by James McGee
Maddie had inherited the Blackbird along with several outstanding debts and a small coterie of creditors. The accumulation of debt had meant that the tavern had been at risk. Salvation had come with the timely arrival of Hawkwood, newly returned from the Peninsula, with a letter of commendation from Colquhoun Grant to the Chief Magistrate at Bow Street, and a need for a roof over his head.
Maddie Teague had welcomed him with a cautious smile. The open arms had come later.
Hawkwood had enjoyed his fair share of women. During his years in the army his dark good looks and the uniform had ensured he had rarely been without female company. But military life and the hardship of campaigning were demanding mistresses and it was an understanding woman who was prepared to put up with the life of a soldier, whether it meant staying at home or following him into battle with the other regimental wives.
Becoming a Runner had brought little change in his circumstances. The job and the inherent dangers that accompanied it were all consuming and there had been scant opportunity to develop lasting friendships, let alone anything resembling romance. Male friends were hard enough to find, never mind women.
Not that Hawkwood had ever viewed himself as the marrying kind. Hearth and slippers? He didn’t think so. It wasn’t in his nature. It might have suited someone like Runner Warlock, but Hawkwood valued his independence too much. So he had taken his pleasure as and when it became available, mostly with molls. There were always willing participants to be found among the better Covent Garden establishments, but they were fleeting liaisons of little consequence. So, now and again, when the mood took them, Hawkwood and Maddie Teague would seek each other’s company and, for a short while, perhaps a night or two, they would take comfort in each other’s embrace and try to keep the loneliness at bay.
Hawkwood took a slow sip of coffee and surveyed the scene and tried to put the thoughts of the two contrasting women out of his head. As if he didn’t have enough to contend with.
A low hum of conversation filled the tavern. There was the usual mix. Several lawyers, a few of whom Hawkwood knew by name, a smattering of clergy, and a brace of welldressed individuals who could have been either bankers or doctors. Candlelight created strange moving shadows in the oak-beamed room. The atmosphere was relaxed and cordial.
Warlock’s baton lay on the table at Hawkwood’s right elbow. It looked decidedly out of place. There had been a clumsy attempt to clean its pitted surface, but traces of dried mud could still be seen engrained in the grip and on the small brass crown at the tip. Hawkwood picked it up and hefted it in his hands. There was something about the baton, the weight and feel, that was strangely comforting. A Runner’s baton was a measure of the man who carried it. It gave him great authority: the power to search, to seize, to interrogate and to arrest, a right granted to very few officers, less than the number that could be counted on the fingers of two hands. It was privilege hard earned, often feared, and much envied.
Thoughtfully, Hawkwood held the stem of the baton in his left hand. Then, clasping the tip in his right hand, he gripped hard and twisted.
At first nothing happened. He tried again, with the same result. It was only after he had smeared the join liberally with grease from his discarded plate that the two halves of the tipstaff came grudgingly apart.
To the uninitiated, a Runner’s baton was a solid wooden club. In fact, it was hollow. It was here that a Runner carried his sealed warrant. Signed by the Chief Magistrate, the warrant was a further symbol of his authority as well as proof of identification.
Warlock’s warrant, Hawkwood saw with some surprise, was still in place. Carefully, he drew it out. As he did so, he realized the warrant was not the only item concealed within the ebony shaft. Wrapped within the furled document were two wafer-thin pieces of onion-skin paper. Frowning and laying the warrant to one side, Hawkwood smoothed them out.
Drawings. Hawkwood peered closer. No, not drawings, something else. They looked like plans.
The first one appeared to show the workings of some kind of mechanical device. There was a four-sided casing, one corner of which was curved. Inside the casing, several long spindles were connected to a series of interlocking cogs of various sizes. There were also two objects that looked like cotton spools, and a flywheel at top and bottom, one large and one small.
Mystified, Hawkwood turned the sketch around until the curved corner was at the top left of the drawing. A thought struck him. He’d seen similar sketches before, on the walls of Josiah Woodburn’s workshop.
The second sketch was even more intriguing, though less illuminating. It showed the outline of what looked to be another container, this one square in shape, divided into two halves. There was no mistaking the object contained in the top half of the square. It was the firing mechanism of a gun: hammer, jaws and flint, spring and firing pin. The bottom half of the square was also divided in half. In the left-hand compartment, directly under the hammer of the gun, was a cogwheel, connected to the hammer by a thin, curved, incisorshaped object. The head of the incisor was hooked under the back of the hammer head. The point of the incisor rested in a space between two of the cogwheel’s teeth. The right-hand compartment was empty.
Hawkwood sat back. If he were to hazard a guess, he’d have said the larger sketch showed the working parts of a clock while the smaller of the drawings looked to be some kind of timing device. He considered the possibilities. Could they be the plans for a new type of timepiece? Woodburn was an acknowledged master of his craft. Perhaps this was some sort of revolutionary winding mechanism, something he wanted to keep secret from rival clockmakers. If that was so, how did it fit in with his disappearance? And what about the other components, the hammer and flint? Hawkwood stared at the images before him. Whatever they represented, Warlock, at least, had considered them important enough to warrant concealment from prying eyes. But that begged another question: from whom had they been concealed?
A smudge at the bottom right-hand corner of one of the sketches caught Hawkwood’s eye. He leaned forward, reached for the candle and held it over the paper, careful not to let any of the wax drip.
Writing, barely legible.
Hawkwood put the candle-holder on the table. Lifting the paper, he held it up and angled it towards the light. The letters remained obstinately faint, as if the ink had run. Two words. The penmanship left a lot to be desired. Possibly the words had been written under duress, or in a hurry. Hawkwood moved the paper closer to the flame.
There was a T, most definitely, followed by what could be an h. The e was more clearly defined: The.
Another t, followed by i, followed by an s.
Two words, one of them incomplete, with no discernible meaning. Hawkwood sat back and frowned.
The striking of the tavern clock brought him out of his trance. It was half past seven. The Bow Street Public Office closed at eight. Hawkwood knew, however, that in one room at least the candles would continue to burn brightly. He rolled up the sketches and replaced them inside the baton. Yet again he would have to delay his attempt to contact Jago. It was time to report back to James Read. Two heads were supposed to be better than one. It seemed an ideal opportunity to put the theory to the test.
It occurred to Hawkwood that throughout his period of service at Bow Street he must have been privy to every permutation of mood change the Chief Magistrate had to offer. Anger, frustration, irascibility, sarcasm, amusement, and, on the odd occasion, even the depths of despair. The one thing he had never witnessed, however, had been James Read’s inability to produce speech. Until now.
The look on the Chief Magistrate’s face as he removed the sketches from Warlock’s tipstaff would remain for ever etched in Hawkwood’s brain. James Read sucked in his breath and paled as the full details of the drawings came to light. Hawkwood could not recall seeing the man so profoundly shaken. After what seemed an age, the magistrate raised his head.
“I want you to describe exactly how you came by these. I urge you to leave nothing out—no
thing.”
As Hawkwood spoke, the Chief Magistrate listened in silence. Not once did Read’s piercing blue eyes leave the Runner’s face. When Hawkwood had given his account, James Read continued to stare down at the drawings.
Hawkwood, unable to curb his impatience, broke the silence. “What are they?”
Without looking up, Read said, “It is my belief they are the former contents of the dispatch pouch stolen from the navy courier murdered during the mail coach hold up on the Kent Road.”
The room turned as cold and as quiet as a tomb. “I don’t understand,” Hawkwood said. “What the hell does a navy courier have to do with clocks?”
“Clocks?” The Chief Magistrate stared at Hawkwood aghast. “Clocks? Do you seriously think that’s what this is about—the design for some newfangled timepiece? Good grief, man, if only it were that simple!” Without further explanation, the Chief Magistrate turned towards the door. “MR TWIGG!”
The door opened almost before the summons was out of the magistrate’s mouth.
“Sir?” Ezra Twigg blinked and waited for his instructions.
Read reached for a pen and wrote quickly on a sheet of notepaper. Folding the paper and sealing it, he wrote an address and handed it to his clerk. “You are to deliver this posthaste, Mr Twigg. You’ll note that Caleb is waiting outside. Be so good as to inform him there will be two passengers. We’ll be down directly.”
Spurred by the urgency in the magistrate’s tone, Twigg nodded. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
As the clerk scampered out of the office, the Chief Magistrate reached for his cane.
“Why wasn’t I told?” Hawkwood tried to keep his voice calm.
The Chief Magistrate paused. “Told what?”
“What was in the pouch. You knew what the contents were when you assigned me to the case. Why didn’t you tell me that’s what they were after all along? The passenger’s valuables were a diversion. You knew that.”
“I thought it was a possibility. There was always the chance it was a simple highway robbery and, if that was the case, there was no point drawing unnecessary attention to the dispatch pouch or its contents. But enough of this, we’re wasting time.”
“You should have trusted me,” Hawkwood said.
The magistrate’s head came up swiftly. There was a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “For what it’s worth, Hawkwood, I do trust you. Keeping you in ignorance was not my choice. My hands were tied. However, if you want to find out the true facts behind this case, I suggest you rein in your vexation and come with me.” Without waiting for a response, the Chief Magistrate turned and hurried out of the room.
Hawkwood swore under his breath. If it wasn’t about clocks, what the hell was it about? And, more to the point, how in God’s name had the proceeds of the coach robbery ended up in Warlock’s possession? None of it made any sense.
It wasn’t until he heard Read give the waiting coachman his instructions that he learned their destination. Which made even less sense.
The Admiralty Building, Whitehall.
12
Hawkwood closed his eyes and wondered what the punishment was for throttling an Admiralty clerk. The continuous scratching of nib across paper had become a kind of torture, like the insistent buzzing of a wasp trapped against a window pane.
The cause of Hawkwood’s irritation, a lieutenant who didn’t look a day over sixteen, was not unaware of the effect his labours were having. During the last ten minutes, on each occasion the lieutenant had dared lift his head to take a surreptitious peek at the tall, grim-faced man seated on the bench against the opposite wall, his perusal had been met and returned with such brooding intensity that he had been forced to lower his eyes quickly lest he be turned to stone by the basilisk stare.
It was thus with considerable relief that the lieutenant responded to the jangling of the admiral’s bell. He looked up briefly. “You may enter.”
Hawkwood stood and eased cramped muscles. He had begun to wonder if the Chief Magistrate had forgotten him. Since their arrival at the Admiralty offices and Read’s disappearance through the doors of the Board Room, with instructions to wait until sent for, Hawkwood had been left to cool his heels. Only the indistinct murmurings, barely audible beyond the closed doors, had persuaded him that his presence might still be required.
Composing himself, he opened the door.
Aside from the Chief Magistrate, there were three men in the room. Hawkwood did not recognize any of them. James Read beckoned him forward. “Come in, Hawkwood. These gentlemen are anxious to make your acquaintance. Allow me to present Sir Charles Yorke, First Lord of the Admiralty. His fellow board members, Admiral Dalryde and Inspector General Blomefield. Gentlemen, Officer Hawkwood.”
Anxious, maybe, Hawkwood thought, but not overly happy at the prospect, if their expressions were anything to go by.
The First Sea Lord’s face was as dark as a thundercloud, though it could have been the subdued lighting that had manufactured that effect. The admiral, seated behind the long table, was looking at Hawkwood the same way he might have regarded something he’d picked up on the sole of his boot. Of the three, only Inspector General Blomefield showed what might have been a hint of genuine interest. There was something else in the man’s gaze, Hawkwood sensed. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn it was amusement.
Hawkwood’s eyes were drawn to the table and the two sketches that lay upon it.
The First Sea Lord threw an accusatory glance at James Read. “Does he know?”
Read shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Perhaps it’s time I did,” Hawkwood said. He’d had enough of being kept in the dark.
The admiral’s head came up quickly. Charles Yorke grimaced. “By God, Read, you breed impudent pups!”
Before James Read could respond, Blomefield spoke. “Actually, I’d say the fellow has a point, under the circumstances. Wouldn’t you, Sir Charles?”
There was an uneasy silence. Hawkwood felt the eye of the First Sea Lord upon him, sensed the displeasure at the apparent disrespect for authority.
After several moments, and somewhat grudgingly, the First Sea Lord finally nodded. “Very well, Read. I suppose you’d better tell him.”
Before the Chief Magistrate could respond, however, there came a sharp tap on the Board Room door. The door opened. The admiral’s clerk stood on the threshold. The lieutenant opened his mouth, but he was given no chance to speak as a uniformed figure bustled past him.
“Profound apologies, gentlemen. Came as speedily as I could.”
Blomefield grinned. “Better late than never, Colonel. Bit like your bloody rockets, eh? Ha! ha!”
Colonel? Rockets?
To his consternation, Hawkwood found himself being scrutinized keenly.
“Officer Hawkwood, Colonel,” James Read said. “Hawkwood, this is Colonel Congreve.”
Hawkwood stared at the latecomer, taking in the uniform, the bearing, the restless energy. Then it came to him. Colonel William Congreve, eldest son of the Comptroller of the Royal Laboratory at Woolwich, officer of the Royal Artillery, and inventor of the naval rocket.
Congreve’s rockets had first been used against the French at Basque Roads. They’d proved so erratic in behaviour they’d been as much a danger to the British vessels transporting them as they had to the enemy fleet. Three years later, however, the design had improved sufficiently for the army to form two rocket companies. Hawkwood had seen Congreve’s rockets in action and he wasn’t afraid to admit that they’d scared the hell out of him. Fortunately, the French had been even more terrified, but that still didn’t answer the immediate question. What was he doing here?
“Hawkwood? Ah, yes, of course,” Congreve said. Then, to Hawkwood’s surprise, the colonel held out his hand. “An honour, Captain.”
Captain? Behind his back, Hawkwood heard the First Sea Lord clear his throat disapprovingly.
The colonel ignored the slight. “Well, gentlemen, to what do I owe this hasty
summons? Judging by the way your man hammered on my front door, Master Magistrate, I assume it’s important?” The colonel moved towards the table and his eyes widened. “Good God Almighty!”
“Well?” Yorke demanded. “What say you, Congreve? Is it the same?”
The colonel bent low, moving his eye over the drawings, examining them closely. Finally, he straightened, his face grave. “Hard to tell from these damned sketches, but, no, I’d say this is quite different. Oh, there are similarities, no doubt about that, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say this looks like a much more advanced design.” The colonel turned to James Read. “How the devil did you come by them?”
The colonel listened as the Chief Magistrate explained.
“A dead Runner, you say? Damned curious business. How about you, Hawkwood? Any thoughts on how they came to be in your late colleague’s possession?”
Hawkwood said wearily, “Colonel, I don’t even know what the hell it is we’re talking about.”
Congreve stared at the Runner then at the Board members.
Admiral Dalryde sighed. “The Chief Magistrate was about to explain when you arrived, Colonel. However, perhaps you’d do the honours, seeing as you’re our scientific expert.”
Had there been a hint of sarcasm in the Admiral’s voice? If so, the Colonel appeared not to have noticed, or else had chosen to disregard it. He looked thoughtfully at the two drawings before fixing Hawkwood with a steely eye. “Not one word of what I’m about to tell you leaves this room. Understood?”
Hawkwood nodded cautiously.
“What we have here,” Congreve said, “is quite possibly the most fiendish weapon ever devised.”
A weapon! So, the trigger device was significant after all!
“Some kind of bomb?” Hawkwood ventured.
Congreve smiled thinly. “No, though your guess is not so wide of the mark. Tell me, Captain Hawkwood, how’s your French?”
