Ratcatcher

“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.

“Any descriptions?” Hawkwood knew the answer to that question. A shake of the Chief Magistrate’s head confirmed his suspicion.

The Magistrate wrinkled his nose. As he did so, he removed a silk handkerchief from his sleeve.

“Both were masked. It was the older man who did all the talking. It’s possible the boy was a mute. They are, however, both murderers. ‘Twas the older man who killed the courier. The –”

“Courier?” Hawkwood interjected.

“An admiralty courier. He joined the coach at Dover. The guard was shot by the accomplice. This is a pair of callous rogues, Hawkwood, make no mistake.”

“Anything else?”

Hawkwood winced as the Chief Magistrate let go a loud sneeze. It took a moment for Read to recover. Pausing to wipe his nose with the handkerchief, the Chief Magistrate shook his head once more. “Nothing substantial. Though there was one rather curious observation. The surviving passengers had got the impression that the older man was not much of a horseman.”

“How’s that?”

“In the course of the robbery, they were surprised by a mounted patrol. In his haste to make an escape, the fellow very nearly took a tumble. Managed to hang on to his nag more by luck than judgement, apparently.”

“A highwayman with no horse sense,” Hawkwood mused. “There’s an interesting combination.”

“Quite so,” Read sniffed. “Though I don’t suppose it means anything. Still, it was a pity. Had Officer Lomax and his patrol arrived a few minutes earlier they might well have caught them. As it was, the villains got clean away. It was a foul night. The rain covered their tracks.”

“A man and boy,” Hawkwood reflected. “Not much to go on.”

Read stuffed the handkerchief back up his sleeve. “I agree. Which is why I’ve sent for you. We’ll leave Lomax to deal with the passengers. I suggest you concentrate on the items that were stolen. Tracing their whereabouts could be the only way to find the culprits. You have unique contacts. Put them to good use. Murder and mutilation on the king’s highway – I’ll not have it! Especially when it involves an official messenger! And I understand the coachman, poor fellow, leaves a widow and four children. By God, I want these men caught, Hawkwood. I want them apprehended and punished. I –” The Chief Magistrate caught the look on Hawkwood’s face.

“Mutilation?” Hawkwood said.

The Chief Magistrate looked down at his shoes. Hawkwood followed his gaze. James Read, he noticed, not for the first time, had very small feet; delicate, dancer’s feet.

“The courier’s arm was severed.”

A knot formed itself slowly in Hawkwood’s stomach.

“They cut off his arm?”

“He was carrying a dispatch pouch. The robbers were obviously of the opinion that it held something of value. When the courier refused to give it up, he was shot and the pouch was taken. The other passengers said he refused to hand over the key. The horse patrol was almost upon them. The robbers panicked.”

“And did the pouch contain anything of value?”

The Chief Magistrate waved his hand dismissively. “Certainly nothing that would interest a pair of common thieves. They probably tossed it away at their first halt. It was the money and jewels they were after. Easily disposable, and the means by which we may precipitate their downfall.”

“I’ll need a description of the stolen goods.”

“See Mr Twigg, he has the details.” The Chief Magistrate returned to his desk and sat down. His expression was severe. “I want these people found, Hawkwood. I want them run to ground!”

Hawkwood frowned. The Chief Magistrate’s vehemence was uncharacteristic. If he hadn’t known any better, he might have suspected that James Read had been one of the passengers held up and robbed. It was unusual for the magistrate to take what sounded like a personal interest in such matters.

Read reached for his pen. “That is all. You may go.”

Hawkwood was on the point of letting himself out of the room when Read’s voice halted him in his tracks. “There is one more thing.”

Hawkwood turned.

The Chief Magistrate was perusing a document. He appeared to be deep in thought and did not bother to look up. “I am not unaware, Hawkwood, that in the pursuit of the criminal element it is sometimes necessary to turn a blind eye to certain other … lesser transgressions. Let the minnow go free in order to catch the pike, and so forth. In this case, I am referring to this afternoon’s bare-knuckle contest at the Blind Fiddler public house, where it was deemed prudent to allow the fight to continue in order to lull the Widow Gant and her brood into a false sense of security.

“However, this does not give leave for my staff to profit from such leniency. Suffice it to say that I deem it singularly inappropriate for a member of these chambers to wager a proportion of his salary on the outcome of what is still, may I remind you, an unlawful activity.”

For the first time, the Chief Magistrate lifted his eyes. He regarded Hawkwood with a mild, almost weary expression. “And spare me the innocent look, Hawkwood. While you may profess your ignorance of such matters, my clerk’s involvement has already been established, though I doubt he would confess it in so many words.

“And should you be wondering how this came to my attention, it was through deductive reasoning; in short, from the observance of Mr Twigg when I sent him to rendezvous with you at the Blind Fiddler. The alacrity with which he departed my office was a sight to behold, not to mention the gleam in his eye. The very fact that he was not present to show you into my office suggests to me that he did not accompany you here. I therefore suspect that when next I see him there will be the distinctive reek of brandy on his breath, the consequence of a celebratory rather than medicinal infusion.”

Hawkwood tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a grin.

“Ah,” Read said wryly, “I see I have struck a chord. Very well, I’ll say no more upon the matter, save that in future I’d be obliged if the two of you were a deal more circumspect. You take my meaning? As officers of the law, we are, after all, expected to set something of an example.”

“Yes, sir.” Hawkwood managed to keep his face straight. “Will that be all?”

The Chief Magistrate nodded. “For the time being. Keep me informed.”

James Read waited for Hawkwood to close the door before placing his pen on the desk and sitting back in his chair. He made a steeple of his fingers and placed them under his chin. His expression was pensive.

Read had not told Hawkwood the full facts of the case and, to his consternation, that bothered him more than he had expected. Hawkwood had only been at Bow Street for a short period. Nevertheless, in that time he had proved himself to be the best Runner in the team. The man was intelligent, resourceful and, when it proved necessary, quite ruthless. He probably deserved to be told more, but the assignment was a delicate one and, as such, Hawkwood’s involvement was on a strict need-to-know basis. Read himself was operating under specific instructions. Like a chess player, all he could do for the moment was place Hawkwood on the board and pray that he made the right moves.

Meanwhile, in the ante-room, Hawkwood was trying to hide his astonishment at being confronted by Ezra Twigg, seated at his desk, sober, and holding a list of the stolen items in his hands. Surprisingly, the clerk didn’t even appear to be out of breath, despite what must have been a very hasty return from the Blind Fiddler tavern. Hawkwood took a surreptitious sniff. The smell of brandy was barely noticeable. He stared at the clerk, but Twigg’s face, as he handed over the list, was a picture of innocence.

Ezra Twigg may have looked like some down-trodden scribe, with his rounded shoulders, ill-fitting hat and ink-stained cuffs, but those with an intimate knowledge knew that behind that mild-mannered façade there lurked a wily brain capable of shrewd cunning and tenacious investigation.

Twigg, clerk to Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate, had held his current position for a great many years. Chief Magistrates might come and go, but Ezra Twigg endured. He’d served James Read during his entire tenure and had been a loyal retainer to both of Read’s predecessors, Richard Ford and William Addington. It was hinted that Ezra Twigg’s contacts rivalled those of any intelligence service. The role of Chief Magistrate was a high-profile one, but it was the servants of the court, men like Twigg, who were the lynchpins of the police and judiciary. Without them, the edifice would crumble.

The list of stolen items was short and not particularly impressive. Three rings, a snuffbox, a bracelet and a silver cross. There was a brief description of each piece. James Read had placed their combined value at around fifty guineas. The highwaymen, in fencing the goods, would be lucky to make ten pounds between them. Not a huge profit, but quite respectable for one night’s work.

It was likely that an attempt had already been made to convert the valuables into cash. The city’s back streets were home to a multitude of receivers, willing to fence anything from silk handkerchiefs to lead from a church roof. A few preferred to specialize, like Ma Jennings of Red Lion Market who handled hats and gowns, or Joshua Roberts, a pigeon-fancier from Duck Lane, who dealt only in livestock. Others, like the ex-cracksman Edward Memmery, traded mainly in foodstuffs. For everything there was always a price and somebody willing to pay.

And deep within the more notorious rookeries there existed the half-dozen or so receivers who dealt only with goods of the very highest quality. Men like Jacob Low in Field Lane and Isaiah Trask of the Caribee, or Sarah Logan in Rosemary Lane, known to her associates as the Widow. Any one of them had the means to fence the items on the list. Hawkwood knew that James Read had set him a task equivalent to searching a very large beach for a particular grain of sand.

He was going to need assistance.

There were several informers he could call upon. Hawkwood employed a dozen or so to keep him informed of criminal activity. Tradesmen, whores, hawkers, street urchins, many of them criminals in their own right. Hawkwood used a good deal of subterfuge to keep their identities secret. Snouts with an intimate knowledge of the streets were invaluable. Without them, Hawkwood and his colleagues would not have been able to operate effectively. They functioned as the Runners’ eyes and ears to the underworld.

On this occasion, however, there was only one person he could approach. And to speak with that individual he would have to enter a dangerous place; a world into which no officer of the law would dare venture if he valued his life. But first, certain arrangements would have to be made.

Blind Billy Mipps was at his usual pitch: the pavement outside the Black Lion Chop House on Little Russell Street.

Blind Billy was as thin as a whip. His hair was long and matted with filth. His threadbare, lice-infested clothes hung loosely upon his weedy body. The tray from which he sold his tapers and tallow candles hung from his neck by a frayed cord. Also around his neck was suspended a card upon which was scrawled in barely legible script: Old soldier. Wife and three children to support. The description was at least two-thirds inaccurate. Blind Billy had never been a soldier, neither did he have a wife. As to the number of children he might have fathered, even Billy Mipps would have conceded that three was probably a mite conservative.

A yellowing, blood-encrusted strip of bandage was tied around Billy’s head, covering his eyes. A white stick hung from his wrist by a leather thong. Even among the other beggars and hawkers who plied their meagre wares on the capital’s crowded streets, the candle seller cut a pathetic figure.

Like every other mendicant of note, Blind Billy had established his own particular routine. Whenever he sensed the passing of a potential customer, Billy would tap his stick, rattle his tin mug and whine beseechingly, “Buy a candle, yer honour. Penny candles. Spare a copper for an old soldier!” or variations thereof.

Business so far this evening had been poor. Even the theatre crowds, traditionally a prominent source of income, had failed to display their usual generosity. Blind Billy’s tin mug did contain a few coins, but mixed in with the money was a substantial number of buttons and nails. Perhaps it was time to move on and find another stand.

Then Billy’s sharp ears picked up an approach and he went into action. “Spare a penny, sir, for the sake of the children. Buy a candl—”

“You can spare me the speech, Billy,” a harsh voice said. “I’ve heard it before.”

Billy immediately feigned deafness. He put his head on one side and rattled his tin mug in pitiful anticipation. “What’s that y’say? Spare a pen—”

Billy’s whine was cut short by the hand that gripped his wrist and the voice that murmured in his ear.

“You’re not listening, Billy. Pay attention.”

The pressure on Billy’s wrist increased. For a second or two he thought his bones might snap.

“I want you to take a message for me. To Jago. Tell him the Captain wants a meeting.”

“Jago?” Billy wheezed hoarsely. “I don’t know no Jago. I –”

Another plaintive wail as pain shot through Billy’s arm from wrist to shoulder.

“Don’t argue, Billy. You haven’t the wit for it. Just do as you’re told. Deliver the message. Understood?”

Blind Billy nodded vigorously, whereupon the hold on his wrist slackened and the pain in his arm subsided to a dull throb.

“Good. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

The question was followed by the tinkle of coinage dropping into the tin mug. Footsteps retreated into the distance.

Blind Billy waited a full twenty seconds before lifting the edge of the eye bandage and glancing nervously up and down the street. There were plenty of people around, but either no one had seen the threat or else they had chosen to ignore it. Billy lifted the mug and peered into it. He tipped the contents into his palm. Several donations had been made since he had last inspected the profits. Discarding the nails and the broken belt buckle, Billy transferred the coins to the pouch beneath his tattered waistcoat. He followed this by removing the placard from around his neck. Then, showing a remarkable fleetness of foot for a blind man, he proceeded along the street at a shuffling run.

Seated at a window table inside the Black Lion Chop House, Hawkwood watched the pedlar’s departure with a grim smile. All he had to do now was wait.

4

Whitehall echoed to the uneven clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels as James Read stepped down from his carriage. He stared up at the imposing entrance of the Admiralty building before turning to the driver.

“You may wait, Caleb. My business should not take long.”

The driver touched his hat. “Very good, your honour.”

Read swung his cane and made his way under the archway into the main forecourt. The driver watched the trim, black-coated figure disappear from view before retrieving the nosebag from the carriage’s rear compartment and looping it over the mare’s head. As the mare dipped her nose and began to feed, the driver regained his seat, removed a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco. His movements were leisurely. The Chief Magistrate was a regular customer and, while his interpretation of a short time did not always correspond to everyone else’s, he did have a tendency to tip generously so it was often worth the wait.

Read strode briskly up the steps between the tall white columns and into the main building. Despite the early hour, the place was already humming with activity. Blue-uniformed naval personnel seemed to fill the hallways. They gathered in corridors and lingered on the stairs, all in the hope of catching the eye of an admiralty clerk who might speed their passage to whatever audience they hoped to arrange with the high and mighty.

Read, however, was not required to wait. The lugubrious lieutenant who escorted him through the building under the curious stare of onlookers did so in silence. Only after he had passed Read into the care of the admiral’s clerk at the entrance to the Board Room did he salute and bid the Chief Magistrate a formal “good day” before walking quickly away.

Entering the room, Read was struck, not for the first time, by the confines of the Admiralty Office. Considering it was the nerve centre of Britain’s naval administration, exerting influence that spanned every continent, it was unexpectedly modest in size.

The walls were hung with maps and roll-down charts. At one end of the room a huge globe was framed by tall, narrow, glass-fronted bookshelves. Mounted on the wall above the globe was a large dial scored with the points of the compass. This indicator, linked to the weather vane on the roof, gave an instant reading of the wind direction. The reading showed the wind was from the north east, which probably explained, Read thought, why he felt so damned cold.

A heavy, rectangular oaken table bracketed by eight chairs dominated the room. At each end, suspended from the ornate ceiling, was a tasselled bell-pull. Books and manuals formed a ridge down the middle of the table.

Three men were in attendance. Two were seated, the third stood gazing out of the window. Middle-aged, dressed in a well-fitting, double-breasted tail coat, he turned abruptly.

“Ah, Read! There you are! About time! Well, what progress?”

Charles Yorke, First Lord of the Admiralty and Fellow of the Royal Society, was a barrister by profession and a former Member of Parliament.

Read ignored the imperious greeting. Elegant and composed, he approached the table. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

The two seated men, their expressions solemn, nodded in quiet reply.

“Well, sir?” The First Sea Lord could barely conceal his impatience. His brow creased into a scowl while his pendulous lower lip trembled defiantly. “Do you have anything to report, or not?”

Read turned and answered calmly: “Only that the investigation is in hand and that I have assigned my best man to the task.”

“And how much have you told him?”

“The minimum. Sufficient for him to initiate enquiries.”

“You’re aware time is of the essence?”

“Naturally,” Read said, refusing to be intimidated by the First Sea Lord’s arrogant manner. A flash of annoyance showed on Yorke’s face as he watched Read place his cane on the table and remove his gloves. The First Sea Lord obviously regarded Read as something of a fop. Had he chosen to examine the cane more closely, however, he might well have revised his opinion. Concealed within the slim shaft was a twenty-four-inch, perfectly balanced blade crafted from the finest Toledo steel. Made specially for him by William Parker of Holborn, it was a weapon with which James Read was extremely adept.

Over the years he had held office, Read had received numerous threats from criminals he’d sent down or from their associates who’d sworn revenge for seeing their kith and kin hanged, imprisoned or transported. Most of the threats, issued in the heat of the moment, would never be carried out. The will to exact vengeance usually faded with the passage of time, but Read was of the opinion that it paid to be cautious. Twice he had been forced to defend himself. The first assailant had managed to limp away with only a superficial leg wound. The second had died from a pierced lung. On both occasions, Read had emerged unscathed.

“He’s trustworthy, this officer of yours?” the First Sea Lord enquired bluntly.

There was a pause. “All my officers are trustworthy,” Read said. The Runners at any rate, he thought to himself. Constables and watchmen were a different matter.

“Er – quite so, quite so,” the First Sea Lord said, suddenly and surprisingly contrite. “No offence meant.” He wafted a placatory hand.

“May we be permitted to know the fellow’s name?”

The question came from one of the seated men; a sandy-haired, austere-looking individual in naval dress. The three stripes on his sleeve denoted his rank.

It was not uncommon for the post of First Sea Lord to be held by a politician rather than a navy man. In such circumstances, the senior naval officer on the Admiralty Board was employed by the First Sea Lord in an advisory capacity. In this instance, Charles Yorke’s advisor was Admiral Bartholomew Dalryde.

From midshipman to admiral, Dalryde had served his country with distinction. His first command, the frigate Audacious, had been gained at the age of twenty-four. Since then, he had fought in the American War of Independence, served under Hood in the Mediterranean and with Nelson at Cape St Vincent and Trafalgar.

“His name is Hawkwood.”

“Hawkwood?” The chin of the second man seated at the broad table came up sharply.

The First Sea Lord fixed the speaker with a stern eye. “You know him, Blomefield?”

Thomas Blomefield, Inspector General of Artillery and Head of the Ordnance Board, frowned. In his late sixties, he was the oldest man present. In many respects his career mirrored that of the Admiral. Blomefield had begun his service as a cadet at Woolwich Military Academy. He, too, had fought in the American War, suffering wounds at Saratoga. It had been Blomefield who’d commanded the artillery during the Copenhagen expedition. His speciality was armaments. The Ordnance Board controlled the supply of guns and ammunition to both the army and the navy. As well as controlling the distribution of the guns, Blomefield also designed them. Many of his designs had become the standard pattern used on board ships of the line.

“There’s something about the name.” Blomefield’s brow furrowed. He looked at Read. “How long has he been with you?”

A sixth sense warned Read that he might be straying into potentially dangerous waters, but it was too late to retract. The truth would out anyway, given time. “Not long. A little over a year.”

“And before then?”

“He saw service in the military.”

Blomefield stiffened. Read could tell that somewhere in the dark recesses of the Inspector General’s brain a light had suddenly dawned.

“Hawkwood?” Blomefield repeated the name and sat up suddenly. “Of the 95th?”

Read said nothing.

“I’ll be damned!” Blomefield said.

An expression of displeasure flitted across the Admiral’s face. Dalryde was a strict church-goer who disapproved of strong language, especially when it involved taking the Lord’s name in vain. At sea, his reputation as a disciplinarian had been founded upon an unhealthy appetite for flogging any luckless seaman he overheard blaspheme. It was said that his appointment to the Admiralty Board had been met with considerable relief by the officers and men serving under his direct command.