Читать книгу Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion - James McGee - Страница 14

The meeting place had been carefully chosen. Situated adjacent to the southern boundary of Hyde Park, close to the bank of the Serpentine, the grassy clearing, hidden inside a small stand of trees, was known locally as the Dell.

The location was one of several similar venues, dotted around the city, that had, over the years, become synonymous with the settling of personal scores. To the north, the stretch of pathway known as the Ring Road was also a favoured spot, as were Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Bloomsbury Square.

It was an hour past sunrise. A watery sun hung low above the city’s smoky rooftops, bathing the scene in a hazy orange glow. With the grass still damp and silvery from the morning dew, the park was at its most peaceful. To the uninitiated it might have seemed an incongruous choice for trial by combat, but the remoteness of the place and the early hour lessened the risk of uninvited spectators or discovery by the authorities.

Accompanied by the major, Hawkwood had arrived to find his adversary already in place. Their welcome was in the form of a curt nod from both Neville and Campbell. It could have been Hawkwood’s imagination, but he had the impression that Rutherford was somewhat surprised to see him, as if he hadn’t expected the Runner to turn up. It was with some satisfaction that Hawkwood marked the possibility that he may have caught his opponent temporarily off guard, and any advantage, no matter how slight, was always welcome. In any case, failing to meet with Rutherford had not been an option.

Rutherford scowled darkly and turned his back. Standing to one side in sickly isolation, a frail-looking figure wrapped in a dark cloak sniffled into a sodden handkerchief.

“Jesus,” Lawrence muttered. “Bloody surgeon looks to be on his last legs. I wonder which grog shop they dragged him from.”

Hawkwood refrained from comment. It wasn’t the surgeon’s duty to be hale and hearty, merely discreet. Both principals were required to contribute to his fee. This covered not only his services but, more importantly, his silence. The surgeon would be the only one guaranteed to profit from the morning’s activity.

Forsaking preamble, Neville stepped forward, his manner brisk and officious. “Good morning, gentlemen. If neither of you has any objection, I shall be conducting the proceedings. No? In that case, to business. First, I must ask – now that both parties have had some hours to reflect upon the matter – if either of you has reconsidered.”

Campbell, acting for Rutherford, looked pensive and shook his head. Lawrence, after throwing Hawkwood a wistful look of appeal, followed suit.

Neville accepted each man’s response with a grim nod. “So be it. This way, then, if you please.”

Neville led the way to the edge of the clearing, where a small folding table had been erected under the trees. Upon the table lay a fold of black velvet. As they drew closer it was clear from the contours of the cloth that something lay concealed beneath the material.

Neville moved to the table and lifted away the edge of the cloth to reveal a flat mahogany case. Wordlessly, Neville opened the lid of the case and stepped away. He addressed Hawkwood. “I trust they meet with your approval?”

Hawkwood looked down and nodded.

“Very well, if the seconds would care to make their examinations?”

The pistols were identical Mortimers, with sixteen-inch octagonal barrels; in their simplicity, supreme examples of the gun maker’s art. Hawkwood and Rutherford stood to one side while their respective seconds examined the pistols. Mutual satisfaction expressed, Neville gestured towards the case. “So, gentlemen, if you’d each be so kind as to choose your weapon.”

Hawkwood removed his coat and handed it to Lawrence. He lifted out the pistol nearest to him. He had no qualms over his choice. He knew Lawrence would have ensured that each weapon contained exactly the same-sized ball and an equal charge of powder.

Neville cleared his throat. “You will stand back to back. On my count you will each walk away for a distance of twelve paces, at which point, upon my signal, you will turn and fire. Is that understood?”

Both men nodded. Hawkwood found that his throat was as dry as sand. As he took up his position, he wondered if his opponent was experiencing the same degree of discomfort and stomach-gnawing apprehension. He could feel Rutherford’s shoulder blades chafing against his own.

It had been like this when he had fought Delancey; the same coldness running down his spine, the prickle of wetness under the arms, the gut-wrenching fear that in less than a minute he might be dead. Or worse, severely wounded, with no future other than to roam the streets with all the other cripples, begging for scraps and shelter. All things considered, he thought death was probably the better option.

But at least he wouldn’t die in ignorance.

Her name, he had discovered, was Catherine de Varesne.

She had vanished by the time Hawkwood and Lawrence had returned to the house – no doubt having made her departure in order to avoid further confrontation with Rutherford and his associates – so the major had taken it upon himself to make discreet enquiries.

Not French, as Hawkwood had first supposed, but half French and half Portuguese, on her mother’s side. Her father had been the Marquis de Varesne, a minister under Louis XVI, and one of the hundreds of aristos sent to the guillotine. More relevant was the fact that he had been a close associate of the Comte d’Artois, currently in exile in England, and friend to Lord Mandrake, which explained her presence at the ball.

“I’ll say one thing, my friend,” the major had commented, “you’ve excellent taste in women, but by God your method of making their acquaintance leaves a lot to be desired.”

The sound of Neville’s voice brought Hawkwood out of his reverie.

“On my mark, gentlemen.” There was a pause. “Begin!”

Glancing to his right, Hawkwood saw that Lawrence was talking to himself. He realized with a jolt that the major was counting off the paces in accompaniment to Neville’s metronomic drone.

“Two … three … four …”

Their footsteps fell soft and silent on the damp grass. Rutherford was facing north, Hawkwood south. The direction was deliberate. It meant neither man had the advantage of the sun at his back.

“Five … six … seven …”

Hawkwood adjusted his grip on the pistol butt and felt warm beads of perspiration slide beneath the hairs at the back of his neck.

“Eight … nine … ten …”

Something nagged at Hawkwood. He couldn’t think what it was. Then he realized. There was no birdsong. Not a chirrup, not a whistle, not a single note broke the silence. He laid his thumb across the hammer of the pistol, curled his finger round the trigger, felt the cold curve of the barrel touch his right cheek.

“Eleven …” Followed by a pause that seemed to last for ever.

“Twelve … Gentlemen, you may turn and fire.”

Hawkwood spun quickly, sucked in his stomach muscles.

A bright flash as the powder in Rutherford’s pistol ignited. The crack of the report was surprisingly loud in the crisp morning air. The sound echoed around the glade.

Hawkwood felt the strike on his left side, a moment of acute pain and a fierce burning sensation as the ball parted the cloth of his shirt and the flesh beneath, searing across his exposed ribcage with the ferocity of a white-hot poker.

The powder smoke dispersed slowly, revealing Rutherford frozen in shock at the sight of his opponent, not only still standing but with pistol not yet discharged. A second passed. Two seconds stretched to three. Hawkwood watched the blood drain slowly from Rutherford’s face. With great deliberation, Hawkwood extended his right arm, winced as the edge of his shirt rasped against his wound, took careful aim, and fired.

Rutherford spun around. The pistol dropped from his fingers, and he went down. White faced, left hand clamped around the wound in his right arm, he stared up at Hawkwood as if unable to comprehend the fact that he had been shot. Hawkwood, feet braced, looked down at him for several moments before slowly lowering his pistol. Absently, he ran his hand along his belly. When he pulled it away it was smeared red.

Lawrence was the first to recover. He ran up quickly, his face ashen. “Jesus! You’re shot! Here, let me see!” The major expelled air and looked around. “Goddammit! Where the hell’s that bloody sawbones?”

Hawkwood grunted as Lawrence’s fingers probed his side. “It’s all right, Major. Only a flesh wound. I’ll live. The boy has greater need of him than I do.”

Accompanied by a still fussing Lawrence, Hawkwood walked over to where Rutherford lay, supported by his second. By the time they got there the sleeve of Rutherford’s shirt had already been ripped away. It was steeped in blood. The surgeon’s mottled hands shook as he examined the wound. Teeth gritted, Rutherford writhed at the touch. Hawkwood couldn’t see if the ball had passed through the arm, but he suspected the bone was probably broken. He tossed the spent pistol on to the grass. “I believe that concludes our business.”

Rutherford, blinking away tears, looked up. “You could have killed me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Why didn’t you?”

Hawkwood shrugged. “Take your pick. It’s a beautiful morning. I’ve got better things to do. I’ve a criminal investigation to deal with; places to go, people to see. But you pay heed, boy. You ever get the urge to throw down the gauntlet again, you’d better be damned sure you can win.”

Hawkwood retrieved his coat from Lawrence. “We’re done here, Major. Time to go. I’ve no wish to try and explain my presence to a roving police patrol. I’m in enough bloody trouble as it is.” He nodded to Neville and Campbell, who were looking back at him with something like awe on their faces. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“You do know,” Lawrence said, as they left the clearing, “if it had been you who’d shot first and missed, it’s unlikely the boy would have been so merciful.”

“You’re probably right,” Hawkwood admitted. “But then I wouldn’t have missed.”

Lawrence threw a look at the Runner, but there was no humour or arrogance in Hawkwood’s expression. He had been stating a fact.

“My God, you wanted him to shoot first! You expected him to miss? Jesus, you took a chance.”

Hawkwood shrugged. “It was a calculation. I doubt he’s ever pointed a loaded pistol at anyone before. I had a feeling his nerves would get the better of him.”

“Bloody hell,” Lawrence said. “So that’s why you spared him?”

They emerged from the other side of the trees. A swathe of broad green meadow stretched before them.

“There’s a time and place, Major. This wasn’t it. Call it a lesson in life.”

Lawrence regarded Hawkwood with some doubt. “He’ll bear you a considerable grudge.”

Hawkwood shrugged. “A grudge I can live with. Better than having his death on my conscience.”

Lawrence blinked. “You were a soldier. You’ve killed before. What about Delancey? You killed him in a duel.”

Hawkwood stopped walking. “Delancey was a professional. He’d fought other men in duels, and won. I couldn’t afford to give that bastard the edge. As I said before, Rutherford’s a boy, a foolish, arrogant boy, who got carried away. And in case you’ve forgotten, Major, I’m a police officer. I’m supposed to prevent bloody duels, not take part in them!”

Lawrence fell silent. Then he grinned. “Has anyone ever told you, my friend, you’ve a tendency to sail mighty close to the wind?”

For the first time since he had met him, Lawrence watched a smile of genuine amusement break across Hawkwood’s face. It was startling, he thought, how the Runner’s expression softened. The scar beneath Hawkwood’s eye all but disappeared.

Hawkwood laughed. “Frequently, Major.” He thought it was probably wise not to tell the major about the ribbons of sweat that had been running down his back as he had listened to Neville counting out the steps.

They had reached the footpath that ran along-side the King’s Road. Ahead of them lay the Hyde Park turnpike and the road leading to Piccadilly.

“Well, at least we can be thankful for one thing,” Lawrence mused. “Rutherford’s unlikely to announce his defeat, especially when it was at the hands of someone who’s not even a gentleman!” The major grinned again then added seriously, “And I doubt Neville and Campbell will be anxious to spread gossip.”

That was probably true, Hawkwood conceded. Duels were generally accepted to be private affairs. Although, over the years, there had been a few notable exceptions; usually when one or both of the principals possessed a high public profile. Fortunately, neither he nor Rutherford, despite the latter’s own high opinion of himself, fell into that category, so it was conceivable the affair would remain undetected by the authorities. The major had already assured Hawkwood that Mandrake’s servant had been taken care of. The jingle of sovereigns and the threat of reprisal had been sufficient to ensure that the footman’s mouth would remain for ever closed. As for the other witness, the woman, Hawkwood reasoned she was unlikely to advertise the incident. More probably she would want to put the whole sordid business behind her.

Had he killed Rutherford, of course, it would have been a different matter. The major had railed against Rutherford’s arrant pig-headedness in not retracting his challenge. If the truth were told, Hawkwood asked himself, was he any different? In a moment of crass stupidity, aggravated by his own bitter prejudices, he’d allowed himself to be goaded into a senseless confrontation. The fact that he’d survived was due to nothing less than good fortune based on the inexperience and poor marksmanship of his opponent. In short, he had been lucky.

He thought about James Read. The Chief Magistrate was a stern taskmaster but a fair one. He worked his officers hard, but in doing so, mindful of the often adverse conditions in which they operated, he allowed them an extraordinary degree of latitude. In exchange, he demanded and expected total dedication and loyalty. It was a matter of trust. By rising to the bait and accepting Rutherford’s challenge, Hawkwood was fully aware he’d betrayed that trust. And in doing so he had jeopardized everything; not only his career but his relationship with a man to whom he owed a great deal, a man he admired. Had he killed Rutherford, Hawkwood knew that his severest punishment would have been facing the look of disappointment on James Read’s face.

Hawkwood flinched as pain from the wound flared across his belly. He should have let the physician examine him, he reflected, but then he remembered the man’s palsied hand shake. Medical attention would have to wait.

They had reached the public road. Opposite was the path that cut through to Knightsbridge.

Earlier, when they’d first arrived at the park, the roads had been empty. Now, however, the city was emerging from its slumbers and the streets had started to fill. The number of vehicles had increased considerably, as had the flow of pedestrians. Barrow men, flower sellers, knife grinders and chimney sweeps rubbed shoulders with candle makers, coal men and rag pickers; soon the trickle would become a flow and the flow would become a flood. It reminded Hawkwood of the rag-tag columns of camp followers that trailed in the wake of Wellington’s armies as they marched across the Peninsula. A meandering river of pathetic pilgrims in search of a promised land.

They were on the point of crossing the road when the rattle of carriage springs caused them to pause. Hawkwood stepped back and waited for it to pass. Then he realized the carriage was slowing. As it drew abreast, the coachman hauled in the reins and the carriage stopped. The door opened.

“Captain Hawkwood?”

The breath caught in his throat. He recognized the voice immediately. He stared. She was alone in the carriage, a dark cloak drawn across her shoulders. She leaned forward, inclined her head, and acknowledged Lawrence’s presence with a seductive smile.

“Good morning, Major.”

“Indeed it is, ma’am,” Lawrence agreed, doffing his shako. The major glanced at Hawkwood and a broad grin broke out across his face.

Transfixed by Lawrence’s imbecilic expression, it occurred to Hawkwood that the major did not seem at all surprised by the woman’s appearance. His suspicions were further heightened when Lawrence, in a woeful impersonation of spontaneous thought, pulled out his watch, gave it a cursory glance, held it to his ear, shook it, and announced, apologetically, “Ahem … well, now, if you’ll both forgive me, I must be away. Regimental duties, you understand. Fact is I’m due to meet up with young Fitz in an hour. I packed the lad off to his family for a couple of days. Thought it best, as there’s no knowing when we’ll be home again. As it is, we’ve precious little time to lick our new recruits into shape before we ship ‘em off to Spain.”

Before Hawkwood could respond, the major stuck out his hand. “Goodbye, my dear fellow. It was a pleasure. I do hope we’ll meet again.” He glanced into the carriage and gave a short bow. “Your servant, ma’am.”

Hawkwood had to admit it had been neatly done. One moment the major was there, as large as life, the next he was gone. If nothing else, one had to admire his nerve.

The rustle of a petticoat made him turn. She was gazing at him, her expression both mischievous and beguiling. “Well, Captain Hawkwood, won’t you join me?”

Hawkwood looked up at the driver. The man’s features were indecipherable, hidden as they were behind his collar and cap. His whip was poised.

The moment of indecision passed. Hawkwood climbed into the carriage. As if on a given signal, the driver flicked his whip and the vehicle moved off.

“You’re surprised to see me?” Amusement illuminated her dark eyes.

Hawkwood stared at her, his senses racing.

“Then perhaps my appearance disappoints you?” she challenged.

Hawkwood found his voice. “How did you know I’d be here?”

The cloak slipped off her shoulder. She was wearing a high bodice, but even that could not disguise the curve of her breasts. She returned his stare and, with disarming frankness, said, “The major sent me word.”

So, Hawkwood thought, Lawrence’s guilt was proven. No wonder the bastard had been grinning like a lunatic.

She smiled bewitchingly. “Did you think we wouldn’t meet again?”

He took in the smooth line of her throat, the soft swell beneath the bodice. “I thought it unlikely.”

“But you hoped we might?” Her eyes searched his face.

He nodded. “Yes.” He was amazed at himself for admitting it so readily. He recalled that she had addressed him by his former rank and wondered what other information the major might have given away.

“Did you kill him?” she asked suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

Hawkwood collected himself. “Rutherford? No, he’ll live. He might die from embarrassment, but that’s all.”

She considered his answer in silence. He couldn’t tell if she was pleased or disappointed. He decided to match her directness. “So, why did you come?”

She looked across at him, the smile still hovering on her full lips. “You realize, Captain Hawkwood, we’ve yet to be formally introduced. My name is Catherine –”

“I know who you are,” Hawkwood said, before he could stop himself.

Her eyes widened. “And how do you know that, Captain?”

Hawkwood grinned. “The major sent me word.”

She laughed then, the light dancing in her eyes. I could fall for this one, Hawkwood thought, and wondered why, despite her obvious attractions, the possibility disturbed him.

“So,” he repeated, “why did you come?”

Her reply and gaze were as direct as before.

“Why do you think?”