Ratcatcher

by James McGee

  “Not yet, but I’ll find out.”

  James Read nodded. “Let’s hope it’s sooner rather than later. As for Lee, is there any way he could have perished in the fire?”

  Hawkwood shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “A pity. It would have saved us a deal of bother.” James Read turned to his clerk. “Make a note, Mr Twigg. When we’re done here, you’re to summon Officer Lightfoot. His duties at the Bank of England are now complete. On my orders, he is to proceed north with all dispatch, to Lord Mandrake’s estate at Northwich. He is to arrest Lord Mandrake on sight and return with him to this office. He is to use force if necessary.”

  “Very good, sir.” The clerk’s face betrayed no emotion. Ezra Twigg’s lengthy tenure at Bow Street had prepared him for every eventuality. The apprehension of a peer of the realm was all in a day’s work, no different to the arrest of a pickpocket or the protection of a bullion consignment.

  “And what of the clockmaker?” Read asked. “Is Master Woodburn dead or alive?”

  “Alive. They still need him, apparently. Lee didn’t say why. My guess is it’s for some sort of repair work to the submersible boat. Whatever it is, it must be something delicate, that only someone with a clockmaker’s skill could attempt.”

  James Read looked thoughtful. “So, there’s still some hope for him, at least. I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies.”

  Hawkwood said cautiously, “There’s one thing that’s been troubling me.”

  James Read nodded. “You’re wondering how Lee knows so much. I confess it’s been causing me some concern also.”

  “He has friends in high places.”

  “And upon what do you base that assumption?”

  “It’s no assumption. It’s fact. He told me. I asked him how he knew I’d been a captain, and that was the answer he gave me.”

  Read frowned. “He’ll have got that from Lord Mandrake surely, or this Scully fellow.”

  “Perhaps,” Hawkwood conceded. “But I’m not so sure. It’s just a feeling I’ve had. It wasn’t so much what he said, it was the way he said it. Friends in high places. He was boasting. He wouldn’t boast about Mandrake, certainly not about Scully. In any case, how did Mandrake know we were on to him? We suspected he might be a turncoat, but Mandrake knew we suspected him. That’s why he left in such a hurry. But how did he know?

  “And there’s something else…” Hawkwood paused. “When I told Lee we knew about Thetis, he seemed to find that amusing. Said we only thought we knew. How does he know what we’re thinking? Maybe somebody told him.”

  James Read closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, he looked tired, as though sleep had finally begun to catch up with him. He opened his eyes. “You realize what you’re suggesting?”

  “I could be wrong,” Hawkwood said.

  “And then again, you could be right.” The Chief Magistrate’s expression was grim.

  “There’s another thing,” Hawkwood said.

  The Chief Magistrate blinked. “What?”

  “Christopher Marlowe.”

  “Who the bleedin’ ’ell is Christopher Marlowe?” Jago asked. “Not another mate of Scully’s?”

  James Read frowned. “Not is, Sergeant, was. He was a writer of plays. He died over two hundred years ago. Forgive me, Hawkwood, but I fail to see the relevance.”

  “You ain’t the only one,” Jago said. “What the hell has this got to do with anything?”

  Pointedly, James Read had not echoed William Lee’s surprise at Hawkwood’s familiarity with the playwright. A Bow Street Runner’s duties were many and varied, including personal protection. Among Hawkwood’s more notable and notorious clients had been the actor Edmund Kean. Kean, a small, unattractive man with a sour disposition, had appeared a year before at Covent Garden in a short season of Marlowe’s works. Hawkwood had spent a good part of his time in the theatre wings. Whereas offstage Kean had been a rude and arrogant monster, onstage he was a genius, scorning theatrical convention and enthralling audiences with an ease that was a wonder to behold. When Hawkwood had returned to his regular police work he had taken with him a fascination and grudging respect for the actor’s skills and a lingering appreciation for Marlowe’s work.

  “Lee quoted Faustus at me,” Hawkwood said.

  Nathanial Jago continued to look blank. The Chief Magistrate rode to his rescue. “Faustus is a character in one of Marlowe’s plays; a doctor who promises his soul to the Devil in exchange for wealth and power.” The magistrate grimaced. “Lee obviously sees a similarity with his current allegiance.”

  “Lee also told me where Marlowe died,” Hawkwood said.

  The Chief Magistrate’s head turned slowly.

  “He told me it wouldn’t only be Marlowe’s death that Deptford would be remembered for.”

  There was a pause. “Oh, dear God,” Read said.

  “Would somebody please tell me what the hell’s goin’ on!” Jago demanded.

  James Read shook his head. “It means, Sergeant, that we have severely underestimated our American friend. By God, Hawkwood, I pray we’re mistaken. If not, then not only is our William Lee an arrogant rogue, he is also possessed of a particularly callous sense of humour.”

  Jago looked helplessly from one to the other.

  “The ship, Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said, “he was talking about the ship.”

  Read turned to Jago. “The ship, Sergeant, remember? We believed Lee’s mission was to destroy HMS Thetis. She’s lying currently at the Deptford yard. We made the mistake of assuming Lee would be making his attack in open water, or at least that he’d wait until Thetis was in the estuary. We were wrong. Lee’s presence in London and his remarks to Hawkwood confirm our misunderstanding. He’s not going to wait. He means to launch his attack now, here! The enemy is not abroad, Sergeant. He is among us!”

  The penny dropped. “Sufferin’ Jesus!” Jago breathed.

  “The admiral told us she sails on the twenty-seventh.” Hawkwood said.

  James Read nodded. “Today, Hawkwood. She sails today! With the Prince of Wales on board!”

  Hawkwood’s first reaction was to contradict and say it wasn’t possible, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Lee’s devil-may-care attitude, his off-hand response to Hawkwood’s revelation that his plan had been found out, his farewell remark; they all added up to one thing. They had thought they were one step ahead of the American. In reality, they were two steps behind.

  “Which means the submersible’s here,” Hawkwood said.

  Silence filled the room.

  “So, where the hell is it?”

  The Chief Magistrate placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. “That, Hawkwood, is what we must find out. There’s no time to lose.”

  “But it could be anywhere!”

  “Then we must think carefully. We must apply logic.”

  “Logic?”

  “We must narrow the field of search.” James Read swung towards his clerk. “Mr Twigg, we’re going to need maps. If you’d be so kind as to fetch Master Horwood’s plans of London; the sheets covering the immediate vicinity of the river will suffice. Sharply now!”

  “He must be mad if he thinks he can get away with it,” Jago said, as the clerk hurried away.

  James Read shook his head. “Not mad, Sergeant. Imagine if the situation was reversed and it was one of our own captains who’d managed to infiltrate a fireship filled with explosives up the Seine. We wouldn’t call him mad. We’d call him brave, audacious, a hero!”

  Not me, Hawkwood thought. I’d call him a bloody idiot. Unless, of course, he got away with it.

  Hawkwood thought about the consequences if Lee’s daredevil plan succeeded. Frankly, they didn’t bear thinking about. If, or when, the public learned that a French secret weapon had destroyed a British warship a stone’s throw from the seat of government, there’d be panic in the streets. And the terror wouldn’t end there. No vessel would dare le
ave harbour for fear of being similarly attacked. And how could Britain command the seas if she couldn’t even protect her own ports or rivers? The effect on trade would be catastrophic. And if the French built a fleet of submersibles, what then? How would the country combat such a deadly threat? How could it re-equip its armies abroad?

  Bonaparte had tried to choke Britain into submission before, through decrees issued in Berlin and Milan, forbidding countries under his rule to trade with his mortal enemy. Britain had retaliated by blockading foreign ports and the nations that had implemented the decrees. Admiral Gambier had even destroyed the Danish fleet at Copenhagen. As long as Britain retained mastery over the oceans, Bonaparte’s plan would fail; but if the actions of just one submersible managed to bottle up the entire British Navy, the Emperor could start to breathe again. The balance of power would shift dramatically. The fabric of the nation was at stake.

  Ezra Twigg returned, bearing maps. There wasn’t room on the desk so they had to spread them out on the floor. By the time they had been laid out, there wasn’t much carpet visible, but what they had amounted to a bird’s-eye view of the Thames, stretching from Cheyne Walk to the River Lea.

  Hawkwood looked despairingly at the distances involved. Nearly eleven miles of waterway, not to mention tributaries, canals and docks. How could they be expected to find one small boat, twenty feet in length?

  “By elimination,” James Read said. “For example, a hiding place upriver beyond the London dock is unlikely, otherwise he’d be giving himself too much water and too many vessels to negotiate.”

  “If I were Lee,” Hawkwood said, pointing, “I wouldn’t attack from downstream either. It would make more sense to run with the current. Once I’d destroyed the ship, I’d want to get out as quickly as possible.”

  The Chief Magistrate stared at the mosaic on the floor. “I agree. But where does that leave us? The area between Bermondsey and the Isle of Dogs, perhaps? A little over three miles, I fancy. So, where would be the best place to conceal a submersible?”

  Hawkwood was trying to remember Colonel Congreve’s estimate of the submersible’s speed. Lee probably wouldn’t want to expend too much energy or time manoeuvring the craft into position, and three miles still seemed an awful long way. But then, what else was it the colonel had said? Stealth was more important than speed.

  Hawkwood looked down at the remaining map sheets. “The vessel was damaged. That’s why they needed the clockmaker. They couldn’t carry out repairs in the open, it would attract too much attention, too many prying eyes. Which means the thing has to be under cover somewhere. So we’re looking for a shelter, a building, something opening on to the river—a warehouse, for instance. Lee isn’t acting on his own. We know that. He has contacts. Which of them is most likely to have access to a warehouse? Someone who deals with cargoes and such? Some sort of trader? A merchant type, perhaps?” Hawkwood looked pointedly at the Chief Magistrate.

  The Chief Magistrate slammed his palm on to the desk. “Of course! It’s been staring us in the face!”

  “It ’as?” Jago said.

  The Chief Magistrate grabbed his clerk’s arm. “Fetch the file on Lord Mandrake, Mr Twigg. We are looking for property owned or rented by his lordship, with river access.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Jago caught Hawkwood’s eye and grinned. “I can see why they made you an officer,”

  Twigg left the office once more. He was gone less than two minutes. When he returned he was clutching a bundle of documents bound in black ribbon. Even Hawkwood, familiar with Ezra Twigg’s uncanny knack for accumulating and evaluating intelligence, was impressed. The Chief Magistrate, on the other hand, clearly took his clerk’s abilities for granted.

  “Very good, Mr Twigg. Locations, if you please.”

  As Twigg read out the details, Hawkwood’s hope’s began to fade. All the warehouses used by Lord Mandrake’s trading companies were situated inside the new docklands.

  London was the busiest port in the world. Because of their size, large cargo ships were unable to sail upriver beyond London Bridge, so unloading had been restricted to the north and south banks below the bridge, which meant, as trade increased, the buildings and wharves had extended downriver. As the size of vessels grew larger, so did the congestion in the port area. The wharves became crowded and confused. Ships sometimes had to wait weeks for their cargoes to be checked and for customs dues to be paid. Added to which was the problem of river pirates and all the other criminals who preyed on shipping. The profits from crime were huge. It was to ease the overcrowding and protect vulnerable and valuable cargoes that the first commercial docks had been built.

  Ships could now come up the river at high tide and enter the dock basins. Cargoes could be unloaded and either stored in warehouses or transferred to smaller, shallower draughted vessels for immediate distribution.

  Mandrake’s warehouses were spread evenly between the London Dock in Wapping, the West India Docks, north of the Isle of Dogs, and the Grand Surrey Docks in Rotherhithe.

  “Looks as if we were wrong,” Hawkwood said, unable to hide his disappointment. “There’s no way Lee would risk taking his submersible inside the dock area. Too impractical, too damned public.”

  James Read nodded glumly. “I fear you’re right. Even our Mr Lee wouldn’t be that presumptuous. Though, perhaps we should have the buildings investigated anyway. I’ll contact the River Police and have them make searches—discreetly, of course.” Still despondent, Read turned to his clerk. “Thank you, Mr Twigg. As always your files have proved most illuminating. However, it appears we must look elsewhere for our information.”

  The Chief Magistrate frowned. His clerk was not paying attention. Ezra Twigg was staring intently at one of the documents. Suddenly aware that he was being observed, he looked up. “Forgive me, sir.”

  “Mr Twigg?” The Chief Magistrate regarded his clerk with concern.

  The clerk blinked owlishly. “Er…I believe I may have found something, sir.”

  “And what might that be, Mr Twigg?”

  The clerk gathered himself. He held up the document. “There’s another warehouse, sir.”

  The Chief Magistrate gripped his clerk’s arm. Twigg winced.

  “It’s entirely my fault, sir. It’s just that when I was looking at the list of his lordship’s premises, it occurred to me there was no mention of the timber yard.”

  “Timber yard?”

  “Yes, sir. You see, when his lordship moved his businesses to the new docks, he sold his existing properties to raise the finance. They consisted of…” Twigg consulted the document “…warehouses at Griffin’s Wharf, Battle Bridge, Brewers Quay and New Bear Quay. Also two properties at Phoenix Wharf, Wapping, and storage houses at Trinity Street in Rotherhithe. All sold, sir, all accounted for, except one. His lordship used to import timber from the east, sir. His company had a separate warehouse and timber yard for the purpose. I can find no record of the sale.”

  “And where is this warehouse, Mr Twigg?”

  A pause.

  “In Limehouse, sir.”

  Less than a mile and a half upriver from Deptford.

  The Chief Magistrate read Hawkwood’s mind. “Take Sergeant Jago with you.”

  “What about warning the ship?” Hawkwood asked.

  The Chief Magistrate looked thoughtful. “That might be a problem. If Lee does indeed have other friends in high places, warning the ship will surely alert Lee that we’re on to him. Neither would we want to start unnecessary panic. And don’t forget, for all we know, Lee believes you’re dead. That may work to our advantage. No, gentlemen, until we know for certain who is friend or foe, I fear we’re on our own. Which means, Hawkwood, you have to find Lee and his submersible and stop him. By any means possible. There must be no quarter given. You understand what I’m saying, Hawkwood? I’m giving you carte blanche.”

  “Then we’d best get started,” Hawkwood said. “Come on, Nathaniel, there’s work to be done.” He turn
ed to the Chief Magistrate. “Where will we find you, sir?”

  James Read considered the question. “I will proceed to Deptford. You may contact me there.”

  “You’ll warn the Prince?”

  “I’ll speak to his advisors, suggest to them that it would be better if His Royal Highness postponed his visit to the yard until the next launching. Now, off with you both.”

  As Hawkwood and Jago left the office, the Chief Magistrate and his clerk exchanged pensive looks.

  “I fear, Mr Twigg,” James Read murmured softly, “that desperate times are upon us.”

  Twigg nodded. Behind his spectacles, his eyes gleamed. The game was afoot and the little clerk scented blood.

  “Which means,” Read continued, “that we must now deploy all our resources. Return to your files, Mr Twigg. I want everything you have on Sir Charles Yorke, Admiral Bartholomew Dalryde, Inspector General Thomas Blomefield and Colonel William Congreve. There is treason afoot, Mr Twigg. Treason is a canker and it is my intention to find it and cut it out!”

  William Lee lowered his head towards the tin basin, closed his eyes, cupped his palms in the water and doused his face. He did it several times, gasping as the coldness stung his eyes. Finally he raised his head and ran his hands over his close-cropped hair. Water trickled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. He reached for the drying cloth.

  Lee stared intently at himself in the mirror. He searched his face, studied the familiar lines, the grey at his temples, the stubble on his cheeks. Dabbing his face with the cloth, his eyes moved to the window and he stared out at the wide grey river.

  A recollection of childhood arose, unbidden, in his mind. His boyhood years had been spent on the family farm, close to the bank of another great river, the Delaware, and the small, pleasant town of Fort Penn, less than a day’s ride from the city of Wilmington. There, in the company of his friends, he had explored the local creeks, levees and inlets on foot and in birch-bark canoe.