by James McGee
He wasn't sure if he should offer a prayer for his safe return before he left.
For he was, after all, about to pay a visit to the Holy Land.
The Hanged Man public house lay in a dark alleyway behind Buckbridge Street. It was not the sort of establishment frequented by gentlemen or ladies of a genteel disposition. It catered mostly for those who lived on the edges of conventional society, the borderland between the criminal and the lawful. Gamblers, tricksters, forgers and debtors; opportunists, seducers, procurers and paramours all frequented its dim-lit, beer-steeped, smoke-filled interior.
At the back of the main room on the first floor, four men wreathed in tobacco fumes were playing dominoes. The men's faces were serious as they concentrated on the game before them. Their moves were brisk and confident. There was little banter. The position of the counters in front of each player face down, in two rows of three - and the pile of coins by each participant's elbow testified to the spirit in which the game was being played.
One man seemed to be ahead in his winnings. He was stocky, with a craggy face and short, pewter-coloured hair. His back was to the wall. When he was not concentrating on his counters, his eyes watched the room. There was no fear in his gaze but there was caution. A glass of brandy stood by his right arm. Every so often he would raise the glass to his lips and take a sip before laying his counters down. Despite his watchfulness, he gave the impression of a man at ease with himself, his insalubrious surroundings and with the company he was keeping.
Occasionally, his gaze would pass over a solitary male customer seated at a table at the top of the stairway leading down to the ground floor. The man sat with his back to the panelled wall. He was young, with a strong face and dark, intelligent eyes. Whenever he raised his drink to his lips, he performed the movement with such economy it suggested his partaking of the spirit was purely a means of keeping his hand and arm occupied rather than a desire to savour the contents of the glass. The moment a customer ascended from the pub's lower floor, he would place his drink carefully on the table before him, leaving his hands free. Sometimes, he caught the grey-haired man's glance, but mostly he kept his eye on the stairway. The young man's name was Micah.
A new round commenced. Counters were laid down in quick succession, interspersed with a rap of knuckles whenever a player was unable to follow on. Table stakes notwithstanding, the atmosphere was friendly and relaxed.
With one domino left in his hand and with a line of counters snaking unevenly across the table top, the pewter-haired man undertook his reconnaissance, scanning the departures and arrivals, faces unknown and familiar, assessing whether they were likely to be friend or foe.
His eyes moved to the table by the stairs and he stiffened imperceptibly. Micah was no longer alone. Standing next to his table was a small, bow-legged, bespectacled man dressed in a black coat and breeches and wearing a faded three-cornered hat. A powdered wig which had seen better days poked from beneath the hat's folded brim. The older man was talking. Micah was listening. Finally, Micah nodded, turned and looked towards the domino table.
The pewter-haired man laid down his final counter and collected his winnings. Pushing his chair back, he stood up and swept the pile of coins into his palm and then into his pocket.
"Thanks for the game, boys. Deal me out of the next one - business calls." Ignoring the protests of the other players, he stepped away from the table and headed for the stairs.
Ezra Twigg watched him approach.
As the pewter-haired man reached his table, Micah rose to his feet.
"Well now, Mr Twigg -" Nathaniel Jago gazed down at the clerk and sighed heavily - "your being here can only mean one thing. What's the daft beggar gone and done now?"
The four riders crested the rise and urged their mounts towards the edge of the wood. Moonlight dappled the men's features and the foliage that concealed their passing. Their attention was focused on the outline of a low-roofed cottage which lay some three hundred yards away, set back from the road. The rest of the village lay beyond it, perhaps a dozen houses in all. Another one hundred paces separated the cottage from its nearest neighbour.
"Looks quiet," McTurk murmured. The observation made, the Irishman hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat the result into the bushes.
Lasseur wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"See anything?" McTurk whispered to the horseman on his left.
The horseman, whose name was Croker, shook his head and growled, "Coast's clear, I reckon."
McTurk turned to Hawkwood. "You set?"
"We're wasting time," Hawkwood said. "Let's get on with it."
They coaxed their horses out of the wood and back on to the path, riding two abreast, McTurk and Croker leading the way.
A soft breeze caressed Hawkwood's cheek. It brought with it the scent of the sea, which lay less than a mile distant. He thought he could hear waves lapping against shingle, but dismissed it as his imagination, though when he looked to his right, he could see the occasional shimmer of moon on water through gaps in the trees.
McTurk and Croker did not speak and Lasseur was silent beside him. Progress was marked by the steady perambulation of the horses and the faint gleam of candlelight from the houses ahead of them.
It had been a while since Hawkwood had ridden. The last time had been in Spain, when he'd fought alongside the guerrilleros in hit-and-run raids against the French. He had never considered himself to be anything other than an average horseman, with an ambivalent attitude to the animal as a species. Yet when he'd lifted himself into the saddle in Morgan's stable yard and thrust his boots into the stirrups, it was as if the years had rolled away.
Lasseur looked perfectly at home, handling the reins as if he had been born to it, which he probably had, Hawkwood concluded. He recalled Lasseur telling him how his wife had died and Hawkwood suspected that the privateer, despite his chosen profession, was an accomplished rider and had probably accompanied his late wife on early morning gallops whenever he was home. He knew that Lasseur's unease was due to the morality of their task and not the fear of falling off and breaking his neck or being trampled to death by flying hooves.
A night bird called out from the darkness and the horses' ears pricked up. Hawkwood laid a calming hand on his mount's neck and felt the muscles relax beneath the smooth brown pelt. They were some two hundred yards from the house when Lasseur leaned over and whispered in French, "I have no stomach for this, my friend."
"And I told you that I'd take care of it," Hawkwood said, in the same language.
Lasseur sat back in his saddle and fell silent, his face thoughtful.
Hawkwood didn't think the men ahead spoke French, but he watched them for any sign of reaction. There weren't any, though it could have been because they were good actors.
"I'm sending two of my best scouts with you," Morgan had told Hawkwood. "You say you want Captain Lasseur at your shoulder, but Pat and Jack know the paths and they'll identify Jilks. After that, it's down to you. If you do run into trouble, which I doubt you will, they're good men to have at your side in a skirmish."
Hawkwood had been expecting one man to accompany them.
Morgan's announcement that there was to be a second was unwelcome news, as was Morgan's next proviso.
"It's possible Jilks may have a woman with him. I don't wage war on women. She's not to be harmed."
"Wife?"
Morgan had shrugged. "Housekeeper. Does it matter? She's not to be touched. I have your word on that?"
"I don't wage war on women either," Hawkwood said, and thought about the murderess, Catherine de Varesne, and how he had put a bullet into her throat on a London quayside.
They halted. The cottage was less than one hundred paces away. Somewhere in the darkness a dog barked and Hawkwood soothed his mount once more. At McTurk's signal, they guided the horses off the path into the shelter of a spinney where they dismounted.
Hawkwood looked towards the cottage. There was no movement. A light was showing
in one of the downstairs windows. He drew the pistol from his belt and turned to McTurk. "We go together. Croker stays here with Captain Lasseur to guard the horses and keep watch."
McTurk didn't look too happy at being on the receiving end of an order. His eyes narrowed as he considered his response. Finally, judging that Hawkwood's command made sense, he glanced towards Croker and nodded. He was an inch or two shorter than Hawkwood; sinewy but strong, with dark Celtic features. His own pistol sat in a holster secured to a bandolier across his chest. A stout wooden club was thrust in his belt. He looked, Hawkwood thought, agile and tenacious.
In contrast, Croker was stocky with large hands and a hard face that would not have looked out of place on the neck and body of a pugilist.
Hawkwood spoke to Lasseur in French. "Keep an eye out and watch your back."
"You, too," Lasseur said, his face grim.
Hawkwood jerked his head at McTurk and switched to English. "Let's go."
Hawkwood took the lead. Using the spinney as cover, they moved in a line towards the trees at the back of the cottage. There was a small outbuilding, which Hawkwood assumed was a stable. He could smell wood smoke and for a second he was reminded of his first sighting of Jess Flynn's farm. A twig cracked behind him and he stopped and stood still. When he looked around he found that McTurk had drawn his pistol.
The light was coming from a side window. It guttered as Hawkwood and McTurk moved forward and Hawkwood had a vague image of a shadow passing between the flame and the glass, and then the light dimmed further as a curtain was drawn across, obscuring the view within.
As they drew closer to the back door, McTurk reached inside his waistcoat. When his hand emerged it was holding two cloth hoods. He held one out to Hawkwood and pulled the other one over his head. Even close to, the painted skull was frightening enough to make the heart lurch. Hawkwood steeled himself and put the hood on. The sense of claustrophobia as he lowered it over his head was immediate, as was the familiar tightening of his throat muscles. Then his eyes found the holes denoting the skull's eye sockets and, as his vision was restored, the moment of discomfort passed. He adjusted the material over his face and heard the brittle ratchet sound as McTurk cocked the hammer of his pistol.
Hawkwood stood aside as McTurk placed his hand on the door latch. McTurk looked at him and Hawkwood nodded. McTurk raised his boot, lifted the latch and kicked.
The door flew back with a crash. Hawkwood and McTurk, pistols held high, stepped through together, McTurk to Hawkwood's right.
The kitchen was not large. There was a hearth and a cooking range, with pots and pans and cooking utensils hanging from hooks. A table occupied the centre of the floor. A man was seated at the table in shirt and breeches, his waistcoat unbuttoned. A fork was poised halfway to his lips. A uniform jacket hung over the back of his chair. He stared at his hooded visitors, his jaw dropping in shock and the blood draining from his face at the sight of the guns. His eyes moved briefly to the top of a sideboard upon which lay two pistols.
"No," McTurk warned, his pistol pointing unerringly at the seated man's head. "Don't."
McTurk nodded at Hawkwood and released the hammer of his pistol. "He's all yours."
McTurk realized his mistake in the quarter second it took for Hawkwood to slam his pistol barrel against the front of McTurk's skull; by which time it was far too late. McTurk went down as if pole-axed, the unfired pistol slipping from his fingers. The seated man was out of his chair; the fork dropping with a clatter, as Hawkwood swept his pistol round, pulling back the hammer as he did so. "Sit down."
Shaking, with the muzzle of Hawkwood's pistol pointed at his forehead, the man at the table retook his seat.
"Sit on your hands," Hawkwood said. "Palms down."
The man did as he was told. His eyes remained wide open. He had a long, lined face, with close-cut fair hair and well- tended sideburns that reached almost to his jawline. Hawkwood estimated he'd probably aged ten years in the last three seconds.
Hawkwood reached up and removed his hood. He knew there wasn't much time.
The seated man's eyes widened further.
"You are Riding Officer Henry Jilks?" Hawkwood said.
The seated man nodded mutely. His eyes moved from Hawkwood to the body on the floor. He looked utterly bewildered. Keeping his pistol trained on Jilks's chest, Hawkwood stuffed the hood inside his jacket, then retrieved McTurk's weapon.
"Don't look at him," Hawkwood said. "Look at me. Don't speak; just listen."
Jilks's head lifted.
"I mean you no harm. My name is Matthew Hawkwood. I'm a special constable. I work for Chief Magistrate James Read of the Bow Street Public Office in London."
Hawkwood watched the astonishment blossom across Jilks's face.
"There was a plot to kill you tonight. Ezekiel Morgan is the man behind it. He doesn't like the way you've been interfering in his business. The one on the floor is Patrick McTurk. He's one of Morgan's lieutenants. There's another man close by, so we don't have much time."
At the mention of McTurk and Morgan, Jilks's face lost more colour.
"Pay attention," Hawkwood snapped. "I need you to convey a message for me."
"Message?" Jilks found his voice and frowned, and then his jaw sagged. "To London?"
"Chatham," Hawkwood said. "To the dockyard; the Transport Board office, for the attention of Captain Elias Ludd."
"Chatham? Why Chatham? I don't understand." Jilks shook his head in confusion.
"You don't need to understand," Hawkwood said curtly. "I told you; all you have to do is listen. I don't care how you do it, but you're to contact Captain Ludd. You tell him that Morgan and his men are planning to steal a consignment of bullion from the Admiral's residency in Deal in three days' time. He is to take all necessary precautions. Tell him the message came from me. He's the one who will understand."
The man at the table stared at Hawkwood aghast.
Hawkwood said to Jilks, "You've a horse in the stable outside?"
Jilks nodded.
"Warn Ludd. It's imperative. Have you got that?"
"Yes," Jilks said, though indecision still showed clearly in his face.
"What?" Hawkwood said sharply.
Jilks flushed. "Forgive me, but how do I know you are who you say you are?"
"You're still alive," Hawkwood said. "That's the only proof I can give you."
At that moment a sound came from the shadows beyond an open doorway in the corner of the room.
Hawkwood turned.
"In here, now!"
There was no response.
"I said now, damn it!"
The woman who stepped into the room was wearing work clothes and an apron. She was several years younger than Jilks. Her hair hung loose about her face. She moved to the table and stood behind the seated man's shoulder, staring at the pistols in Hawkwood's hands as if held in some kind of thrall.
"What's your name?" Hawkwood demanded.
"Esther." Her voice was a whisper as she stared at the body on the floor; hand moving to her mouth when she saw the painted skull where McTurk's face should have been.
The woman Morgan had told him about. Housekeeper? Wife? Lover? There was no time for an interrogation.
A groan sounded from the floor. The woman jerked back. McTurk was stirring.
Hawkwood addressed Jilks. "You know what you have to do?"
Jilks released his hands. His expression grew quizzical. "What about you?"
Hawkwood grimaced. The scars on his cheek burned white. "I'm making it up as I go along."
Another groan sounded from the floor.
Hawkwood turned, aimed his pistol at the body on the floor and fired. The ball tore through the soft hood, entered McTurk's right eye socket, and burst from the back of his skull with a spray of blood, bone and tatters of black cloth. McTurk's corpse jerked with the impact before settling into the floor in an ungainly heap.
Jilks jumped, releasing his hands, and the woman let out a cry. T
hey stared down at the body, the horror on their faces as much a reaction to the speed of events as to the violence they had just witnessed.
"Why?" Jilks asked hoarsely.
"I couldn't leave him alive. I have to report back to Morgan."
"What will you tell Morgan?"
"That you fought back and got away."
The woman stared at him in disbelief.
"It's the best I can come up with," Hawkwood said. "Wait until we're gone, then you ride. Travel light; you'll make better time." He turned to the woman. "You'd best make yourself scarce, too. If you know what's good for you, you'll forget what you've seen here."
Hawkwood placed the spent pistol in McTurk's bandolier. "Quickly - give me a hand to lift him up."
Jilks hesitated and then moved to help. Hawkwood got his arm under McTurk's armpit and together they lifted the corpse up so that it appeared as if it was resting across Hawkwood for support after a heavy night out.
"Grab a pistol." Hawkwood nodded towards the sideboard. "When I say fire, you fire."
Jilks moved to obey. "What am I shooting at?"
"As long as it's not me, I don't give a damn," Hawkwood said. "Ready?"
Jilks nodded.
"Now," Hawkwood said.
Jilks aimed his pistol into the hearth and pulled the trigger. The pistol jerked in his hand.
The woman flinched.
Hawkwood aimed his remaining pistol at the window and fired. A ragged hole appeared in the glass, which did not shatter.
"Don't delay," Hawkwood said. Tucking the pistol in his belt and taking the dead weight on to his shoulder, he hefted McTurk's body towards the open door.
Back in the trees, Croker grinned at the sound of the first pistol shot. "That's the bastard done for!"
Lasseur did not respond. He felt the knot tighten in his belly.
When the second shot cracked out of the night, the horses shied and Croker turned towards the cottage. Moonlight illuminated the look of disquiet on his face. The third shot, coming in quick succession, caused him to curse violently and draw his pistol from his belt. His eyes tried to pierce the darkness. "Something's up."
