrence said softly, adding almost abstractedly, “and both of us a damned long way from home.”

Fitzhugh waited for the major to elaborate, but on this occasion Lawrence did not oblige. Instead, the major nodded towards the door of the tavern. “I think I’m in need of a stiff brandy, young Fitz. What say you and I adjourn to yon hostelry and I’ll treat you to a wee dram out of my winnings?” Lawrence clapped his companion on the shoulder. “Who knows? I may even have an interesting tale to tell along with it.”

From the shadow of an archway, Hawkwood watched the major and his companion enter the inn. It had been a strange sensation seeing Lawrence again. In Hawkwood’s case, recognition had been immediate, confirmed by the engraving on the watch casing:

Lieutenant D.C. Lawrence, 40th Regiment.A gallant officer.

With grateful thanks, Auchmuty.February 1807

An inscription which could not be ignored. The watch was not merely an instrument for keeping time but a reward for services rendered; an act of outstanding bravery. The words alone indicated, to the recipient at least, that it was worth far more than gold. Hawkwood had seen the anguish on the major’s face when he’d discovered the loss.

It would have been an even greater crime had the watch remained in Constable Rafferty’s thieving clutches. Despite his warning to Rafferty, Hawkwood wondered just how many of the other stolen items would find their way back to their rightful owners. Precious few, he suspected. Sadly, men like Rafferty, guardians of the public trust with a tendency to pilfer on the side, were only too common.

Hawkwood’s thoughts returned to the major. His intention to return the watch had been instinctive. Call it duty, a debt of honour to a former comrade in arms, albeit one whose companionship had been fleeting in the extreme. There had been little hesitation on his part.

So, why deny recognition? The answer to that question was easy. Old wounds ran deep. Reopening them served no useful purpose. He shook his head at the thought of it. A chance encounter and it was as if the years had been rolled away. But sour memories were apt to leave a bitter aftertaste. What was done was done. He’d performed a service for which thanks had been given; a public servant performing a civic duty. That’s all it had been. Now it was over. Finished.

Hawkwood was about to step away when a discreet cough sounded at his elbow.

Shaken out of his reverie, he looked down and found himself confronted by a small, bow-legged, sharp-nosed man dressed in funereal black coat and breeches. An unfashionable powdered wig peeked from below the brim of an equally outmoded three-cornered black hat. Eyes blinked owlishly behind a pair of half-moon spectacles.

Hawkwood gave a wintry smile. “Well, well, Mr Twigg. And to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” As if he didn’t know.

The little man deflected the sarcasm with an exaggerated sigh of sufferance. “A message for you. Magistrate Read sends his compliments and requests that you attend him directly.”

Hawkwood’s eyebrows rose. “‘Requests’, Mr Twigg? I doubt that. And where am I to attend him, directly?”

“Bow Street. In his chambers.”

As he spoke, Ezra Twigg allowed his gaze to roam the stable yard. By now the crowd had all but disappeared. The God-botherer, sermon concluded, had dismantled his home-made pulpit and was steering a course for the tavern door. A handful of pedlars remained, ever hopeful of attracting late custom. Close by the ringside, a small knot of people had gathered. In their midst, Reuben Benbow, nursing cracked ribs, joked with his seconds and celebrated his hard-fought victory.

The bewigged clerk’s eyes took on a calculated glint. Removing his spectacles, he breathed on the lenses and polished them vigorously on the sleeve of his coat.

Hawkwood grinned. “You were right, Ezra. The Cornishman was the better man.”

Ezra Twigg replaced his spectacles, looked up at Hawkwood and blinked myopically. His gaze turned towards the open door of the tavern and the corner of his mouth twitched.

Hawkwood patted the little man’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Ezra. I’ll see you back at the Shop.”

Without waiting for a response, Hawkwood turned and walked away. He did not look back. Had he done so, he would have seen the bowed figure of Ezra Twigg hurrying briskly towards the tavern door, the spring in the clerk’s step matched only by the broad smile on his lips and the twinkle in his eye.

Shadows were lengthening as Hawkwood picked his way through the chain of courts and alleyways.

The few street lamps that did exist were barely adequate, and small deterrent to footpads who continued to stalk the darkened thoroughfares with impunity. Even in broad daylight, it was almost impossible to walk the streets without being propositioned or relieved of one’s belongings. For the unwary pedestrian, dusk only brought added risk. A few gas lamps had been installed in the West End but they were the exception, not the rule. For the most part, night-time London was a world of near impenetrable darkness, fraught with hidden dangers, where even police foot patrols and watchmen feared to tread.

Hawkwood, however, walked with confidence. His presence was acknowledged, but there were no attempts to impede his progress. There was something about the way he carried himself that caused other men to step aside. The scar on his face only added to the aura of menace that emanated from his purposeful stride.

Not that Hawkwood was immune to his surroundings. It was merely that he was hardened to them. He could not afford to be otherwise. London was a fertile breeding ground for every vice known to man. As a Bow Street Runner, Hawkwood had seen more of the city’s dark underbelly than he cared to recall. The shadowy, refuse-strewn byways held precious few surprises, but nevertheless he remained alert as he continued on towards his appointment.

3 (#ulink_0cd73aa6-66d4-5930-b0aa-c4ad2a67c9e2)

“So,” Fitzhugh said, “our Samaritan – who was he?”

The two officers were seated in a candlelit alcove in the Blind Fiddler. The fight had attracted a lot of extra custom and the tavern was doing brisk business. Both men were drinking Spanish brandy.

Lawrence pursed his lips. “Well, the pedlar was right, Fitz. Our friend Hawkwood’s certainly not a man to be trifled with.”

Lawrence gazed into his drink, remembering. “Four years ago, it’d be … The Americas. We were part of Sam Auchmuty’s expedition, sent to reinforce Beresford.” Lawrence smiled grimly. “We were fighting the damned Spaniards then. Now they’re our allies. Who’d have thought it?”

It had been before Fitzhugh’s time. A misconceived and ill-fated attempt to liberate South American colonies from Spanish rule. The first wave of troops under the command of Brigadier-General William Carr Beresford had achieved some initial success by taking Buenos Aires, at which point disaster had struck.

Lawrence winced at the memory. “Turned out we weren’t reinforcing Beresford, we were rescuing the silly sod! By the time we got there, the Spanish had regrouped and recaptured the city, and Beresford along with it!”

Lawrence leaned forward, warming to his story. “Now, old Sam knew that if we were to stand any chance of getting to Beresford we’d have to take Montevideo first, as a bargaining tool. Which we did, but by God they gave us a fight! The bastards were waiting for us on the beach. We forced ‘em back, of course. Then found they’d fortified the bloody place, so we had to lay siege. Bombarded them with the ships’ twenty-four-pounders. Took us four days before we finally secured the breach.”

Lawrence’s voice trailed off. Fitzhugh realized that the major was holding the watch. The cover was open and Lawrence was fondling it abstractedly, running his thumb across the engraved surface. He looked up, recovered himself, slipped the timepiece back into his sash and continued. “Lost a lot of good men before they surrendered. Took a host of prisoners, too, including the governor, Don Pasquil. But there was one fellow, a general he was, in command of the citadel. Can’t remember his blasted name. Refused to give himself up. Auchmuty sent a flag of truce promising safe passage, but he declined the offer. So Sam ordered in the sharpshooters.”

Fitzhugh’s eyed widened. “Sharpshooters?”

“We had a detachment of the 95th with us. A brace of their riflemen were ordered to a nearby tower with orders to pick this general out and shoot him dead. I was directed to assist. Our friend was one of the riflemen. A lieutenant he was. Didn’t know his name then, though I recall thinking it strange that they should have sent an officer to do the job.”

Fitzhugh frowned. “How can you be sure it was the same fellow?”

“Because of what I witnessed that day. It’s not something I’m likely to forget. We were atop the tower, the riflemen, myself and a couple of privates, waiting for the general to put in an appearance. Sure enough, out he came, up at his ramparts, strutting around in his frills and finery, proud as a turkey cock.”

The major reached inside his jacket and extracted a short-stemmed clay pipe and a leather tobacco pouch. With what seemed to Fitzhugh like maddening deliberation, Lawrence packed the pipe and returned the pouch to his jacket. Fitzhugh watched in frustrated silence as Lawrence lit a taper from the candle on the table and held the flame to the pipe bowl. When the tobacco was glowing to his satisfaction, Lawrence extinguished the taper with his thumb and forefinger and returned it to the container by his elbow. At first Fitzhugh suspected the major was toying with him, prolonging the agony. Then he realized that Lawrence was using the opportunity to collect his thoughts.

The major sucked noisily on the pipe stem. “Never saw anything like it, Fitz. Our friend stands there, looking out over the rooftops towards the general’s position. Doesn’t say a word, just stares. Then, calm as you like, he takes up his rifle, loads it, rests it on the parapet, and takes aim.

“One shot, Fitz, that’s all it took. I was watching the general through my glass. The bullet took the bugger in the head. Blew his brains out.”

“What was the range?”

“Two hundred and twenty yards, if it was an inch.”

“Good God!” Fitzhugh’s jaw dropped.

“Best damned shooting I’ve ever seen.”

“I can believe it,” Fitzhugh said, marvelling.

“Did the trick, of course. Spaniards surrendered almost immediately.”

“And the rifleman?”

“Returned to his unit. Never saw him again. Never forgot that shooting, though. Quite outstanding.” Lawrence fell silent, lost in a quiet moment of reflection. He drew on his pipe, then lifted his mug and drained the contents.

“Another?” Fitzhugh asked.