Читать книгу Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion - James McGee - Страница 12

It took several seconds for Hawkwood’s eyes to adjust, finally allowing him to take stock of his surroundings. The cellar was huge with dung-coloured walls, flagstone floor, low arched roof. At the far end of the room, just discernible through the press of bodies and a swirling fog of pungent tobacco fumes, a short flight of wooden stairs led up to a second level, separated from the rest of the cellar by a wooden rail. A crude counter constructed from empty barrels and bare boards stood along one wall.

The drinkers lounged around rough wooden tables or stood at the counter, bottles and mugs in their hands. The women were as rough-complexioned as the men. Without exception, all were poorly clothed, faces gaunt with hunger or ravaged by drink. A fiddle player was seated in the corner. Several male customers were singing in bawdy chorus, coarse voices slurred with drink.

The rest of the clientele, a score or more, were gathered around the dog pit.

There were at least half a dozen dogs in evidence. Bull terriers, squat, broad, powerful beasts, weighing in at a good forty pounds apiece, bodies crisscrossed with scars, and ear flaps removed to make it more difficult for an opponent to get a grip. A couple of the animals, Hawkwood saw, were taste dogs upon which the fighting dogs served their apprenticeship. They’d had the more vulnerable parts of their anatomy shaved so that the trainee dogs learned to attack specific areas of flesh. At the side of the pit stood barrels of flour, used to separate the dogs during fights. It blocked the nasal passages, forcing the animals to relax their grip in order to breathe, allowing their owners to prise them apart.

The place reeked of tobacco smoke, sawdust, spilt liquor, stale bodies, vomit, and piss.

At Hawkwood’s entrance, conversation petered out. The silence, when it came, was so acute it was as if every person in the place was holding his or her breath. Hawkwood felt his skin crawl.

The girl released her grip on his coat. A scrape of a boot from behind made Hawkwood turn. Two men moved to the door, blocking his exit. Each man carried a thick wooden stave. Their gaze was malevolent. Several of the dogs, sensing a stranger and tension in the air, growled menacingly.

“Well now, and what have we got here? Reckon you’ve taken the wrong turning, squire.”

Hawkwood stood perfectly still.

“Christ!” A second voice broke the spell. “I knows ‘im. ‘E’s a bleedin’ Runner!”

Several of the men sprang up quickly, chairs scraping. A dog barked, a woman yelped. Candlelight glinted off a knife blade. Hawkwood sensed the girl starting to back away. His first thought was that she had played her part well. A trap had been set and he had walked right into it. He cursed his stupidity. He should have changed his clothes before accompanying the girl. He was too well dressed to be anything but an outsider.

Someone in the gauntlet hawked noisily and spat. A ribbon of mucus struck the floor an inch from Hawkwood’s boot. It was as if a signal had been given. Knives and razors were drawn as the men began to close in. Hawkwood could feel the strength of their hatred. He reached for his baton.

“LEAVE ‘IM BE!”

The voice came from the top of the stairs. What the speaker lacked in height he made up for in girth, but it was solid muscle, not fat, that gave him his wrestler’s build. The face was square and rough-hewn, framed by close-cropped hair the colour of pewter. He would not have been out of place gracing the canvas against the likes of Figg or Reuben Benbow. One hand rested on the rail, the other gripped a heavy blackthorn cudgel. He gazed down at Hawkwood, holding the pose for several seconds without speaking. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth split into a wide, leathery grin and he threw out his arms in a broad expansive sweep.

“Ev’ning, Cap’n! Welcome to Noah’s Ark!”

In the eerie glow of the tallow candles, the scar beneath Hawkwood’s eye shone white as he breathed a sigh of relief. He waited as the interloper descended the stairs. Hawkwood saw how the other men moved apart to give the man room. He sensed a subtle change in the mood of the cellar’s occupants, watched as expressions shifted from malice and suspicion to surprise and curiosity. The eyes of the dogs gleamed jewel bright.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said. “How are you?”

Still grinning hugely, ex-sergeant Nathaniel Jago, late of His Britannic Majesty’s 95th Rifles, held out his hand. “Fit as a fiddle, sir, and you ain’t looking so bad yourself, considering.”

Hawkwood returned the smile and the grip. Jago’s hand was calloused and as hard as knotted rope.

“By God, sir, it’s grand to see you, and that’s no word of a lie!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hawkwood noticed that the girl had reappeared at his side. She was staring up at them both.

Jago looked down. “Well done, Jen. Here you are, my love, and don’t go spendin’ it all at once.”

The girl’s eyes widened as the coins were pressed into her hand. Then, with an impish grin, she darted away.

“She’ll spend it on rotgut, as like as not,” Jago said. There was genuine sadness in his voice. He watched the girl go with knowing eyes. “Come on, Cap’n, let’s you and me find a bottle and a quiet corner. What’ll it be? Gin? Rum? Or how about something special? A drop o’ brandy perhaps?” Jago winked conspiratorially. “French, not Spanish. Took a delivery only this morning. Word is it’s from Boney’s own cellars.”

“French brandy, Sergeant?” Hawkwood said drily. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Anyway, I thought there was a war on?”

Jago grinned. “Never let political differences get in the way of business. First rule o’ commerce.”

Sticking the cudgel in his belt and taking a bottle and two tankards from beneath the counter, Jago led Hawkwood up the stairs to a table at the back of the room. Hawkwood could feel the eyes of every person in the cellar following their progress.

“Ignore ‘em,” Jago advised. The big man laid his cudgel on the table, then took the bottle and poured a liberal measure of brandy into each tankard. “Novelty’ll wear off soon enough.”

Hawkwood doubted that. Nevertheless, by the time they had taken their seats the conversation in the rest of the room had resumed. But Hawkwood could still feel eyes burning into his shoulder blades.

Jago raised his mug. “To old times.”

Hawkwood returned the toast. The brandy was smooth and warming at the back of his throat. Hawkwood wondered if it really had come from the cellars of the Emperor. And, if so, by what tortuous route had it ended up on this table, in a drinking den in London’s most notorious rookery?

There was a silence, then Jago said softly, “I hear you’ve been busy.” The big man took a sip of brandy and sat back. “Been makin’ a name for yourself.” He put his head on one side and fixed Hawkwood with a leery eye. “I heard tell it was you who closed down the Widow Gant.” Jago’s expression was all innocence as he added, “An’ not before time, too, if you ask me. The way the old bitch used to corrupt young minds and such.” He tut-tutted and shook his head at the sheer injustice of it all.

Hawkwood wondered about that. Putting the Widow Gant out of business had probably done all the other criminals in the district a substantial favour. Jago and his confederates would undoubtedly profit from the decrease in competition. Which, come to think of it, might well have accounted for the reason why nobody had bothered to warn the widow about the presence of law officers in the vicinity of her clearing house. Quite obviously, the old adage about there being honour among thieves didn’t apply to the denizens of the St Giles Rookery.

Observing his former sergeant, Hawkwood thought that Jago didn’t appear to have changed much in the months since he’d last seen him, except for having shed a little more hair and gained a few pounds. In fact, the ex-sergeant appeared to have taken to the civilian life like the proverbial duck to water; the mark of a born survivor.

The son of a farm labourer, raised in an isolated village on the Kent marshes, orphaned after his parents had fallen victim to the cholera, Nathaniel Jago, during his formative years, had turned his hand to many things, not all of them legal – blacksmith, drover, poacher and smuggler – with varying degrees of success, until a chance meeting with a recruiting party at a Maidstone fair had changed his life for ever.

The promise of a fine uniform, a roof over his head, and three square meals a day, not to mention the two guineas he’d receive for signing on, had seemed like a dream come true for a young man, homeless and hungry and only one step ahead of the Revenue. And so it was on a warm afternoon in early summer that Nathaniel Jago had accepted the King’s bounty and gone to war. From the lowlands of Flanders to the jungles of the West Indies and the dusty plains of India, Jago had marched and fought his way across the world. From private to sergeant, he’d served his country well.

He’d served Hawkwood well, too.

They’d faced the enemy together under Nelson at Copenhagen, marched with Black Bob Crauford in the Americas and with Moore in Spain and Portugal. Jago had stood with Hawkwood on the ramparts at Montevideo. He’d guarded his back at Rolica and Vimeiro and at Talavera they’d both watched in horror as the Coldstreams and the King’s German Legion had fallen victim to the French counterattack.

It was a friendship forged on the squares at Blatchington and Shorncliffe. Since then, Jago had stood by him through ten years of war and skirmish; a staunch ally, sharing canteens on the march across the searing heat of the Spanish plains and shivering under the same blanket in the bone-chilling cold of the mountains. It had been Jago’s loyalty to Hawkwood that had caused the sergeant to become a fugitive from justice.

When Hawkwood had taken to the mountains to join the guerrilleros, Jago had deserted from the ranks to be with him, an offence for which there could be no reprieve. At the time Hawkwood had been appalled. He had tried to persuade the sergeant to return, but to no avail. Jago had just laughed in his face.

“Too late now, sir,” he’d said. “In any case, what would I go back to? The army don’t take kindly to deserters, even them that ‘as second thoughts. Why, if I was to go back now, they’d either flog me or ‘ang me. Seen men flogged and I’ve seen men ‘anged. Not a pretty sight. No, reckon I’ll take my chances with you, sir, if it’s all the same. Besides, you’ll need somebody to watch your back.”

“You’re a bloody fool, Sergeant,” Hawkwood had told him. “The chances are we’ll both die in these mountains. Is it worth it?”

“‘Tis if we take a few Frenchies along with us,” Jago had responded, and then he’d favoured the exasperated Hawkwood with an irrepressible grin. “The army can get along fine without Jago. You, on the other hand … well, admit it, Cap’n, you’d miss me if I was gone.”

Words uttered in jest, but they had added up to one indisputable fact. For all Hawkwood’s attempts to dissuade Jago from following through with his reckless decision, he knew that not having the sergeant by his side would have been tantamount to losing his rifle or his sword. It was inconceivable that Hawkwood should continue his personal war against the French without Jago’s support. So Hawkwood had admitted defeat and they had spoken no more of the matter.

Until Hawkwood had made his decision to return to England.

It had been late September. The first snows of winter had begun to settle on the high peaks. Wrapped in blankets around a flickering campfire, Hawkwood had revealed his intentions, and what had surprised him had been the lack of surprise shown by his sergeant. Jago had asked only one question: “When do we leave?”

They’d secured passage on a merchantman bound for Tilbury. They had been passing the Kent coast, close to the mouth of the Medway, when Jago had jumped ship in the early hours of a chilly dawn. Officially, Jago was still listed as a deserter and it was not unheard of for ships to be met by provost sergeants on the lookout for such individuals. By leaving the vessel before it docked, Jago had pre-empted that possibility. Hawkwood, watching Jago tread water as he made his way ashore, had felt the loss hard but, in retrospect, the sergeant’s actions had been understandable.

Given the sergeant’s background, Hawkwood had assumed Jago would head for familiar territory, the Kent marshes, there to rekindle his skills in smuggling and other diverse activities. He’d had no fear that Jago would suffer arrest. The sergeant was too cunning for that. By the same token he had not taken it for granted that Jago would try and seek him out. He knew that if Jago felt the need to do so he would.

And that’s how it had been. Hawkwood had heard nothing of Nathaniel Jago until, during his first few months as a Runner, he had begun to pick up vague rumours which suggested that Sergeant Jago might well have left the safety of the salt marshes behind him and embarked upon more urban pursuits.

The capital’s criminal fraternity was close knit. When Hawkwood’s informers began to let slip snippets of information pertaining to the exploits and growing reputation of an ex-soldier who, deep in the rookery, ran a small band of ruffians with what amounted to military precision, he began to pay very close attention.

Not that he should have been that surprised. Jago’s childhood, in the company of tinkers and horse thieves, had served as a fine apprenticeship for his life in the army, where he had gained a name for himself, not only as a first-class soldier but as a scavenger and protector to the men under his command. Twenty years in the military had only served to sharpen those skills. So it was hardly unexpected that he should have continued to utilize the same degree of artistry in his current, albeit dubious, means of employment.

In fact, as Hawkwood had subsequently discovered, Jago had infiltrated the London underworld with considerable success. It was hinted that the sergeant had his fingers in several pies, most of them lucrative; from protection and pilfery to piracy and prostitution, though how much was fact and how much fiction, Hawkwood had been unable to determine. Where rumour led, a grain of truth was generally not far behind. What was certain was that in the short time since his arrival in the rookery Jago had won himself a position of some influence. Whether through the use of brain or brawn, one could only surmise. Knowing Jago as he did, Hawkwood presumed it was a combination of the two. Either way, it placed the ex-soldier in the position of being able to provide Hawkwood with the kind of information he sometimes sought.

There had been occasional meetings over the intervening months, always on Jago’s home territory. Nothing personal, Jago had told Hawkwood. Only you could never tell when the provosts were likely to walk round the bloody corner. As Jago had chided softly, “Don’t want to be caught with my breeches down, do I, sir?”

And so the partnership had endured, albeit in a somewhat circumspect capacity. A snippet of criminal information here, in exchange for a warning of impending interference from the authorities there. So far, both parties to the agreement had profited.

Jago placed his tankard on the table and leaned forward. “Right, Cap’n, now don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I ain’t pleased to see you, but these old bones tell me this ain’t no social visit. I doubt you’re here to chat about old times. Strikes me there’s something on your mind. You care to tell old Nathaniel what that might be?” The candle flame flickered in a draught. Jago’s shadow, cast on the wall behind him, ebbed and flowed, one moment nothing more than a vague shapeless blob, the next a crook-backed goblin about to spring out of the corner of the room.

There was a sudden commotion on the lower floor. The dog fight had resumed. Two animals had been dropped into the straw-littered pit. Snarling and yelping, their smooth-pelted bodies erupted into a frenzy of snapping teeth and gouging claws. Hawkwood turned his head away. “Information.”

Jago raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You buyin’, or sellin’?”

Hawkwood did not waste time in preamble. “Two nights ago, a coach was held up and robbed on the Kent Road. Two men were killed: the driver’s mate and a passenger.”

Jago frowned. “And you thought I might have had something to do with it?”

Hawkwood looked at his former sergeant long and hard. “No, but I’m guessing the incident might not have gone unnoticed. Am I right?”

Jago tipped his head to one side. “Could be I did hear something.”

“Like what?”

Jago fixed Hawkwood with a steadfast gaze. “You aimin’ to bring ‘em to justice, Cap’n?”

“Them?” Hawkwood said quickly.

Jago took a sip of brandy and wiped his lips. Hawkwood knew the sergeant was giving himself time to think, weighing his options.

“Two men. Old ‘un and young ‘un, so I ‘eard.”

“What else did you hear?”

Jago sighed. “Not much. Only that they ran foul of the Redbreasts and got away with naught but a few trinkets.” Jago shook his head. “Hardly worth the bleedin’ effort! Bloody amateurs!”

“The passenger was an admiralty courier,” Hawkwood said.

“Was he now?” Jago replied, eyes narrowing. “I was wondering why you was so interested. Tell me, what if it had only been the driver’s mate that was shot, would you and me be ‘avin’ this conversation?”

“Murder’s a serious business,” Hawkwood said. “Doesn’t matter if the victim’s a prince or pauper. It’s not the same as stealing a loaf of bread.”

“Try tellin’ that to the magistrate,” Jago grunted. “It’s an ‘anging offence, either way.”

Hawkwood shook his head. “I’d not begrudge any man who’d steal a loaf to feed his family.”

“In that case,” Jago murmured, “I’d say you was definitely in the minority.” He stared at Hawkwood. “Y’know, Cap’n, strikes me, this is becoming too much of a bleedin’ ‘abit.”

“What is?”

“You comin’ and askin’ me for favours. Just because you an’ me were former comrades in arms don’t mean I can be taken for granted.”

“I thought you said it was always a pleasure to see me?” Hawkwood grinned.

Jago stared back at him. “Christ, I’ll say one thing, you sure ain’t lost your sense of humour.”

Hawkwood smiled. “I’ll not deny that you and me knowing each other makes it easier to ask for favours. You have to use what you’ve got.”

“And right now,” Jago said, “all you got is me.”

Hawkwood smiled again.

Jago listened as Hawkwood explained how Lomax and his patrol had failed to pick up the highwaymen’s trail.

“Bleedin’ cavalry!” Jago retorted. “What did you expect? Couldn’t find their own arses if they were sitting on ‘em!”

An image came to Hawkwood: the face of Lomax, the ex-major of dragoons, mutilated almost beyond recognition. Had Jago seen those ruined features, Hawkwood knew the sergeant would not have been so ready with the slander.

“I’m no informer, Cap’n,” Jago said.

“I know that,” Hawkwood replied softly.

“So, what we’re talking about is our usual arrangement. I scratch your back an’ you scratch mine.”

There was a moment’s pause, followed by a theatrical sigh from Jago. “All right, I’ll bite. What do you want me to do?”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if anyone tries to fence the goods.”

“That’s all?” Jago asked doubtfully.

“That’s all.”

“You do realize it’ll play ‘avoc with my reputation? Me consortin’ with an officer of the law.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Hawkwood said.

A blood-curdling howl rose suddenly from the pit below, followed by a collective groan from the spectators. Jago curled his lip in disgust. “Bloodthirsty sods.” He looked on as the defeated dog was hauled out of the pit by its disappointed owner. The dog’s flanks were heaving. Blood streamed from more than a dozen bite wounds.

Hawkwood was watching Jago’s face so he noticed the shift in eye direction and change in expression. Jago’s gaze was centred on the occupants of a nearby table. One man in particular caught his attention. Heavy set, shaven-headed with a dark scowl on a face pitted with smallpox scars, he was staring back with undisguised hostility. A brindle dog lay across his feet; a huge, savage-looking beast, heavy at the shoulder, with a broad muzzle. It appeared to be dozing but, as if sensing the mood in the air, it opened its eyes and raised its massive head. Razor-sharp teeth gleamed brightly.

“You got something to say, Tom Scully?” Jago enquired. “‘Cause if you do, best not to keep it bottled up. Best to spit it out, so’s it’s over and done with.”

The big man stiffened. Judging from the uneasy looks he was getting from his companions, he had elected himself spokesman for the group. “‘Pears to us you’re keepin’ bad company, Jago.”

“Is that a fact?” Jago responded. “An’ what makes you think I give a toss?”

The man’s face clouded. He jerked his chin towards Hawkwood. “All of us ‘eard Dick Brewer say how he recognized your man. He’s the law. A bloody Ratcatcher! So we were curious to know how come you and him are sharing a bottle. Looks from where I’m sitting as if you two are just a mite too close for comfort.”

Jago’s jaw tightened. “Who I drinks with is my affair, Scully, not yours – nor that of any other man in this room.”

“‘Tis if’n he brings the law down on our ‘eads.”

“That ain’t going to happen.”

“Who says?”

“I do.”

“You?”

“That’s right, Scully. Me. You doubting my word?”

Scully, realizing he had backed himself into a corner, looked to his cronies for support. When he discovered none was forthcoming, he turned back and ran a nervous tongue along bloodless lips.

“All I’m sayin’ is that it ain’t right.”

Jago rolled his eyes. “Ain’t right? Jesus, Scully! There’s lots of things ain’t right. Ain’t right there’s people dying in the streets, ain’t right that I ‘as to listen to you witter on like a bloody fishwife! Now, less’n you got something constructive to say, I suggest you shut your trap, otherwise you an’ me’ll be continuing this conversation in that bloody dog pit. You hear what I’m saying?”

There was a tense silence.

“I’m waiting,” Jago said.

Scully’s jaw twitched. A spark of anger flared in his eyes. “I hear you,” he said softly.

“Good,” Jago said. “Now, anyone else got anything to say?” He glared at Scully’s companions. “No? Well, that’s a relief.” He turned back to Hawkwood, muttering darkly. “Stupid buggers! Now, where was I?” He raised his mug.

“Who’s he?” Hawkwood asked.

“Scully?” Jago spat out the name with contempt and lowered his drink. “He’s naught but a lower-deck lawyer. You don’t want to pay him no heed.”

“Seaman?”

“Aye, and he’s a fine one to talk. When it comes to keeping bad company, Scully could write a bleedin’ book. That’s if the bastard could write in the first place, mind,” Jago added with grim humour.

“What’s his story?”

Jago stared into his mug before looking up and shrugging dismissively. “Ex-navy. Claims he was a gun captain on the old Inflexible.” Jago smiled thinly. “One of Parker’s bully boys.”

“Parker?”

“Aye, you remember. Delegates of the Whole Fleet at the Nore, they called themselves. A right bloody mouthful. Though I knows a better word for ‘em.”

It came to Hawkwood then. “Mutineer?”

Jago nodded. “One of the ringleaders, so it’s said.”

It may have seemed ironic that Jago, a deserter, should have cast a mutineer in such a dark light, but Hawkwood knew that in Jago’s eyes there was a world of difference between the two.

“So, how come he slipped through the net?” Hawkwood asked.

“Ah, now there’s a tale, right enough,” Jago said. “You recall how I said he was a gunner on the Inflexible?”

Hawkwood nodded.

“Well, it were the Inflexible’s crew who was last to surrender, all except a dozen or so, Scully included, who wanted to fight on. The rest of the crew, though, had had enough and they locked Scully and his diehards down below. It was while the rest of ‘em were waitin’ to surrender that Scully and his men climbed out of a gunport and made off in a couple of longboats.”

Hawkwood listened as Jago told him how the escapees had made it as far as Faversham, where they had stolen a sloop and set sail for Calais, in the hope of joining the French.

“Reckoned they’d be welcomed with open arms,” Jago continued, sitting back in his chair. “Stupid bastards! Soon as they landed, the Frenchies threw them in prison. Probably planned to exchange them for prisoners of war we was holding.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Nah, they were freed after a time. Most of ‘em were allowed to sign on with Frog privateers.”

“Including Scully?”

“That’s the way he tells it. Served for eight years before he made a run for it. Jumped ship off Martinique, made his way back ‘ome and took up the smuggling game. He’s from my neck of the woods – Sheerness. Knows the coast like the back of his hand, the best places for offloading and lying up to avoid the Revenue. Mind you, you got to admire the bugger’s application. Can’t be too many who’ve gone over the side from two navies!” Jago snorted with contempt.

“He’s a fair way from home,” Hawkwood said.

“Ain’t we all?” Jago murmured. His eyes roamed the cellar, missing nothing. “Fact is, Spiker’s one o’ the best light horsemen on the river.”

There were two kinds of horsemen. Heavy horsemen was the name given to thieves who operated during daylight hours. Light horsemen plied their trade under cover of darkness: professionals who worked in gangs, usually with the aid of copemen, who received and distributed the stolen goods. Their hunting ground was the river and the vessels that sailed upon it. Their knowledge of the moon and tides enabled them to prey on the barges and lighters. Their method was to cut the chosen vessel adrift, allowing it to drift downstream to a chosen spot where they would run it aground and strip it of its cargo. It was a good living for those with nerve and the right connections.

“Why ‘Spiker’?” Hawkwood asked.

Jago gave a grim little smile. “We call ‘im that on account of he’s got an interestin’ way of dealing with people who cross him. What you might call ‘is trademark …”

Hawkwood waited.

“Most men’ll use their fists to settle an argument, or a blade, like as not.” Jago indicated the table over Hawkwood’s shoulder. “Your man Scully uses a marlinespike. Fearsome weapon in the wrong ‘ands,” Jago commented reflectively.

Not that the disclosure needed embellishment, certainly not as far as Hawkwood was concerned. He had ceased to be surprised at the variety of means by which the more murderously inclined members of society were prepared to perform grievous bodily harm upon their fellow men – or women and children, come to that. The ex-seaman, Scully, was just another piece of human jetsam to have drifted in with the tide. The capital’s rookeries were full of men like Scully. Rootless, violent types, willing to use any means of intimidation to further their own ends.

“’As an abidin’ ‘atred of authority, does our Spiker,” Jago went on, warming to his subject. “Wanted to string the Inflexible’s officers from the nearest yardarm, so I ‘eard. Funnily enough, it was Parker who stopped him. Though I did ‘ear he killed an officer before he went over the side o’ that Frog ship he was on. Stove his ‘ead in, poor bugger, an’ speared his ‘ands to the deck.”

A cackle of laughter erupted from the table behind and Jago’s face darkened. He drained his mug. “You want toppin’ up?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Time I was going. My guess is I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Then you’ll need someone to guide you back,” Jago advised. “It’s getting dark out. We don’t want you roamin’ the streets and getting into trouble, not with this lot around. You never know who you’re likely to run into. Why, I’d never live with myself if you was robbed on your way home.” The ex-sergeant winked broadly.

Jago beckoned with his finger. A small figure detached itself from the cluster of bodies around the dog pit and scampered up to the table. Hawkwood assumed the girl, Jenny, had been pressed into service once more, but he was mistaken. The small, tousle-haired, stick-thin figure who answered Jago’s summons was male and instantly familiar. It was the boy he had last seen fleeing Mother Gant’s lodging house, the one who had so deftly relieved Major Lawrence of his watch and chain. Somehow, somewhere between the Widow Gant’s and the Bridewell House of Correction, young Tooler the pickpocket had managed to do a runner.

Tooler favoured Hawkwood with a cheeky grin and a mock salute and looked to Jago for orders, while Hawkwood promised himself a serious talk with Constable Rafferty.

Jago placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re to see him safely home, Tooler. And that means all the way, mind. I don’t want you runnin’ off and leavin’ him at the mercy of footpads and ne’er-do-wells. You got that?”

Tooler nodded obligingly.

“And I want you to come straight here afterwards. No dilly-dallying along the way. No puttin’ your sticky fingers where they don’t belong, like in other people’s pockets, f’r instance. Understood?”

Hawkwood could see that Jago was enjoying himself, but he had to concede that had he been in Jago’s position he’d probably have milked the situation for all it was worth too.

Jago held out his hand. “Mind how you go, Cap’n.”

“You, too, Nathaniel.”

The pressure in Jago’s grip confirmed to Hawkwood the bond between them. Translated, it meant that if Jago received any information about the coach robbery, he would pass it on.

Jago watched Hawkwood and the boy make their way down the stairs, sensed the relaxation of tension in the cellar as the tall Runner departed.

At the next table two men rose to their feet.

Jago’s voice was a growl of warning. “You hold it right there, Asa Hawkins. You, too, Will Sparrow. I’ve a feeling you gentlemen are bent on mischief. Am I right, Spiker? Your boys weren’t plannin’ an ambush, by any chance?”

“We was only goin’ to take a piss, Jago. That’s all,” the man called Hawkins whined.

“An’ I suppose Sparrow was goin’ to hold it for you and give it a wee shake afterwards, right? Sit down, both of you. You can hang on a while longer. What about you, Spiker? You got any plans to answer the call o’ nature?”

“You think you’re so bleedin’ clever, Jago, don’t you?” Scully fixed Jago with a fierce glare. “That bastard’s a Runner. He’s got no right comin’ in ‘ere. Do you know how many of our lot he’s taken down?”

“Can’t say as I do, offhand,” Jago said. “But then, anyone who’s stupid enough to get themselves caught probably deserves it. And is that why you were sending these idiots out after ‘im? To teach ‘im a lesson? Not prepared to do your own dirty work? You ‘ave to employ others to do it for you? Maybe I should have let ‘em go. They’d have been taught a pretty lesson.”

“We could have taken him,” Sparrow, the slighter of the two men, said truculently. “No trouble.”

Jago threw Sparrow a pitying look. “Don’t make me laugh. You wouldn’t ‘ave stood a chance. Believe me, I did you a favour.”

“He’s only one man,” Scully grated.

Jago stiffened. “That he is, but let me tell you about that one man, Spiker. That man was a soldier, an officer in the 95th Rifles. You’ve heard of them, I take it? Hardest regiment in the bloody army. He’s killed more men than you’ve supped pints of ale, and he’s the best officer I ever served under. You saw that scar below his eye? He got that pullin’ me out of the way of a Frog Hussar. Took a cut from a sabre that was meant for me. That makes him more of a man than you’ll ever be, Spiker. So while he’s under this roof, he’s under my protection. You got that? And anyone here who thinks different’ll ‘ave me to answer to.” Jago’s right hand curled around the blackthorn staff. “Is that clear?”

The men around the table shifted uneasily. All except Scully, whose eyes grew as black and as hard as stone. Scully stood up. His bald head and pockmarked face gave him a forbidding appearance. The chair on which he had been sitting fell backwards with a clatter. The sudden movement and noise brought the brindle dog to its feet. Scully unfastened the leather strap that anchored the dog to the table. The beast growled in anticipation, a low rumble at the back of its throat.

“One day, Jago, you and me are going to have a serious talk, and then we’ll really see who’s king o’ the castle.” Scully jerked hard on the leash and turned away.

Jago watched Scully lead the animal towards the pit on the ground floor. “Any time, Spiker,” he murmured quietly to himself. “Any bloody time.”