Читать книгу Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion - James McGee - Страница 11

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.

“Would the Inspector General care to share his knowledge?” The First Sea Lord turned flinty eyes towards his fellow Board member.

Blomefield looked towards Read as if seeking his approval to continue, but the Chief Magistrate’s face remained neutral.

“I was merely thinking, if it is the same man, he has rather an interesting past.”

“Explain.”

Blomefield, obviously wishing he’d held his tongue, hesitated fractionally before replying. “There was an incident during his army service, I seem to recall. An affair of honour. He, er … killed a fellow officer.”

As Blomefield shifted uneasily in his seat, the First Sea Lord turned to James Read in bewilderment. “Is this true?”

The Chief Magistrate nodded. “The Inspector General is quite correct.”

“And you were aware of his past before you recruited him?”

“Naturally. I vet all my officers with the utmost care.”

The First Sea Lord stared aghast. “Good God, man! I’m due to report to the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary later this morning. How the devil do you expect me to tell them that the officer we’ve assigned to the investigation was a common soldier who once killed a man in a duel? Answer me that!”

“A common soldier?” Read responded quickly. “Hawkwood was an uncommonly fine officer, and I hardly need remind you, my lord, that the Rifle Company’s reputation is second to none.”

“I am quite familiar with their reputation,” the First Sea Lord replied tartly. “And I’m equally aware that certain accounts of their activities have been less than favourable.”

The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips. “I concede their tactics lean towards the unorthodox. Nevertheless –”

“Unorthodox?” Yorke rasped. “Unorthodox is naught but a highfalutin’ term for undisciplined. Why, I understand the officers even drill alongside the men!”

“But they achieve results,” Read countered. “Hawkwood’s an excellent officer, a shade unconventional in his methods, perhaps, but it has long been my experience in dealing with lawbreakers that the end quite often justifies the means.”

The First Sea Lord stared at the Chief Magistrate aghast. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He appeared lost for words.

“You’ve got to admit,” Blomefield broke in, “there is a kind of justice to it. Set a killer to track down a brace of murderers. Why, I’d say the fellow’s ideally suited to the task. Mind you, I confess I’m curious to know how you came by him.”

There was a half-smile on the Inspector General’s face. Read realized that Blomefield was offering him an opening.

“He was recommended,” Read said.

The Inspector General raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“By Colquhoun Grant.”

The Inspector General gave a sharp intake of breath. Blomefield had a right to be impressed. Colquhoun Grant was one of Wellington’s most experienced exploring officers. Exploring officers operated behind enemy lines, observing the enemy’s strength and troop movements. Revered by Wellington, Grant was the chief liaison between the guerrilleros and the Duke’s intelligence service and, despite the clandestine nature of his work, or possibly because of it, was well known in military circles.

“I’ll be damned,” Blomefield murmured. “So, the rumours were true. Your man did take to the hills.” The Inspector General turned to the First Sea Lord and smiled. “Well, it’d take a braver man than me to argue with Captain Grant, my lord. What say you?”

The remark was rewarded with a glare from Charles Yorke. The Inspector General grinned.

Significantly, none of the Board ventured to enquire of James Read how he came to be acquainted with Wellington’s senior intelligence officer. They probably knew better than to ask, for it had long been rumoured that Chief Magistrate Read’s responsibilities extended beyond those of a purely domestic nature. There had been whispers of links between Bow Street and a number of government departments, not all of them available to public scrutiny. The word Spymaster hovered on some lips, but such was the nature of the murky world of espionage that the truth of these rumours could never be confirmed. But then, more pointedly, they had never been denied either.

“As a matter of interest, this duel you mentioned, may one enquire as to the identity of the man he killed? You didn’t say.” The question was posed by Dalryde.

A nerve flickered along James Read’s cheek. “His name was Delancey. A nephew to the Duke of Rutland.”

“And not greatly missed, as I recall,” Blomefield murmured.

Dalryde raised an eyebrow. “Rather a harsh judgement.”

The First Sea Lord fixed the Inspector General with a baleful stare. “Indeed. The family is, by all accounts, an honourable one. And what was that about the man taking to the hills? I’d say the Admiral and I were due some sort of explanation, wouldn’t you, Blomefield? Chief Magistrate? Anybody?”

Blomefield looked towards James Read, as if seeking guidance. There was a pause, then the Chief Magistrate nodded imperceptibly.

Thomas Blomefield collected his thoughts. “It was Talavera,” he said eventually.

The First Sea Lord frowned. “The 95th were with Crauford, weren’t they? I thought the column missed the fight; didn’t arrive until the next day.”

Blomefield nodded. “That’s true, but Hawkwood wasn’t with the main column. Seems that Wellington had asked for a handful of riflemen to accompany the advance guard. Old Nosey wanted to see if their reputation was justified. Hawkwood was one of the chosen few.” Blomefield smiled. “He has the irritating habit, it appears, of being in the right place at the right time.”

“Evidently,” the First Sea Lord muttered, clearly not sharing Blomefield’s sense of humour. “So, what happened?”

The Inspector General hesitated, then said, “It was following the Frog assault by Lapisse and Sabastiani, when they were repulsed by Sherbrook’s division. You recall how the Guards and the Germans over-ran themselves? Crossed the river in pursuit?”

The First Sea Lord nodded wordlessly. The circumstances of the battle had been covered in the newspapers and were well known, except, apparently, for Hawkwood’s contribution. Which was probably just as well.

“It was Captain Hawkwood who advised the Guards’ major commanding the flank to hold his ground. Told him it would be unwise to follow. If they crossed the river, they’d run the risk of being cut off. Turned out the major was a fellow called Delancey, nephew to … well, you know who. Hawkwood might just as well have shown a red rag to a bull. No way was a captain going to tell a major, let alone a future peer of the realm, what he should or shouldn’t do. Delancey ignored the warning. And it happened just the way Hawkwood said it would. No sooner were the Guards across the river than the Frogs counterattacked.

“It was a bloody disaster, of course. Not only did they open up a hole in our line, but the Guards lost more than a quarter of their men. If it hadn’t been for Wellington sending in Mackenzie’s brigade to fill the gap, we’d have been done for.”

Blomefield shook his head. “Mackenzie died, of course, along with Lapisse, which I suppose was a kind of justice, but it was a close-run thing and no mistake.

“Anyway, the way I heard, at the end of the day, our Captain Hawkwood sought out Delancey and confronted him. Accused him of reckless behaviour and complete disregard for the lives of his men. In short, told him he was a bloody idiot and a disgrace to the uniform, and it would have been a blessing all round if he’d been among the poor bastards who hadn’t made it home. Bad enough man to man, of course, except this was in full view of Delancey’s friends. Only one thing to do and that was to call Hawkwood out.”

The First Sea Lord looked as if he was about to speak, but Blomefield beat him to it. “Oh, I know, regulations. Duelling strictly forbidden and all that, but for Delancey this was an affair of honour. Insult to the family name and so forth.”

“And Hawkwood killed him,” the First Sea Lord said bluntly.

“Aye. Shot him dead. Straight through the heart. Not only is our man undoubtedly a crack shot with a rifle, he can use a pistol as well.”

“And no one tried to stop it?”

Blomefield shook his head. “Delancey’s friends probably thought the affair was a foregone conclusion, thought Delancey would best the upstart. Turns out they were wrong. Only one outcome of course: court martial. I understand there were those who wanted Hawkwood sent back to Horseguards in chains and tried for murder, but nothing came of it.” Blomefield dropped his voice low. “I did hear it was Wellington himself who intervened.”

“How so?” Dalryde asked.

Blomefield shrugged. “No one knows for certain. When Hawkwood was cashiered it was generally assumed he’d be shipped back to England, but that didn’t happen.” Blomefield cast a sideways glance at the Chief Magistrate.

“So what became of him?”

Blomefield pursed his lips. “There was a rumour he’d upped and joined the guerrilleros.”

“The Spanish?” The First Sea Lord’s eyes widened.

“Went to fight with them in the mountains. He could speak the lingo, you see. French, too, it was said.” Another look towards James Read. “Whether it was with Wellington’s blessing, I wouldn’t know. I believe it was hinted that a man of Hawkwood’s experience would be better employed fighting the French than returning to England. It could be Wellington was planning to use him in some liaison capacity – that’s where your man Grant comes in, I’m thinking.” The Inspector General frowned. “I did hear another rumour that a number of his company deserted the ranks to join him. A sergeant and a brace of chosen men. Whatever the circumstances, the word was that Captain Hawkwood disappeared off the face of the earth. Until now, that is.”

There was a long silence during which the Admiral regarded James Read gravely. “That’s quite a story,” he said, finally. “And yet you’re telling us you have faith in this Hawkwood fellow? I would remind you this is more than a mere criminal matter. We are concerned with nothing less than the defence of the realm.”

“I have the utmost confidence in Officer Hawkwood,” Read said firmly. “He’s my best thief-taker. His contacts within the criminal fraternity are considerable. If anyone can track the villains to their lair, it is he.”

There followed several moments of reflection while the First Sea Lord exchanged exasperated glances with Blomefield and Dalryde. Finally, he sighed heavily. “Very well, Read. It seems we’ve little choice but to accept your recommendation. Let’s see what the fellow can do. However, I’ll require you to keep the Board informed on a daily basis. Is that understood?”

Read inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Whereupon the First Sea Lord pointed a blunt finger towards James Read’s chest. “But you had better be right, sir. Because God help you if your man lets us down. In fact,” he added with emphasis, “God help us all.”

The girl couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, but the look in her eyes was as old as time. She had gazed up at him, a sly expression on her grubby face, before running her tongue suggestively between parted lips. Then she’d said simply, “Jago sent me.”

She walked beside Hawkwood, a barefoot waif in a threadbare dress. Hawkwood was conscious of the looks the pair of them were attracting, the knowing grins, the nudges and winks. The girl was aware of them, too. She’d have to be blind not to be. But she seemed unconcerned. It was, no doubt, something she’d grown used to.

Along Great Earl Street, through the squalor of Seven Dials, towards the church of St Giles; she was leading him on a merry dance through the back alleyways. Hawkwood presumed this was in case they were being followed. It was a precaution he’d expected.

At the corner of the street, in the shadow of the church tower, she had taken hold of his sleeve and in a thin voice had said, “Stay close.”

It had been a warning, not an invitation.

Nearly a full day had passed before he had been contacted. He had been prepared for that and had used the intervening time to track down the officer commanding the horse patrol that had interrupted the coach robbery and put the two highwaymen to flight.

Lomax, the officer in charge of the patrol, was an ex-major of dragoons. Meeting the man for the first time, Hawkwood had been unprepared for the sight that met his gaze. He knew that revulsion must have shown momentarily on his face but, having received no prior warning, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

Almost the entire right side of Lomax’s face, from brow to throat, was a mass of scar tissue. It was as if half of the major’s face had been turned inside out. The eye had gone. The socket was a crater of ragged flesh while the lower jaw, from cheek to jowl, was as fissured and pitted as if it had been scourged with a branding fork.

Hawkwood, trying hard not to avert his eyes, had steeled himself and listened to the major’s description of events.

It had been luck rather than judgement that had found the horse patrol on the heath at the same time that the robbery was taking place. If the mail coach hadn’t been delayed by the storm, Lomax and his riders might have missed the incident altogether. Lomax explained how he had directed two men to remain with the coach while he and the rest of his patrol had given chase. They had managed to track the robbers for a mile or so before conceding defeat. They hadn’t been able to compete with the driving rain, which had, to all intents and purposes, rendered the fleeing highwaymen completely invisible.

About the only information Lomax had been able to reveal was that their quarry was last seen in the Bermondsey area, heading north towards the city. Which meant they could have taken any one of a dozen routes. Suppressing his disappointment, Hawkwood had thanked Lomax for his time. In truth it was as much as he had expected.

It had been at the moment of parting that Lomax had said, hesitantly, “There’s something I’d like you to know. I was at Talavera with the 23rd, under Anson. I … that is … we …” Lomax took a deep breath. “What I mean is … the Delancey boy was a poor officer, not much liked by all accounts, and it was a damned fool thing he did; a waste of too many brave men. You said what had to be said and you did what had to be done. There were those of us who thought you deserved better.” The words had come out in a rush. Lomax had shrugged awkwardly. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”

At which point the ex-dragoon had fallen silent, his good eye cast down at the ground, as if embarrassed by his own frankness.

So, that was how he had come by the dreadful disfigurement, Hawkwood realized, remembering the terrible aftermath of the battle.

Many soldiers had died at Talavera, on both sides, not all of them by feat of arms. Another enemy had been present that day, an enemy common to both sides, a pitiless enemy that had attacked without mercy, laying waste all that stood before it.

Fire.

Perhaps it had been a stray spark from a musket or the heat from a cannonball that had ignited the tinder-dry grass, no man knew for certain. Whatever the cause, the result had been terrible to behold. The flames, fanned by the midsummer breeze, had spread with extraordinary speed and fury, consuming all in their path. Men had been engulfed where they lay, the wounded as well as the dead. The screams of the burning men had been clearly heard over the crackle of the flames. The sights and sounds and the smell of roasting flesh had lived with Hawkwood for months afterwards.

Lomax must have been one of those trapped on the field. By some miracle he had survived, but at an appalling cost.

“I was wounded and trapped under my horse,” Lomax said, as if reading Hawkwood’s thoughts. “Couldn’t move, y’see.” The major’s good eye glistened as he remembered. “Damnedest thing, but it was a Frog officer who pulled me free. Heard me yelling. My horse was charcoal by the time he dragged me out. Which is what I would have been if he hadn’t got to me in time.” Lomax shook his head at the memory. “A bloody Frenchie! Who’d have thought it?”

As the major recounted the story, Hawkwood looked down and saw for the first time the full extent of Lomax’s injuries. He tried to imagine the man’s pain, what he must have gone through.

“Couldn’t carry on, of course,” Lomax said. “Could still ride a horse, but a cavalryman ain’t much use if he can’t swing a weapon at the same time.” He held up his right hand, which didn’t resemble a hand so much as a blackened claw. “Can just about pick my bloody nose, if I put my mind to it.” Lomax’s ruined mouth split into a travesty of a smile.

It must have taken a great deal of effort, Hawkwood knew, for the man to say what he had. Even before the fire, the 23rd Light Dragoons had faced their own demons during the battle. Through mistake and misfortune, less than half the regiment had returned from the fight.

But for all Lomax’s well-intentioned words, the past could not be rewritten. Hawkwood had left that life behind. Now he marched to a different drum. On this occasion, it was leading him along a path he did not relish taking. A pilgrimage to a place whose very name was a mockery. A crawling cesspit known as the Holy Land.

The St Giles Rookery was a world within a world. Bounded by Great Russell Street to the north, Oxford Street in the west and Broad Street to the south, and occupying nearly ten acres, it was a festering sore deep in the heart of the city.

Built on a foundation of poverty and vice, its impregnability lay in the sheer congestion of its dilapidated buildings, narrow alleyways, yards and sewers. The wretched tenements with their soot-blackened tiles made the Widow Gant’s miserable lodging house appear a palace in comparison. Between them ran dark passages, some so low and narrow it was impossible for two people to walk abreast. Entry into this rat-run could be gained from a hundred directions by way of the dives and alleys around Leicester Square and the Haymarket and from the dank tunnels leading off Regent Street. To the east lay a timber yard, beneath which, it was rumoured, there existed a passage that ran all the way to High Holborn.

It had been christened the Holy Land by its inhabitants: Irish Catholic immigrants for the most part, though over the years outcasts of a different kind had found sanctuary within its stinking slums. Murderers, deserters, beggars and whores, along with the poor and the hungry, had all sought to establish some kind of haven for themselves away from the prying eyes and unwelcome attention of the Parish Officers and the police. Free from the constraints of conventional society, the inhabitants of the Holy Land had set up their own kingdom, their own laws, their own courts, their own form of justice and punishment. Any representatives of officialdom who chose to venture into the St Giles Rookery did so at their peril.

The girl’s name was Jenny. She had no mother or father, at least not that she could remember. She was just one of the thousands of children who lived on the streets and who scratched a living by their wits or, as in Jenny’s case, by selling their bodies.

Hawkwood could feel the eyes on him as he and the girl picked their way along the overflowing gutter that was the entry point into the rookery. The watchers hovered in worme-eaten doorways and hid behind windows draped with rags, their lifeless faces as grey as brick dust, eyes dark with distrust. Everywhere there were signs of deprivation; mounds of rotting waste, human and animal; dampness and decay.

Somewhere, a woman screamed, the sound rising in a wavering note of terror from a bleak alley, before ending abruptly. Another voice, male, bawled an obscenity. There followed a crash and a squeal. The girl clutched Hawkwood’s sleeve. As the scream was cut off, Hawkwood felt the girl’s grip tighten. For all her brashness, she was still a child, susceptible to fear and dread.

A figure slouched in an open doorway, eyeing their approach. It was only as they drew closer that Hawkwood saw the apparition was female. As they passed, the woman pulled aside her shawl and lifted her tattered skirt to reveal her nakedness. Her breasts and legs were the colour of fish scales and covered in welts. She threw back her head and laughed loudly. “Come on, darlin’! Let the nipper go an’ Molly’ll show yer what a real woman can do!”

As they walked on, the girl pressed against Hawkwood’s side, the whore’s raucous laughter following them up the alley.

By now, they were deep inside the rookery and Hawkwood was well and truly lost. The girl had made certain of that by leading him in all directions, sometimes recrossing their path or by doubling back the way they had come. Hawkwood was beginning to doubt he’d ever find his way back to civilization, or at least what passed for it.

The houses were becoming even more closely packed, the streets narrower, the smell much worse. And it was getting darker. He noted there didn’t seem to be too many people around. It was as if they had been swallowed up by the encroaching shadows. He wondered how much this was due to his own presence.

Without warning, the girl tugged him sideways. He found himself ducking under a low archway. A flight of stone steps led downwards. A heavy wooden door barred their way. Beyond the door, Hawkwood could hear voices. There were other noises, too, guttural and indistinct, and what sounded like the rasping strains of a fiddle. As the girl knocked on the door, Hawkwood felt the short hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. The door opened. The girl pulled him through and Hawkwood was plunged into darkness.