Читать книгу Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion - James McGee - Страница 16

The body lay partially embedded in the mud, head on one side. One arm was outstretched as if reaching for something. The other was twisted beneath the corpse.

The smell coming off the river was foul even by the city’s grim standards. A stew of gut-churning odours – tar, damp cordage, stagnant water, rotting vegetation and raw sewage – vied with a thousand other noxious, throat-searing smells from the tanning factories, timber yards, mills and dye houses that lined the river bank.

Cautiously, Hawkwood picked his way down the rough stone steps. Stepping off the bottom tier, he cursed as the stinking black ooze sucked at his boots. The boy, lighter on his feet, skipped across the treacherous surface with the agility of a sand crab. The broad span of Blackfriars Bridge loomed above them, blocking the sunlight.

Two children squatted at the bottom of the steps; members of Davey’s gang. They stood up at Hawkwood’s approach. At first sight he’d taken them for boys, but then he saw that one was a girl of about nine or ten. Both looked to be on the point of bolting for cover. A quietly spoken word from Davey, however, was enough to persuade them that Hawkwood’s presence posed no threat, whereupon the girl picked up a stone and tossed it on to the mud. It was only when she began to hop and skip in between throws that Hawkwood realized she was playing some sort of game. A variation of hopscotch, he supposed. The girl’s companion remained seated and, with equal disregard, began to pick his nose, wiping the findings on the side of his breeches. Their features, beneath the layer of grime, were close enough alike to suggest they might be brother and sister.

Hawkwood bent down. The sickly sweet smell of putrefaction and the sound of buzzing flies rose to meet him. He swallowed hard and tried not to retch.

His first attempt to turn the body over met with scant success. The thick black mud was reluctant to relinquish its glutinous hold and the water-sodden clothing didn’t help. Hawkwood had to call on Davey to help. Together, after much tugging and with a sickening wrench, they managed to pull the corpse free. A series of long, liquid farts erupted from the various body orifices, as deep inside the intestinal tract disturbed stomach gases erupted. Hawkwood bit back on the sour taste of vomit as he wiped slime and weed from the dead man’s cheeks. A stab of horror moved through him as his eyes took in the bloated yet still familiar features.

In life, Runner Henry Warlock had been a small man with a wiry physique. Neat in both manner and appearance, his somewhat timid looks had concealed a sharp mind and a terrier’s talent for hunting villains. Something of a loner – as indeed, given the nature of the job, were all the Runners – he had been a highly skilled operative.

Death had not been kind to Runner Warlock. Immersion in the river had not only caused the body to swell, it had also transformed dead flesh into the colour and consistency of cheese curd.

And Warlock had died hard; that much was immediately evident. The area of damage behind his left ear was not extensive, but beneath the ragged mess of matted hair and riven tissue, it appeared as if the wound ran exceptionally deep. Hawkwood wondered what sort of weapon had been used to deliver the fatal blow. Some kind of hammer, perhaps.

“Looks like the rats have been at ‘im,” Davey observed matter-of-factly, nodding at the corpse’s extended right hand. The boy seemed impervious to the smell and the deteriorating state of the corpse.

Hawkwood followed Davey’s stare and saw the chewed and bitten flesh. Vermin, most likely, as the boy had suggested, or perhaps a hungry dog seeking an easy meal. Hawkwood wiped his hands on his coat hem. “How’d you know he was a Runner, Davey?”

The boy looked at Hawkwood with something like pity. “Do us a favour, Mr ‘Awkwood. We can spot you lot a mile off. Besides, we knew this ‘un on account of ‘e caught Pen napping a clout a couple o’ weeks back.” The boy nodded towards the girl, then, squatting on his haunches, he ran his eyes down the body and sniffed. “He was all right. Not like the rest of ‘em ‘Orneys. Let ‘er off wiv a warning. She’d’ve been sent to the ‘ulks otherwise.”

Hawkwood knew that Warlock’s sympathy for the children of the street had been regarded as a failing by many of his colleagues, a weakness ripe for exploitation. Certainly, most law officers made little or no concession when it came to apprehending felons. Be they adult or child, it made no difference. With Warlock it had been different. Few of Warlock’s fellow officers knew the reason for his soft-hearted – some had called it foolhardy – attitude. Those, like Hawkwood, who were in possession of the facts, did not allude to it openly. There had been a young wife, Hawkwood had learned, who’d died giving birth, and an infant – a son – who had succumbed to the fever less than a week later. Knowledge of such tragic events made it easier to understand why Warlock had not been the sort of man who’d have wanted the incarceration of a nine-year-old girl on his conscience. Eight years’ imprisonment would not have been an unusual sentence for stealing a lace hand-kerchief. There would have been precious little room for hopscotch on the overcrowded deck of a prison barge, Hawkwood reflected gloomily.

He stood and looked around and wondered how many people had noticed the body. For, despite the squalid surroundings, the place was well frequented. The bridge was in constant use and there was a lot of waterborne traffic in the area. Large ships were unable to navigate beyond London Bridge, but lighters and small boats could pass through the arches of the bridge and travel upstream with comparative ease. Blackfriars was a convenient mooring place and an oft-used dropping-off point for the flotilla of bumboats ferrying passengers to and fro between shores.

It was just feasible, Hawkwood supposed, given that the body had been half submerged and lying in shadow, that it might have remained undiscovered for days. What was more likely, however, was that passers-by had seen the corpse and simply chosen to turn a blind eye, viewing it as just another victim of a drunken brawl. In other words, a death of no consequence.

Except that hadn’t been the case. Henry Warlock had been a law officer and he had been murdered. Savagely.

Hawkwood had witnessed death in many forms. In war, he’d seen men hacked to pieces by sabres and blown to shreds by cannon shot. And in his relatively short career as a Runner, he’d dealt with enough murder and maiming to last a lifetime. Viewing death was always hard. When it involved a stranger you could look upon it with a certain detachment, but when it came to one of your own, that was different. Hawkwood had experienced it on the battlefield with members of his own company. Staring down at Warlock’s distended carcass, he felt it now; the feeling of personal loss, the senseless waste and, above all, the stirrings of intense anger.

Smothering his revulsion, Hawkwood began a search of the dead Runner’s pockets. Not a pleasant task, but it had to be done. In the event, the search produced nothing. The dead man’s pockets were empty. No pocketbook, no coins, no personal belongings of any kind.

Hawkwood gnawed the inside of his lower lip. Inconceivable though it seemed, the evidence appeared beyond doubt. Runner Warlock, for all his experience in dealing with assorted villainy, had apparently fallen victim to one of the commonest crimes in London. Murdered and robbed by the very breed of criminal he had been obligated to pursue. Hawkwood wondered if Warlock had died appreciating the irony. A thought occurred to him. He turned to the boy. “Have you been over him already, Davey?”

The boy looked startled, then indignant. “Not me, Mr ‘Awkwood. No way.”

Hawkwood clasped the boy’s arm. “The truth, Davey. It’s important.”

The boy shook his head vehemently. “Swear to God, Mr ‘Awkwood.”

The boy’s expression told Hawkwood he was telling the truth. He nodded, accepting the response. “And I don’t suppose any of you saw anything?”

Davey shook his head. “Sorry, Mr ‘Awkwood. We only just found ‘im. It was Ned there who spotted ‘im.” Davey indicated his companion.

“You tell anyone else?”

“Nah, you’re the only one we does business with.”

Hawkwood frowned. “How did you know where I’d be?”

The boy shrugged. “Didn’t. T’were only a guess. I sent Dandy to the Black Lion and Teaser to Bow Street. Reckoned you’d turn up sooner or later.”

Sound reasoning, Hawkwood thought. Dandy and Teaser being, he assumed, the remainder of young Davey’s band of ragamuffins. He fished in his pocket and handed over the coin. “You did the right thing, Davey. I’m grateful.”

As the boy bit into the coin, Hawkwood stared down at the body. Despite his urgent need to contact Jago again, it looked as if the ex-sergeant would have to wait a while longer for the pleasure of his company.

The Chief Magistrate regarded the stout man standing before him with expectation. “Well?”

The response was a declamatory spreading of the hands. “My dear sir, you must understand that determining the precise moment of death is hardly an exact science.”

James Read sighed in exasperation. “Very well, Doctor. In that case, in your learned opinion …”

The stout man shrugged. “Half a day, perhaps. Not more than one at the most.” He removed a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his brow.

The Chief Magistrate’s mouth formed itself into a thin, grim line. “And the cause?”

The handkerchief was placed back inside the sleeve. “Ah, now, of that there can be no doubt. Fracture of the cranium. The occipital bone –”

Read waved his hand impatiently. “In plain English, Dr McGregor, if you please.”

“He means,” Hawkwood said, “that the poor bastard was beaten to death.”

Beside him, the doctor winced. McGregor, the surgeon appointed by the coroner to examine the body of the murdered Runner, was overweight and round-faced and gave the impression that he was rather taken with his own importance and thus not used to being interrupted, whether by a Chief Magistrate or his subordinate. The web of red veins radiating across his nose and upper cheeks suggested that his high self-esteem was matched only by his fondness for port. He fixed Hawkwood with a cold glare.

“Not strictly true. The indications are that the skull was pierced rather than battered.”

“Either way, he died of it.” Hawkwood did not feel in the mood for niceties.

“Well, yes,” McGregor said, sniffing disdainfully. “Eventually.”

The Chief Magistrate’s head snapped back. “Explain.”

The doctor drew himself up. “It’s clear from the condition of the body and the deceased’s clothing that he spent some considerable time in the water. Initial examination of the victim’s lungs, however, has revealed that death was not due to drowning. Indicating, as I have said, that it was the blow to the head that killed him. The fact that the body was discovered above the high-water mark lends foundation to my own particular theory.”

Read frowned. “Which is what, exactly?”

“I think he’s telling us,” Hawkwood said, “that in all probability, the blow wasn’t immediately fatal. In other words, he was hit on the head and either fell or was pushed into the river, and it was the effort of dragging himself ashore that killed him.”

Read stared at the physician. “That’s your conclusion?”

McGregor, clearly annoyed that Hawkwood had stolen his thunder, scowled and nodded. “It is.”

There was a long silence. “What about the weapon?” Hawkwood asked.

The surgeon, still rankled by Hawkwood’s presence and lack of grace, pursed his lips. “The blow was driven with excessive force. I’d suggest an instrument both sharp and heavy, perhaps a pick or chisel of some kind. Beyond that, I cannot say with any certainty.”

“Jesus!” Hawkwood snapped. “Is there anything you can be certain about? Besides your bloody fee!”

McGregor jerked back as if he had been struck. “How dare you, sir! I –”

“Enough!” The Chief Magistrate’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

The doctor looked as if he was about to continue his bluster, but one look at James Read’s face persuaded him otherwise. Hawkwood discovered that both his own fists were tightly clenched.

Read stood. “Thank you, Doctor. As ever, you have been most helpful. My clerk will see you out.”

As if on cue, the door opened. Ezra Twigg stood framed in the opening. “This way, Doctor, if you please.”

The Chief Magistrate waited for the door to close before fixing Hawkwood with a stern eye. “That was uncalled for.”

“He’s a pompous oaf.”

James Read sighed. “Pompous he may be. He certainly has an unenviable capacity to irritate. But an oaf? He’s an excellent surgeon, Hawkwood, and I would remind you that we require his services rather more than he requires ours.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like him,” Hawkwood said.

“True,” Read agreed wearily. “Nevertheless, while I appreciate your feelings over the death of a colleague, I’d be obliged if you would refrain from insulting the man to his face, particularly in my presence.”

The warning glint in the magistrate’s eye was only too clear. Hawkwood gave way. “Yes, sir.”

Read nodded. Honour had been satisfied. “So, to business. Warlock’s murder – you’ve thoughts on the matter?”

Hawkwood shrugged. “Robbery or revenge. It has to be one of the two.”

The Chief Magistrate looked thoughtful. “Well, the area’s a notorious haunt for footpads. However …”

Hawkwood nodded. “I know. But the more I think about it, the less likely robbery seems. He was too fly to let himself be waylaid by a cutpurse. And the fact that his pockets were empty is no indication. Hell, another hour and he’d have been stripped naked. There’s not many who’d pass up the chance of a coat and a free pair of boots. My guess is revenge. He was a good thief-taker. He must have sent down a fair number of villains in his time, made plenty of enemies along the way. That’s a lot of people who’d like to see him dead.”

Read looked glum. “If it was a revenge killing, the search for his murderer may prove to be a long one. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Depends on the size of the needle,” Hawkwood said. “Maybe we should begin by looking at his most recent assignments.”

Hawkwood tried to recall the details of Warlock’s current case. Something innocuous, if memory served. Certainly nothing to suggest there might be violence involved. What the hell had it been? His mind went back to the previous meeting with James Read, when the latter had listed each Runner’s case load. Then it came to him. The missing clockmaker. Hardly a problem to set the pulse racing, one would have thought.

Even the Chief Magistrate looked dubious.

“It’s as good a place to start as any,” Hawkwood offered.

James Read was silent for several moments. Finally, with some reluctance, he nodded. “Very well. It would appear we’ve little else to go on.” A frown creased the magistrate’s face. “You say the children saw nothing?”

“That’s what they told me.”

“You believed them?”

“Yes.”

The Chief Magistrate looked sceptical. “I wish I shared your confidence. Still, I’ve no doubt you know your informants. I will, therefore, trust your judgement. Now, regarding the investigation, you’re the only Runner immediately available to me, so I’m placing you in charge. I’d hoped to recall Lightfoot from his protection duties but the bank will require his services for at least another day. I’ve also had a word with Lacey’s physician. He tells me Officer Lacey may be able to return to light duties, but again it won’t be for a day or two. Until then, I’m afraid you’re on your own. I’ve arranged for reward notices to be posted and I’ve ordered extra constables to begin enquiries in the area. Though, frankly, I’ve little expectation of them discovering anything of note. I can assign one of them to assist you directly, if you feel it necessary.”

“I don’t,” Hawkwood said quickly. It had been Hawkwood’s experience that, with very few exceptions, constables were about as much use as watchmen, which meant none at all. He refrained from voicing his opinion out loud and was relieved when the Chief Magistrate did not seem too surprised at his decision.

“As you wish.” Read massaged his temples. “By the way, I take it from your lack of report that there has been no progress with regards to the coach murders?”

“Not so far.”

“I see,” the Chief Magistrate said pensively. “That is most regrettable.”

“I’m going to need information on all Warlock’s cases,” Hawkwood prompted.

“What?” For a second, the magistrate’s thoughts appeared to be centred elsewhere. “Ah, yes, of course. Well, see Mr Twigg. Use him to your best advantage.” James Read grimaced. “At least we know now why Warlock failed to report the other evening.”

Hawkwood moved towards the door.

“A moment, Hawkwood. There’s another matter that concerns me.”

Hawkwood tensed. The sudden coldness in the Chief Magistrate’s tone was unmistakable. Hawkwood knew instinctively what was coming. Squaring his shoulders, he looked back to find that James Read had returned to the sanctuary of his desk.

The Chief Magistrate laid his palms flat. He looked to be composing himself. “Tell me, Hawkwood, did you give any thought as to what the consequences might have been had the Rutherford boy died?”

The clock in the corner sounded unnaturally loud. The seconds ticked away into minutes.

Hawkwood felt his stomach muscles contract. The skin around the wound in his belly tightened violently.

The Chief Magistrate shook his head in despair. “You astound me, Hawkwood, you really do. When I learned of this morning’s incident I racked my brain to come up with a logical explanation, but I confess you have me at a complete loss. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to enlighten me. In short, sir, would you mind telling me what, in the name of God, you thought you were doing?” The magistrate’s voice vibrated with anger.

Despite the question, Hawkwood had the distinct impression that it would be in his best interest to remain silent and let the Chief Magistrate vent his wrath. He fixed his concentration on a point six inches above James Read’s head, and waited for the sky to fall.

James Read rose to his feet and spread his arms to encompass the room. “I’m intrigued. Were you somehow under the illusion that being part of this grants you some kind of immunity? Was that it? Well, I’m here to inform you, sir, that it does not!”

The Chief Magistrate paused. “You know, Hawkwood, after my implicit instruction to you about upholding the reputation of this office, I’m unsure which grieves me most. The fact that you allowed yourself to become embroiled in such a fiasco, or that you actually harboured the ludicrous belief that I wouldn’t find out!”

The Chief Magistrate closed his eyes as if in pain and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ignoring Hawkwood, he moved to the window and stared out. Eventually, he spoke.

“By rights I should relieve you of your duties, pending further investigation. However, current circumstances give me little choice in the matter.” The Chief Magistrate turned to face the room. “The fact is, I need you.”

There was a stony silence. But Hawkwood sensed that James Read had not finished. He was also wondering how the Chief Magistrate had found out. Lawrence had assured him that Rutherford and his seconds would remain silent, and the surgeon’s and servant’s palms had been well greased. The woman? Unlikely. Which left Lord Mandrake, who, as far as Hawkwood had been aware, had remained in ignorance of the event. Certainly Lord Mandrake had made no reference to the contretemps when Hawkwood had left the house. Hawkwood’s mind turned to the figure he thought he’d seen in the undergrowth. Maybe there had been someone there, after all. But he knew further speculation was pointless. The cat was out of the bag and he was about to suffer the consequences.

Read’s eyes bored into him. “Mark this, sir, and mark it well. While I’m not without influence in certain quarters, my position here is purely transitory. There will come a time when I’m no longer able to use my authority to protect you. You would do well to remember that.

“Your foolish actions have placed me in an invidious position, Hawkwood. That is not something I enjoy. Fortunately for you, I’ve discussed the matter with the boy’s father and persuaded him that it would be in neither his nor his family’s best interest to advertise or pursue the matter. He has agreed. Not unsurprisingly, given the humiliation you visited upon his son. But beware, Hawkwood, you’re treading on very thin ice. I’ve allowed you a great deal of freedom in the past, but you would be wise not to try my leniency too far. For if there should come a time when I am required to choose between the good name of this office and the conceit of one of my officers, be assured that I will not shirk my responsibilities. Should you feel the need, therefore, to engage in any more personal vendettas, you’d be well advised to seek an alternative means of employment.” The Chief Magistrate placed his hands behind his back and stood feet apart. “I’m placing you on notice, Hawkwood. Do I make myself clear?”

Hawkwood felt a wave of relief wash over him. Reprieve, of a kind, had been granted. “Yes, sir.”

The magistrate threw him a long, piercing stare, followed finally by a sharp nod of acknowledgement. “So be it. We shall discuss the matter further when this case is concluded. You may go. Mr Twigg will furnish you with details of Runner Warlock’s most recent assignments.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Officer Hawkwood …”

Hawkwood glanced back. “Sir?”

The expression on the Chief Magistrate’s face was one of wry cynicism.

“You look fatigued. In future, I suggest you keep your nocturnal exertions to a minimum.”

“What the hell do you mean, there’s no record?” Hawkwood stared at Ezra Twigg in disbelief.

The little clerk blinked behind his spectacles and shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Mr Hawkwood, but Officer Warlock never had a chance to make his preliminary report. He never came back, you see.” Twigg shrugged helplessly.

“Well, do you have any information? Who reported this damned clockmaker missing in the first place?”

“His manservant.”

Hawkwood waited while Twigg, anxious to give the impression that all might not be lost, rifled through a stack of documents at his elbow. With a grunt of satisfaction, the clerk extricated a single sheet of paper and held it to the light. “Yes, here we are … Luther Hobb, manservant. It seems the staff became concerned when Master Woodburn failed to return home for his supper. The servant came to alert us. Officer Warlock was then dispatched to investigate.”

“And that’s the last time anyone from this office saw him alive?”

Ezra Twigg nodded unhappily.

The fact that Warlock had not been missed for a couple of days may have seemed incongruous to an outsider, but in reality it was not that unusual. Being few in number, Runners tended to spread themselves thinly, so it was not uncommon for an officer to delay his reporting back to Bow Street in order to pursue urgent and specific lines of enquiry. Thus Warlock’s absence might have been frowned upon, but it had not given immediate grounds for concern; unlike the disappearance of clockmaster Josiah Woodburn.

Which didn’t leave a vast amount to go on, Hawkwood reflected ruefully.

“All right, so what do we know about this clockmaker? Any skeletons in the cupboard, besides his being a strict Presbyterian?”

There was nothing. At least nothing that Ezra Twigg had been able to find. London clockmakers enjoyed a reputation second to none. And within that august fraternity the Woodburn name was held in the highest regard. The family had been making clocks for almost two hundred years. They had designed and crafted timepieces for kings and princes, merchants and maharajas. The Woodburn name was synonymous with the finest quality. Of Josiah Woodburn himself, there was little to relate. Sixty-eight years of age and a widower for ten years. The only item of note was the fact that he shared his house with his granddaughter, the child having been orphaned when her parents – Woodburn’s daughter and son-in-law – had perished in a fire. Adversity being no barrier to good character, the man was looked upon by all as a veritable pillar of society.

All of which, though of moderate interest, added little to Hawkwood’s store of knowledge. Which left only one option. To start from the beginning and retrace Warlock’s steps; a time-consuming but necessary exercise.

“I assume we do have an address?” Hawkwood said. “Or is that too much to hope for?”

Ezra Twigg, feigning indignation, sighed resignedly. “They do say, Mr Hawkwood, that sarcasm is quite the lowest form of wit.”

“Do they indeed?” Hawkwood said, unmoved by the clerk’s put-upon expression. He waited in silence as Twigg scribbled.

The clerk passed the information across. “Oh, and there was a message left for you.”

“A message?” He assumed it was from Jago. And about bloody time, too. But his relief was short-lived for the message was not from Jago. It was from Lomax, the ex-cavalry captain in charge of the horse patrol, who wanted Hawkwood to meet him at the Four Swans in Bishopsgate between five and six that evening. Hawkwood frowned. He supposed it had something to do with the coach hold-up. Twigg, however, was unable to elaborate.

Hawkwood tucked the clockmaker’s address into his waistcoat pocket and reached for his coat. A sound made him turn.

“You said something, Mr Twigg?”

The clerk’s head was bowed. It was only as Hawkwood headed for the door, that Twigg deigned to look up. “I only said, Mr Hawkwood, that you should be careful how you go.”

Hawkwood paused in the open doorway, and grinned. “Why, Ezra, you’re concerned for my welfare. I’m touched.”

Twigg dropped his chin and peered at Hawkwood over the rim of his spectacles. “In that case, Mr Hawkwood, might I offer a word of advice?”

“By all means, Mr Twigg.”

There was a significant pause. The corners of Twigg’s mouth twitched.

“Well, if I were you, Mr Hawkwood, I wouldn’t go speaking to any strange women.”