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

Lawrence stared down at his mug, as if noticing for the first time that he had emptied it. “Why not?”

Fitzhugh raised his hand and beckoned to one of the serving girls. At the summons of a handsome young man in uniform, she approached the table with a ready grin. Rounded breasts strained against her low-cut bodice as she bent forward and retrieved the empty mugs. Fitzhugh gave his order and the girl pulled away, her left breast pressing heavily against his arm, reminding the lieutenant of his and Lawrence’s plans for the evening: a visit to a small and very discreet establishment off Covent Garden, in which hand-picked young ladies of beauty and charm provided entertainment of a kind not found in the Officers’ Mess.

Fitzhugh watched the girl depart, following her passage through the gauntlet of roving hands and lewd enticements. A thought occurred to him and he turned back to Lawrence.

“Why do you think he denied having met you before?”

Lawrence shrugged. “Hard to say, though he has less cause to remember me than I do him.”

Not strictly true. The major was being modest. Fitzhugh knew for a fact that Lawrence’s contribution to the taking of Montevideo had been considerable. The watch that the major prized so highly was testament to the fact. It was a part of regimental lore handed down to junior officers.

The British had laid siege to the city’s Spanish fortifications using tried and tested means, albeit medieval in conception. They had constructed batteries and breastworks, gabions and fascines to protect the guns brought up from the men-of-war that had transported them from Rio de Janeiro.

The walls of the city were six feet thick. As Lawrence had said, it had indeed taken four days for the cannon to knock down the gates. The British troops had attacked in the early morning, under cover of darkness. The forlorn hope, the forward troops charged with leading the frontal assault, had been led by a Captain Renny. When Renny had been felled by a Spanish musket ball, it had been the young Lieutenant Lawrence who had, quite literally, stepped into the breach and pressed home the attack, leading his men across the wall and on into the town.

Sir Samuel Auchmuty had presented Lawrence with the watch, his own timepiece, as a measure of his regard for his junior officer’s bravery. As further reward, Lawrence had also received his captaincy, courtesy of the late, lamented Renny.

The girl returned bearing their drinks. Another smile for Fitzhugh and she was gone, with perhaps just a slight exaggeration in the sway of her broad hips.

“Damned curious change of career,” Fitzhugh mused, taking a sip from his freshly filled mug. “Rifleman to Runner.”

“And a damned efficient one would be my guess,” Lawrence responded, adding ruminatively, “though I doubt it’s gained him too many friends.”

Before the lieutenant could query that observation, the major rose to his feet and drained his mug. Tapping his pipe bowl against the table leg, Lawrence grinned at his lieutenant’s expression. “Come now, young Fitz, drink up. It’s time you and I took a stroll. The way that serving girl’s been giving you the glad eye reminds me we’ve to keep our appointment at Mistress Flanaghan’s. Seeing the dumplings on that young wench has done wonders for my appetite!” Without waiting for a response, the major stowed his pipe, reached for his shako and started for the tavern door.

Realizing he was about to get left behind, Fitzhugh gulped down his brandy and followed suit.

As the two officers emerged on to the darkening street, Lawrence’s thoughts returned to the encounter in the tavern yard. There was certainly more he could have told Fitzhugh about the taciturn ex-rifleman; a lot more, as the lieutenant probably suspected, following their hasty departure. But there had been something in Hawkwood’s eye that had caused Lawrence to stay his hand. It had been clear, from their exchange, that there was a reluctance on Hawkwood’s part to revisit the past. Absently, the major’s hand reached for his watch chain. Reassuring himself that the timepiece was intact and in place, the major breathed an inner sigh of relief. And a man’s past was his own affair. Hawkwood could disappear back into the obscurity he obviously preferred. As for young Fitzhugh, well, the lieutenant would have to remain in blissful ignorance.

Lawrence traced the watch casing with his thumb. I owe Hawkwood at least that much, he thought.

The early evening crowds were beginning to gather as Hawkwood made his way along Bow Street. Theatre-goers mingled beneath the wide portico of Rich’s Theatre, while others wended their way towards the Lyceum and the Aldwych. The coffee shops, gin parlours, brothels and taverns that were housed within and around Covent Garden were already full to overflowing, and the bloods, pimps and molls who frequented the area were out in force. The jangle of horse-drawn carriages added to the general noise and bustle. From somewhere within the mêlée arose the grinding strains of a barrel organ.

Number 4 Bow Street was a narrow, five-storeyed town house with a plain façade. Save for the extra floor, there was little to distinguish the building from the adjoining architecture. It was the room at the rear of the ground floor, however, that gave the place its name. To those who toiled within its confines, it was referred to as “The Shop”. To the rest of the city’s inhabitants it was known as the Public Office.

Hawkwood pushed his way through the handful of loiterers camped on the front step and entered the open doorway. A narrow passage ran towards the back of the building. Hawkwood’s boots echoed hollowly on the wooden floor.

The offices were not yet closed for the day. Studious, whey-faced clerks laden with paperwork, scuttled along candlelit corridors. In the Public Office itself, a late court was in session. The room was crowded. Seated at the bench, the presiding magistrate gazed out over the proceedings with a look of resigned boredom on his puritanical face.

Hawkwood removed his riding coat and ascended the stairs to the first floor and the Chief Magistrate’s private chambers. Hawkwood laid his coat across the back of a chair, walked across to the door and knocked once.

“Come!” The order was given brusquely.

The room was square and oak panelled. Several portraits lined the walls. They showed dour, waxen-faced men in sombre dress; previous occupants of the office. A desk filled the space in front of the high, curtained windows. A large fireplace, flanked by a matching pair of high-backed, heavily upholstered chairs, stood against the wall to Hawkwood’s left. Logs were burning brightly in the grate. A long-cased clock stood guard in the corner. Its hypnotic ticking added to the air of solemnity.

The silver-haired man seated at the desk did not acknowledge Hawkwood’s entrance but continued writing, the scratch of nib on paper tortuous in the still, quiet room.

Hawkwood waited.

Eventually, the man at the desk looked up. He placed the pen in the inkstand, straightened his papers and gazed at Hawkwood for several moments. “The operation against the Gant woman went well, I trust?”

“Better than I’d expected,” Hawkwood said.

The news was received with a frown.

“I didn’t think we’d get close enough to catch her, but she hadn’t bothered to post lookouts. She must be getting careless in her old age.”

The silver-haired man pondered the significance of the statement. “She’s in custody?”

“She and her lackwit son. They’re in the cells across the road.”

Curiously, the Bow Street Public Office did not possess facilities for detaining felons. A long-standing arrangement was in force by which the landlord of the Brown Bear pub on the opposite side of the street was paid a nominal sum to provide special strong-rooms that could be used as holding cells.

The silver-haired man nodded in quiet satisfaction. “Excellent. They’ll be dealt with in the morning. They gave you no trouble?”

Hawkwood thought about the knife tear in his coat. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“And the children?”

“I gave the constable instructions to send them to Bridewell.”

“From where, no doubt, they will abscond with ease.”

The silver-haired man sighed, placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself upright. His movements were unhurried and precise.

James Read had held the office of Chief Magistrate for five years. He was of late middle age, with an aquiline face, accentuated by the swept-back hair. A conservative dresser, as befitted his station, his fastidious appearance was deceptive, for there were often occasions when he displayed a quite dry, if not mordant, sense of humour. Read was the latest in a long line of dedicated men. One factor, however, set him apart from those who had gone before. Unlike his illustrious predecessors, and whether as a measure of his indifference or as a throwback to a lowly Methodist upbringing, James Read had refused the knighthood which the post of Chief Magistrate traditionally carried.

Read walked across the room, stood in front of the fire, his back to the flames, and lifted his coat-tails. “This damned house is like a barn. Nearly midsummer and I’m frozen to the bone.”

He studied Hawkwood without speaking, taking in the unfashionable long hair, and the strong, almost arrogant features. Shadows thrown by the flickering firelight moved across Hawkwood’s scarred face. A cruel face, Read thought, with those dark, brooding eyes, and yet one which women probably found compellingly attractive.

“I have another assignment for you,” Read said, his face suddenly serious. He adjusted his dress and stepped away from the fire. “Last evening there was an attack on a coach. Two people were killed: the guard and one of the passengers.”

“Where?”

“North of Camberwell. The Kent Road.”

Hawkwood knew the area. Wooded heath and meadowland, and a well-known haunt of highwaymen. Of late, attacks had been few and far between; a result of the reintroduced horse patrols, bands of heavily armed riders, mostly ex-cavalry men, who guarded the major routes in and out of the capital.

“What was the haul?”

“Money and valuables; perhaps fifty guineas’ worth. They were very thorough.”

Hawkwood looked up. “They?”

“A man and a boy, judging from the accounts of the witnesses.” Read gave a short, bitter laugh. “Master and apprentice.”

The magistrate reached into his pocket and extracted a small, oval snuffbox. With practised dexterity, he flicked open the mother-of-pearl lid and placed a pinch of snuff on the juncture between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He inhaled the fine powder through his left nostril. Repeating the procedure with his right, he closed the box and tucked it away.