WHEN Hawker walked into his office, he saw that Cummings had taken a place behind the desk. He was sitting in Hawker’s chair.
He’d never decided whether Lord Cummings played the fool on purpose, or if it just came naturally to him. He looked the part of an aristocrat. He was straight-backed and silver-haired, sporting a long, thin, supercilious nose. He sat behind the desk, looking distinguished, pretending to be absorbed in the newspaper he’d picked up. He’d brought along his cur dog, Colonel Reams, who did not look distinguished.
Felicity leaned against the wall just inside the door of his office, keeping a gimlet eye on the visitors. She muttered, “About time,” as he passed.
He barely moved his lips. “You felt it quite necessary to put them in here?”
“You said to be polite.”
“Not that polite.”
She’d let Military Intelligence invade his office just to see what they wanted to get into. And to annoy him. He gave her a “we’ll talk about this later” look and motioned her out.
Back when Adrian Hawkhurst was still Hawker the Hand, stealing for a living and associating with questionable companions—in the flower of his youth, as it were—he’d walked into many an alley to find an enemy sitting in ambush. This felt the same. It was enough to make a man nostalgic.
Cummings had settled his arse into the carved oak chair that belonged to the Head of Service. It was black with age, worn smooth by the behinds of twenty-nine men who’d been Head of the British Intelligence Service. It dated back to the time of Good Queen Bess. To Walsingham, who’d founded the Service.
It’s mine now.
Cummings didn’t do anything by accident. He wanted anger. Now, why did Cummings want him angry? Dealing with Military Intelligence just drove the humdrum out of the morning.
Reams stood to the side of the office, a thick-bodied, red-faced bulldog of a man. His hands were gripped together behind his back and he sneered at the map on the wall. He wore scarlet regimentals, as usual, though he didn’t have any particular right to a Guards uniform. One of Military Intelligence’s little fictions. No battlefields for the colonel.
Reams looked particularly self-satisfied this morning. Possibly he felt he’d done something clever. He was probably wrong.
The map held a hundred numbered and colored pins, set from Dublin to Dubrovnik and points east, as far as India. His agents. Austrian, Russian, and French agents. Trouble spots. Nothing Military Intelligence would make head nor tail of.
“The lumpy yellow shape off to the right is Austria,” he said helpfully. “The square blue one is France.” He jostled the colonel off balance as he strolled past.
“Watch it, you—” A glance from Cummings, and Reams swallowed the rest of his comment.
Cummings took his time folding the newspaper. He tossed it on the desk, toppling a pile of unopened letters into a stack of reports, making a point, doling out his second nicely graded insult of the morning. He’d got them in before they exchanged a word. “Good. You’re here.”
“A pleasure to see you, Cummings. As always.”
“You haven’t answered my messages.”
“How careless of me.” There’d be notes from Military Intelligence somewhere in that pile on his desk. How wise of everyone to ignore them. “The press of work . . .”
“I don’t have time to wait on your convenience.” Cummings tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. The hand rests were carved wolf heads, snarling.
British Service wolves. Not Military Intelligence. He knew just how they felt. He wouldn’t mind snarling himself.
“Always so awkward to settle upon another man’s convenience. And you’ve come all the way across town to do it.” He skirted around the desk and sat on the edge of it, chummily next to Cummings, his boot heel hooked on to a drawer pull. He showed his teeth, copying the wolf heads.
Cummings slid back in the chair, harrumphing. “I mean to say . . .”
Let us loom over the man. I get so few opportunities to loom. “Why don’t you tell me what we can do for Military Intelligence today.”
In Cummings’s world, men in authority sat at desks and gave orders. Inferiors stood at attention. Sitting down meant you had power.
In the rookeries of East London, men in authority kicked you in the guts to drive home the salient points of their discourse. Sitting down just put you closer to somebody’s boot.
In his office, the rules of Whitechapel applied.
Cummings had propped his cane against the wall. He reached out and put it between them, the ivory head clutched in his hand. “I say . . .”
“Yes?” For two days he’d lived on coffee and anger and watched Owl fight for her life. When he looked down at Cummings, he let some of that show in his eyes.
Cummings cleared his throat. “Mean to say . . . you should speak to that girl of yours, Hawkhurst. Damned if you shouldn’t. She left me standing on the steps ten minutes before she opened. She was blasted impertinent. Wouldn’t leave the room when I ordered her to.”
You do like to order my people around, don’t you?
“She talked back to me.” Cummings sucked his lip in and out, deploring the situation.
“We all have that problem.”
“I suppose you keep her around because she’s a toothsome little thing. You have a reputation for liking the ladies, Hawkhurst. You have that reputation.”
“Do I?”
The cane jiggled nervously in Cummings’s hold. There was a blade hidden inside. Anyone would know that from the way Cummings carried it, even without the wide gold rim that circled the head. Hardware like that meant a cane dagger.
A rich man’s trinket. A short dagger, with no hilt but that little hexagonal rim. Good for one sneaky, unexpected strike. Useless in a fight.
Cummings fingered it as if it were a favored piece of his anatomy. “I envy you Service Johnnies sometimes. Pretty petticoats stashed away at headquarters. Drinking coffee on the Via Whatever-o in Rome. Jaunting off to the opera in Vienna. No real work for you, now that the war is over. Nothing to do but write up reports and shoot them off to the Prime Minister.”
“We keep busy in our own modest way.”
It wasn’t the British Service out of work. It was Military Intelligence. When the last of the occupation army pulled out of France, Military Intelligence went with them. Cummings was reduced to spying on Englishmen, playing informer and agent provocateur to discontented Yorkshire weavers. Intercepting the mail of liberal politicians, hoping to find something treasonous. Harassing purveyors of naughty etchings in Soho.
Military Intelligence was being whipped through the newspapers as the “secret police” of England. It wasn’t just the radical press that said it was time to close them down.
His lordship liked to see himself as the spider in the center of a vast web of international intrigue. Now the only agents in the field in Europe were British Service. Cummings spied on the British Service, fishing for minnows to carry back to the Prime Minister, Liverpool. Always gratifying to be the object of interest.
“But you haven’t told me what brings you to Meeks Street.” He hitched himself more at ease on the desk and let his boot swing right next to his lordship’s immaculate, buff-colored trousers. Cummings couldn’t get to his feet without scrambling like a crab, losing dignity. “Not that we aren’t delighted to—”
Doyle came in, with no sound to announce him. Silent as the grave, Doyle, when he wanted to be. He said, “Cummings,” being blunt to the point of rudeness. Then he gave a respectful, “Sir,” in Hawker’s direction.
That was Doyle propping up the fiction that Adrian ran the place. Listen to Doyle, and anybody’d think Adrian Hawkhurst was somebody important. Somebody an earl’s son deferred to as a matter of course.
“Join us. Cummings is about to reveal why he’s graced me with his presence today. I’m . . . what’s the word I want?”
“Intrigued.”
“Exactly. I knew you would have
the mot juste in your pocket. I am intrigued.”
The wide chair pulled up on the other side of the desk was Doyle’s. It was big enough to hold him. In the years Doyle had been reporting to Heads of Section—five of them now—the chair had taken on his shape and something of his character. It was not unknown for new Heads of Section to sit at the desk and hold conferences with the empty chair, asking themselves what Doyle would advise in a particularly sticky situation.
Doyle sat down, playing Lord Markham to the hilt, showing off the Eton and Cambridge and the estate in Oxfordshire. He’d changed into a suit of gentleman’s clothes. Nothing fancy, because you didn’t decorate a man like Doyle. Understated. It wasn’t what he wore that made him look like Lord Markham. It was the hundred subtle little gestures and flickers of expression that did it. Right now he was applying a nicely graded aristocratic disdain when his eyes landed on Reams.
Doyle had unassailable credentials. Adrian Hawkhurt’s were more . . . imaginative. One popular theory was that Tsar Paul got him on an English noblewoman. Then there was the rumor he was a Hapsburg, exiled for doing something too disgraceful for even the Austrian nobility.
A soft grinding noise. That was the cane twisting into the rug. Cummings said, “I’ll get to the point then. You brought a woman here, injured. Do you know she’s a notorious spy? She’s a French émigré we’ve been keeping an eye on for years. A shopkeeper in Exeter Street.”
Justine would smile, being called a shopkeeper. Hadn’t Napoleon called the English a nation of shopkeepers? He glanced at Doyle. “Notorious spy? That does sound familiar. We have one of those tucked away upstairs, don’t we?”
Reams snarled, “For God’s sake, man. You have blood on your front door.”
“How biblical of us.”
“She was attacked in the square,” Doyle said. “It’s been reported to the magistrate.”
“Sneak thieves. They’re everywhere. I didn’t know street crime in the capital fell under your jurisdiction.” He watched Cummings.
Who seemed angrier than he should be. Why was that? “She’s alive? She’ll recover?”
“Yes.”
“Did she see who attacked her? Can she identify him?”
“No.” He didn’t expand.
“Well, then. Well.” Cummings gathered in his cane, gripped the head of it in both hands. Awkward because he was crowded in, he scrambled to his feet. “These things get exaggerated. Rumor said she was at death’s door. Heh. Death’s door is the door to Meeks Street. Amusing, that.”
“Diverting.”
On his feet, Cummings began a fussy pacing back and forth, flourishing his cane. Reams glowered from the sideline. Cummings huffed and hemmed. At last he came out with, “There’s something you should know.”
“Tell me.” Maybe he was about to find out why Cummings was in his office.
“Private, really. You want Markham to leave. Don’t want to say anything about this in front of him.”
“There’s nothing he can’t hear.”
Cummings shrugged. “You may wish you’d chosen privacy.”
Another trip across the office. “There have been a pair of murders in London. Frenchmen. Antoine Morreau, bookseller. Pierre Richelet, publican in Soho. Both stabbed. They passed themselves off as Royalist émigrés. In fact, they were French secret agents.”
Cummings was pleased with himself. He knew something more. He was enjoying himself too much to just say it right out loud.
“Police Secrète.” Reams pronounced it like an Englishman. “Both of them.”
Doyle rearranged himself. The chair creaked. “How long have you known about them?”
“Does it matter?” Reams demanded.
“If they were killed because Military Intelligence let something slip, it matters.”
“We don’t leak information.” Reams shifted on his feet, a bantam bull, pawing the ground. “You can damn well—”
“Reams got a letter.” He didn’t have to tell Doyle this. It was obvious. “An anonymous letter. Probably yesterday. They didn’t know before that, or they would have pulled them in to harass.”
Reams’s face turned red.
“Their real names,” Cummings said, mellifluous and superior, “were Gravois and Patelin. They were senior officers of the Secret Police under Robespierre. I’m sure you’ll find them somewhere in your records.”
He didn’t have to search the records. Those two, he remembered. The Tuteurs of the Coach House. He’d very nearly met them one night when he was young enough to be an idiot.
Reams subsided against the wall, muttering, “Don’t know why there’s Frenchies everywhere. They have their own country.”
“We took the matter to Bow Street.” Cummings nodded to Reams. “Tell them.”
“When we got the let—” Colonel Reams rubbed across the buttons on his coat, shining them up. “When we connected those two murders, I went to Bow Street. Tied the cases together for them, you might say.” He let the pause drag out, enjoying himself. “They’d spotted some similarities. What they don’t understand at Bow Street, though, is intelligence.”
So many things one could say. So tempting. But he let the colonel wind to his conclusion.
“They were both stabbed,” Reams said. “They were goddamned French émigrés. Dead ones now. The knives were left sticking in their gut where they fell.”
Almost poetic, the colonel.
“I asked to see the evidence boxes.” Cummings tucked his cane under his elbow, getting ready to leave. He’d done what he came for. “The murder weapons were flat, black throwing knives of a most distinctive design. I recognized them at once, of course. A British agent used knives like that in France during the war. A rather infamous agent.”
“The Black Hawk.” Reams laughed. “They had your initials on them, Hawkhurst. I told Bow Street they’re yours.”
Twenty-four
JUSTINE’S SHOP, VOYAGES, HAD A SOLID, PROSPEROUS look to it. The windows gleamed. The name was spelled out on the front in green letters edged with gilt. There was a proper mercantile bell on the door.
From across the street, Hawker heard the faint jingle as a muscular clerical gentleman emerged, hunched in the rain opening his umbrella, and strode off carrying a large, oblong package under his arm.
It was short of noon, but lamps were lit inside the shop, paying blackmail to the mucky gloom of the day. He and Pax had pulled back to the line of shop fronts, just to give the carriages a challenge if they wanted to soak somebody. They stood in the doorway of an antique dealer across the street from Voyages. Nothing much else happened, except everybody got wet.
Inside Justine’s shop, two customers stood at the counter and examined every possible aspect of some small metal instrument, passing it back and forth between them. The shop clerk, a Negro, tall and thin as an ebony cane, advised and discussed and sometimes pointed. This went on.
The clerk was calling himself Mr. Thompson now. He’d used a half dozen other names when he worked for the French.
Pax said, “Somehow I never expected Justine DuMotier to end up a shopkeeper on Exeter Street.”
“A surprise for all of us.”
“Everybody buys here. Good business. Doyle watched her for months when she first set up to see if it was legitimate.”
“I know.”
“I figured you knew everything you wanted to know.”
Three years ago, when Napoleon fell, Justine DuMotier disappeared from the sight of man. He’d looked for her everywhere, worried as hell. Paris was full of occupying armies. Petty, rancorous men tracked down Napoleon’s followers to pay back old scores. The new French government was thinning the ranks of the Police Secrète, not being frugal with the bullets.
It had been months before the Service spotted her in London. More months, before he got back to England himself.
He remembered. He’d landed in Dover, ridden up from the coast in a night and a day, dropped his kit at Meeks Street, and walked straight here. To her
.
It had been late afternoon of the day, and foggy. The shop was lit up inside, the way it was now. He’d stood . . . He’d stood almost exactly at this spot and watched her at the counter of her shop, fifty feet away. She’d unrolled a big map and was showing a gentleman customer some river on it, or a sea route. Something that involved leaning over close and tracing a line with her finger.
He’d stayed in the shadow, watching. Didn’t go into the shop. The war was over, but it didn’t make any difference. The last words she’d said to him dug a chasm he hadn’t dared to cross.
“What do you think that is?” Pax said, meaning the instrument everybody was so fascinated with, inside.
“Sextant maybe. A small one. And that’s the case for it.”
“We don’t buy from her,” Pax said. “The Military Intelligence boys do. The navy officers. The Ethnological Club. The Service goes to Barnes instead.”
“That’s tactful of us.”
“We like to think so.”
Voyages designed and sold gear for travel to the far corners of the globe. Now that the war was over, Englishmen were pouring out of dull old England, headed to Egypt, South America, India, and every port in the Orient. Voyages was the first stop. They knew what you needed. They’d buy it for you or make it, and pack it up neat. The expeditions Justine supplied never ended up hiking through the monsoon in wool underdrawers. Her guns didn’t misfire during some sticky dispute with Afghani bandits. That clerical gentleman with the umbrella wouldn’t run out of soap and ipecac while he was bringing enlightenment to the Maori.
Voyages also did a roaring trade in luncheon hampers with nested teacups and a little brazier for under the teapot, suitable for picnics when exploring the far reaches of Hampstead Heath with an elderly aunt.
“She makes a good living,” Pax said. “Half of England’s traipsing around the remote and uncomfortable.”
The Black Hawk Page 15
