Rebellion

Hawkwood wondered if the name was supposed to mean something. It didn’t.

“Never heard of him. Who is he?”

Read’s eyebrows rose momentarily at the less than reverential tone in Hawkwood’s voice and then he sighed.

“I’d be surprised if you had heard of him, frankly. Superintendent Brooke prefers to keep to the – how shall I put it? – less well-lit side of the street. In fact, I doubt there’s a dozen people who have heard of him. Even within his own department,” Read added cryptically.

Which sounds even more bloody ominous, Hawkwood thought.

Warmed through, Read stepped away from the hearth and walked to the window. “The superintendent’s responsibilities fall within the remit of the Home Office.”

Was that supposed to mean something? Hawkwood wondered.

“So, what are my duties to be . . . sir?”

Read hesitated, looked thoughtful, and then said, “It’s best if I leave it to Superintendent Brooke to brief you.” The magistrate glanced towards the clock dial. “Talking of whom; you are to present yourself without delay. Number 20 Crown Street.”

Read stepped across to his desk and retook his seat. “Caleb’s waiting downstairs. He has instruction to convey you to the address.” Read picked up his pen and reached for some papers. “That is all. You may relay my respects to Superintendent Brooke.”

Dismissed, Hawkwood headed for the door. He was on the threshold and about to close it behind him when he thought he heard Read’s voice. He paused and looked round. “Sir?”

The Chief Magistrate, he saw, had his head down and was engrossed in a document. There was no outward sign that he’d spoken. He did not look up.

Must have been my imagination, Hawkwood thought, though he could have sworn he’d heard the Chief Magistrate whisper the words, “Bon chance.”

As he let himself out, he wondered why he found that idea disquieting.

Chapter 3

Whitehall was as busy as Smithfield on market day.

But then Whitehall was always busy. Every time he’d travelled down it, whether by carriage or on foot, Hawkwood had never known an occasion when it wasn’t. Though that was to be expected, he supposed, given the nature of the business conducted in the grand buildings sited along its broad expanse. That and the fact that the nation was at war; for a nation at war was always on the move. The decisions reached in the offices of state concealed behind the impressive façades affected the lives of every man, woman and child in the land. As a soldier in the service of the king, Hawkwood had been subject to the whims and vain posturings of statesmen more than most. As a police officer, too. It was a depressing fact that there didn’t seem to be any escape from officialdom, no matter who, where, or what you were. And this place was at the centre of it all; the heartbeat.

The road was thronged with carriages; most of them in motion, though a good few were parked, either awaiting the return of their passengers or else competing for fares. Pedestrians hugged the verges in a vain bid to avoid the mud, dust and dung that coated the road. Those who were bold enough to attempt a crossing did so at their peril for the oncoming traffic invariably showed no inclination to cede its right of way.

Carriages weren’t the only means of transport in view. There were plenty of people on horseback, too, a great many of them in uniform, including a phalanx of cavalry heading for the exercise ground. The troopers drew applause as they trotted past.

In the wide forecourt of the Admiralty building, anxious blue-coated naval officers scurried around the high porticoed entrance like ants. It was the same with the Horse Guards. The only difference lay in the cut and the colour of the uniforms. From this imposing building had been issued the orders dispatching Hawkwood and thousands like him to Spain, Portugal and South America and a score of other outposts scattered across the furthest reaches of the globe. He gazed up past the sentry boxes and wondered what new strategies were being hatched on the other side of the high windows.

The cab skirted the front of the Treasury and the defile that was the entrance to Downing Street. Crown Street lay a few yards further on, between Fludyer Street and Charles Street, tucked away from the noise and bustle of the main avenues. Here, the low-hanging sun was partially obscured by inconvenient rooftops, so corners of the narrow street still lay in chilly shadow, giving it a disquieting air of gloom. There were a few strollers about, but Caleb’s was the only carriage. The horses’ hooves echoed on the road like stones in a hollow log.

The cab halted. Hawkwood alighted and told Caleb there was no need to wait. Caleb touched two fingers to his cap and drove off.

From the outside, Number 20 looked to be as unremarkable as its neighbours, save for the small, unobtrusive brass plate that was positioned to the right of the door. On it were inscribed the words: alien office.

Hawkwood stared down at the plate.

So that was why Magistrate Read had been so evasive.

A middle-aged, lank-haired clerk with pockmarked skin and a lugubrious cast to his features answered Hawkwood’s summons on the bell and, after fixing him with a baleful stare and taking his name, instructed him to wait. When the clerk returned he was accompanied by a formally dressed and much younger man, who looked Hawkwood up and down with ill-disguised condescension. Unlike his colleague, his hair looked freshly barbered. Hawkwood’s nostrils detected the faint whiff of pomade.

“Officer Hawkwood? My name is Flint. This way, if you please.” He crooked a finger. Hawkwood resisted the urge to snap it off.

Moving primly, Flint led the way upstairs. Apart from the sound of their footsteps, the building seemed eerily quiet. If it hadn’t been for the nameless functionary on the ground floor, they might well have been the only two in the place. Leading Hawkwood to a door at the top of the stairs, Flint knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside.

Hawkwood found himself in a spacious, high-ceilinged room that resembled a library more than it did an office. Books were displayed on every wall. The areas of panelling that did not contain bookshelves supported an impressive gallery of maps; the majority of which appeared to cover Europe – France and the Peninsula mostly – though India and Egypt, Hawkwood noticed, were also represented. The autumn sunlight was admitted into the room through a pair of large windows, in front of which sat a hefty mahogany desk, containing more books and piles of documents secured in red and black ribbons. Leaning back against the desk, arms folded in repose, was a tall, sombre-looking man dressed in black.

“Officer Hawkwood?” The man straightened, unfolded his arms but did not extend his hand. “Henry Brooke. Welcome to the Alien Office.” He nodded towards Flint, hovering by the door. “Thank you, Stormont. You may leave us. I’ll ring if I have need of you. Oh, and perhaps you’d be kind enough to take Officer Hawkwood’s coat for him, there’s a good fellow.”

Hawkwood removed his coat and handed it over. Flint looked none too happy at being relegated to footman. He didn’t quite turn his nose up, but it was a close-run thing. He left the room with the coat held at arm’s length and the door closed softly behind him.

Brooke continued to regard the door, as though expecting it to spring back open. Eventually satisfied that wasn’t about to happen, he pushed himself away from the desk and regarded Hawkwood with calm appraisal.

“You’ve come direct from Magistrate Read? How is he? In sound health, I trust?”

“He asked me to convey his compliments,” Hawkwood said.

“How kind of him.” Unhurriedly, Brooke stalked around the desk and took his seat. The superintendent’s jacket and breeches were beautifully tailored. Hawkwood could see stripes of very fine gold thread running through them.

Hawkwood glanced towards the fireplace. The hearth was empty and despite the azure sky visible through the windows, the room was by no means warm. James Read’s office was a positive furnace in comparison. Perhaps Brooke had spent all his money on his wardrobe and had nothing left over for kindling. Hawkwood wondered if surrendering his coat had been a wise decision.

“So, Officer Hawkwood,” Brooke said, somewhat regally. “What has Magistrate Read told you? Anything?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “He told me he’d leave that to you, sir.”

There was no invitation to sit down, though there were two empty chairs in the room. Hawkwood had no doubt it was a deliberate ploy rather than an oversight. By keeping him standing, Brooke was effortlessly and effectively emphasizing his authority.

Brooke smiled indulgently. “Did he now? How convenient.” Leaning forward, he stared down at a sheaf of papers on his desk. His eyes roved across the page. “You were a soldier. The 95th Regiment of Foot, I see.”

Brooke looked up. The expression on his face was reassuringly benign. Interpreting the remark as a comment rather than a question, Hawkwood kept quiet. He assumed Brooke would continue, which he did.

“A fine regiment.” Brooke did not expand upon the statement but lowered his eyes and continued to read. Without looking up, he said, “From my conversations with him, I know that Magistrate Read holds you in extremely high regard. You should be flattered. He’s not one to award praise lightly.” There was a pause. “Though he also advises me you have what he calls an ambivalent attitude towards authority.” Casually, Brooke lifted his gaze. “I imagine that’s a polite way of saying you’ve a tendency to disregard it. I’d also hazard a guess it did not serve you well in your army career; would I be right in that?”

Hawkwood considered his response and decided it would probably be more prudent if he remained silent, though it didn’t prevent him wondering what was coming next.

“I suspect that rather answers my question,” the man at the desk said, looking and sounding mildly amused. “Though the Rifle Corps, from all I hear, does allow its men a degree more latitude than most.” The smile evaporated. “Tell me about Talavera and Major Delancey.”

Hawkwood felt his stomach muscles contract. What the hell was this?

Brooke moved the document aside as though it was no longer of consequence. He leant forward, steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the desk. The dark gaze was unwavering. “You may speak freely.”

It struck Hawkwood that Brooke had exceptionally long fingers. It was impossible not to compare them with Chen’s stubby digits. The silence stretched, while Brooke, seemingly content to prolong the moment, remained resolutely mute. He looked, Hawkwood thought, not unlike a praying mantis about to pounce upon a moth.

“Major Delancey was a Guards officer,” Hawkwood said, “with a misguided opinion of his own abilities. He wanted to make a name for himself. He gave a bad order and a lot of good men died because of it. I told him it would have been no great loss if he’d been counted among them. He took exception and called me out. That was his second mistake.” He stared down at the man behind the desk. “But you already knew that, sir. Didn’t you?”

The seated man raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think a man’s entitled to make a mistake?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Not at all. The trouble with Delancey was that he abused the privilege. Most men have the capacity for regret. They learn from the errors they’ve committed. Delancey didn’t have the wits for that.”