Читать книгу Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion - James McGee - Страница 20

“Why, Captain Hawkwood! You swore to me you were no longer a soldier, I remember distinctly!” Catherine de Varesne arched an eyebrow in mock reproach before smiling and dropping her gaze suggestively. “Yet, here you are, standing to attention like a grenadier!”

Her hand reached down and Hawkwood winced.

She paused in her caress. Her eyes widened in concern. “Your wound still pains you?”

“You took me by surprise, ma’am,” Hawkwood said, grinning.

The frown lifted and she returned his smile. “In that case, my love,” she murmured softly, “I will be very gentle.” She bent forward and kissed him. While her hand continued with its tender manipulation, her tongue flickered teasingly between his lips. Her dark, cat-like eyes glowed.

They were seated on her bed, close together, hip to thigh. Lit by candlelight, their bodies projected bold silhouettes on to the canopy above.

She moved in closer, her lips soft against his cheek. “Tell me what you would like to do with me, Matthew,” she whispered, still stroking him. “Anything you desire … anything.”

Hawkwood stroked her slender waist and heard her breath catch. She raised her hips, eased herself on to him and lowered herself slowly. She leaned away, pelvis pressed down, head thrown back. Her full breasts lifted provocatively. Hawkwood placed a hand on the base of her spine and pulled her to him. Her arms enfolded him and they began to move as one.

Afterwards, cross-legged among the tangled sheets, they sipped wine. A plate of pear quarters lay on the bed beside them. She had selected the fruit and used the engraved stiletto to core and split the ripe white flesh. Dipping one of the pear segments in the wine, she offered it up to him. Hawkwood bit down, severing the slice in two. She raised the remaining half to her own lips. As she did so, a drop of juice splashed on to her breast. Stemming the watery trickle with the end of her finger, she traced it around her nipple, raised it to her mouth and, in lascivious display, slowly sucked the juice from her skin. At no time did her eyes leave his face.

Hawkwood had arrived at the house an hour before midnight, unsure of his welcome. In the event, she had greeted him with a glowing smile and invited him in. And, as before, had offered herself with a hunger that had left him breathless.

She rose sinuously from the covers and reached for her robe.

Hawkwood sipped wine, admiring her smooth naked body. “Tell me about Lord Mandrake.”

Catherine frowned. “Lord Mandrake?”

“What do you know about him?”

She smiled brightly. “I know he is rich.”

“That much I know,” Hawkwood said. “What else?”

Mandrake’s wealth emanated from many sources, chiefly trade. In their capacity as merchant adventurers, the Mandrakes had, over successive generations, established a lucrative import business, involving tobacco from America, silks and spices from the east, and other luxury goods, including Indian tea, and fine wines.

She slipped the robe around her shoulders. “Why all these questions, my love?”

Hawkwood shrugged. “Idle curiosity.”

“You’re a little jealous, perhaps?” Amusement danced in her dark eyes. She returned to the bed, laughing at his expression. “There’s no need to be.” She climbed up beside him, making no attempt to secure the robe. The material parted. Her dark-tipped breasts moved tantalizingly beneath the silken sheath.

She took the glass from him, took a slow sip of wine and shrugged. “He’s been a friend to my uncle’s family for many years. They’ve shared several business ventures. Most of the wines imported by Lord Mandrake come from grapes grown in the family’s vineyards in Portugal. When my uncle saw that I intended to remain in Europe, he asked Lord Mandrake for his help. He has been a very loyal friend. He has even given me the use of this house while I am in London. I think he’s one of the kindest men I have known, and he has been most generous in his support for the Comte d’Artois.”

He could afford to be, Hawkwood reflected, recalling the opulence of the ball.

“What about his friends?”

“I know he has a great many. I do believe he even dines with your Prime Minister.” She looked at him quizzically. “Why, Matthew, you sound as if you suspect him of something. Why is that?”

Hawkwood allowed himself a grin. “I’m a police officer. I suspect everyone.”

“Even me?”

Her expression was beguiling, but her words jolted him. She was looking at him over the rim of the glass.

“No.” Hawkwood smiled. “Should I?”

She gazed at him perceptively. “Everyone has something to hide, Matthew.” She lifted her palm to his neck and traced the area of bruising. “Isn’t that so?”

The footman stared at Hawkwood with a mixture of confusion and distrust. Hawkwood, presuming the man had misunderstood his announcement, repeated it.

“Special Constable Hawkwood, here to see Lord Mandrake.” Hawkwood held out his warrant. He wondered if the servant could even read, but he knew the document’s official seal would probably be enough to gain him access to the house.

His evening with the insatiable Catherine having yielded no useful information, other than the fact that Lord Mandrake was on nodding if not intimate terms with most of the government of the day, Hawkwood had decided that his only recourse was to take the more direct approach, and revisit Mandrake House.

The footman’s eyes scanned the warrant. “His lordship’s not at home.”

“When do you expect him back?”

The footman hesitated, his caution suddenly heightened by Hawkwood’s sharpened tone.

“Well?” Hawkwood said, returning the warrant to his tipstaff.

“I’m not certain. His lordship’s gone, you see.”

“I know he’s gone,” Hawkwood said, with rising exasperation. “You’ve just told me that. Gone where?”

“His estate at Northwich. I believe it was the Comte’s wish to visit the country.”

“Comte?”

“His lordship’s house guest, the Comte de Rochefort.”

The Frenchman, the student of Montaigne, who had displayed an unusual degree of interest in Hawkwood the night of the ball. Hawkwood wondered what de Rochefort would think of the north. Northwich was in Cheshire, a long way from the capital’s fashionable salons and enticements. There was always fox hunting, of course, though, from Hawkwood’s recollection, the Comte had not looked the type to engage in strenuous activity of any sort, unless it involved pitching dice or fanning a hand of cards.

The door began to close slowly.

“Not so fast, culley,” Hawkwood said. Jamming his boot through the gap in the door, he pushed past the servant, and was immediately aware, even as he entered the vast entrance hall, of how quiet the mansion was. It was in complete contrast to his previous visit when the house had been filled with bright lights, music and laughter.

“Sir, I protest!” But the footman’s objections went unheeded. With the servant trotting abjectly in his wake, Hawkwood checked the ground floor. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the lofty passages. No doubt about it, the cupboard was bare. Hawkwood heard voices, but when he investigated the source, he found only servants performing last-minute chores, cleaning fireplaces and placing dust covers over the furniture.

“When did they leave?” Hawkwood asked.

Lord Mandrake, accompanied by his wife and guest and a not inconsiderable amount of luggage, had vacated the house early that morning. Very early, it transpired, not much past first light.

Was it usual, Hawkwood asked pointedly, for Lord Mandrake to depart for his northern estates at this time of year? And if so, was it also his lordship’s custom to depart at the crack of dawn?

The servant’s reply wasn’t much help. Lord Mandrake visited his estates whenever the mood took him. As for setting off early, it was a long journey, therefore, the earlier the family left, the earlier the family arrived.

Hawkwood bit down on his frustration. A thought struck him.

“Tell me, has his lordship been having any trouble with his clocks?”

The footman blinked uncomprehendingly. “Clocks?”

“Yes, his bloody clocks, damn it! Were any of the household clocks in need of repair?”

“Er, no, sir, not as I recall.” It was apparent from his expression that the footman had begun to harbour serious doubts about Hawkwood’s sanity.

Well, it had been a random shot, anyway. They returned to the front door, where the servant could not hide his relief at showing Hawkwood out. The Runner stood on the steps and reflected. There was little doubt that Lord Mandrake had left in unseemly haste.

But for what reason?

Coincidence or conspiracy?

“And so we commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In sure and certain hope …”

The parson’s voice droned on, flat and unemotional, giving the impression that the burial service was a task to be endured. Hawkwood found himself wishing for what would probably be the Reverend Fludde’s more strident style of oratory. He stared into the open grave at the rough wooden coffin, and wondered if his own funeral would be so sparsely attended. Probably, he concluded ruefully.

It was late afternoon. The corner of the tiny churchyard was dappled in fading sunlight. Next to Hawkwood, James Read leaned on his stick, his face sombre. Aside from Hawkwood and the Chief Magistrate, there were only three other mourners. There was Ezra Twigg, looking suitably solemn. At the clerk’s shoulder, a heavy, thickset man: Runner Jeremiah Lightfoot, currently on assignment with the Bank of England. Standing several paces away, shaded beneath the branches of an apple tree, a slight black-shawled woman, face drawn with grief, sobbed into a handkerchief. Warlock’s sister, whose husband, Hawkwood had learned, had been killed at Almeida. Henry Warlock had been her last surviving kin. Over by the railings, a pair of gravediggers squatted against a moss-encrusted tombstone, smoking clay pipes as they waited patiently for the parson’s signal.

The cost of the burial had been borne by the Public Office; a small courtesy, but it had meant the Runner’s remains could be buried in the same plot as his wife and infant son. Without it, Warlock’s body would have been consigned to an unmarked poor hole. James Read, Hawkwood knew, would never have countenanced such an indignity for one of his officers. The Chief Magistrate looked after his own.

There was no eulogy. The parson, his duty done, clasped his hands devoutly, and nodded to the waiting gravediggers.

While the Chief Magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and Runner Lightfoot, went to offer condolences to Warlock’s grieving sister, Hawkwood watched as the gravediggers replaced the soil. It took time. Read had ensured that Warlock’s body was buried deep. The resurrection men tended to work during the winter months when the anatomy schools were open, but it wasn’t unheard of for the body snatchers to operate out of season. So the precaution had been taken and Henry Warlock would sleep soundlessly in his grave, free from disturbance. Hawkwood stared down at the low mound of earth and the modest headstone bearing the names of Warlock’s wife and son. The Runner’s own name had yet to be inscribed. Small compensation, Hawkwood reflected, for fifteen years’ loyal service and a fractured skull.

He sensed he was being watched and looked up. The child’s presence came as a shock and he wondered how long she had been there. Jenny, the waif who had escorted him to his meeting with Jago. She approached him slowly, picking her way between the gravestones. Her bare feet made no noise on the soft grass.

“Told ter bring you this –” she said, and held out her hand.

Hawkwood took the scrap of paper and opened it. The scrawled message was succinct.

Rats Nest. Ten o’clock.

It was signed J.