by James McGee
“You led Rutherford on,” Hawkwood said, understanding. “He and his friends were drunk. You made them think they could have you, then you acted the innocent, and you waited for me to come to your rescue.”
“My knight in shining armour.” Her dark eyes mocked him. “It was simply a matter of setting the scene. We knew you couldn’t resist helping a lady in distress.”
The servant must have been in on it as well, Hawkwood realized. Which accounted for the man’s less than cooperative attitude when Hawkwood had revisited Mandrake House.
“You knew Rutherford wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Hawkwood said. “You knew that he wouldn’t back down in front of his cronies, that he’d call me out! What were you hoping? That he’d kill me?”
As he spoke, he wondered about Lawrence’s contribution, but knew instinctively that the major could only have been an unwitting and convenient ingredient in the broth.
She smiled. “More likely you’d kill him, Matthew. Either way, we would be rid of you.”
“But you confounded us, Hawkwood,” Lee interposed. “Damn it, man, you let the bugger live!”
Did you kill him?
Hawkwood remembered her question in the carriage, following the duel. That indecipherable expression on her face had been, he now realized, one of half-concealed expectation. He recalled what had happened at the house; how, after she had tended his wound, she had initiated their energetic coupling, leaving him breathless and drained. It had been the knowledge that they had fought over her, that blood had been drawn, that had excited her, igniting the passion.
“Well now,” Lee said, “much as I hate to interrupt this happy reunion, we’ve work to do. So, gentlemen, if you’d be so kind as to follow me. Time and tide, they say, wait for no man, especially today. Oh, and a warning, Captain Hawkwood; if you’re thinking of attempting something heroic, don’t. It won’t be you the mademoiselle’ll shoot first, it’ll be the old man.”
Lee turned and led the way out of the cell, along a stoneflagged passageway. Their shadows, trapped in the lantern light, accompanied them in a flickering procession. Hawkwood had the distinct impression that the passageway sloped downwards and he suspected they were nearing the river. Certainly, the putrid smell of the water seemed to be getting stronger. His suspicions were confirmed when, after turning several corners and descending a narrow flight of stairs, they emerged into the warehouse’s main gallery.
The gallery was long and narrow and must have stretched the full width of the warehouse. The walls were of wood but the stonework at the base of the walls indicated that this was probably the oldest part of the building, resting upon the original foundations. Half the gallery was taken up with the interior loading dock. It was here that cargoes would have been transferred from barrow to barge, and vice versa. The stout wooden doors that Jago had drawn to Hawkwood’s attention earlier were located at the end of the dock. They were still closed, but there was sufficient space between them for daylight to penetrate. Further illumination came courtesy of two narrow, high-set windows and several lanterns hanging from hooks. The place reminded Hawkwood of a flooded church vault.
“Well, then,” Lee said. “What do you think of her?”
Hawkwood stood and stared.
The submersible was tethered to the dock by lines fore and aft. She looked bigger than he had expected; about twentyfive feet long. At first glance, with her wooden deck and tapering bow and stern, the vessel looked like any other small river craft. On closer inspection, however, a number of differences were discernible. Below the shortened bowsprit, protruding vertically from an extended prow, was a thin metal rod from which radiated four elliptical blades, each about two feet in length. Aft, below the stern rail, a similar device, horizontally set, could be seen. There was no mast, Hawkwood noticed; then he looked closer and saw that the mast, with boom and furled sail attached, was in fact lying along the deck. It was hinged, he realized, thus enabling it to be raised and lowered into its socket at will. On deck, immediately forward of the mast socket, was positioned an upturned, barrel-shaped, metallic protuberance; the tower, as Congreve had called it, from where the commander of the craft controlled operations. The rear of the tower was hinged open, forming a hatchway which gave access to the craft’s interior. Hawkwood’s attention moved to the stern of the vessel. Attached to a raised wooden frame was a copper cylinder the size of a small rum keg. A lanyard ran from the cylinder to the tower where it passed through what looked like the eye of a large needle embedded in the tower’s roof before disappearing through a small hole in the forward deck. Hawkwood remembered Colonel Congreve’s description of the submersible and realized with a shock of understanding that he was looking at the submarine bomb, Fulton’s torpedo.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Lee could not keep the pride from his voice.
Hawkwood was silent. There was movement on deck as Sparrow emerged from the hatchway. He now had a pistol stuck in his belt. His fingers brushed against the pistol butt and he stroked the cut on his throat, favouring Hawkwood with a stare of undiluted hatred before stepping nimbly on to the dock.
Lee stepped forward. “All in order, Mr Sparrow?”
The seaman nodded.
“Capital! In that case, please be so kind as to see to the doors and prepare the vessel for departure.”
Hawkwood stared at the woman, at her slim figure, her mannish dress, at her hair held in a tight chignon, at the pistol in her hand and her smile. And in a moment of startling clarity it came to him. Scully’s taunting when he’d been asked if another mutineer or Lee had been his partner in the coach hold up.
It were neither, squire. An’ if I told you, you’d never believe me. If you only knew…
Not a mute boy and certainly not Jago, as he had ludicrously supposed, but a woman whose accent would have betrayed her the moment she’d opened her mouth. She had shot the guard in cold blood and, judging by her present disposition, Hawkwood suspected that she hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep since.
Lee’s voice cut into his tumbling thoughts. “What’s the matter, Officer Hawkwood? Cat got your tongue?”
Before he could answer, the rattle of a chain sounded from the end of the dock. Sparrow was opening the doors.
As the gap between the doors slowly widened, light began to infiltrate the interior of the warehouse. Beyond the low archway, Hawkwood could see out to where the channel joined the river, flowing broad and smooth past the end of the outer quay. He wondered if Jago was still out there, still waiting.
Sparrow, his task complete, rejoined them. The seaman took the pistol from his belt and cocked it.
“Well, Captain Hawkwood, it’s time to go. What can I say? It’s been a pleasure. Truly.” The American grinned roguishly and stepped nimbly on to the submersible’s deck.
“Make it quick, Mr Sparrow. We haven’t got all morning.”
Sparrow grinned. He lifted the pistol and motioned Hawkwood to the edge of the dock.
“Kneel down.”
Hawkwood didn’t move.
He felt the muzzle of the pistol pressing against the nape of his neck. Heard the hiss of Sparrow’s voice in his ear.
“On your knees, you bastard! Do it!”
Hawkwood heard a groan of anguish. The clockmaker, about to witness his death. The pressure of the gun barrel prevented him from turning his head.
Hawkwood knelt.
The muzzle moved upwards, against the back of his skull, forcing his head down. Hawkwood found himself staring into the dark water.
“Dear God, no!” The clockmaker cried, beseechingly.
Sparrow chuckled. The sound was like small bones rattling in a tin cup.
“Good bye, Captain,” Sparrow said.
“Piss and damnation!”
Nathaniel Jago swore violently and checked his pocket watch for what felt like the hundredth time. Where the hell was Hawkwood? The hour had come and gone, but Jago had continued to wait, stubbornly pacing to and fro on the dockside like a caged bear
, trying to ignore the crawling feeling in the pit of his stomach that was telling him something had gone badly wrong.
Jago was angry. He was angry with Hawkwood, he was angry with the world, but mostly he was angry with himself for letting Hawkwood go off on his own. Experience had taught him that if trouble were to be found then, sure as sunrise, Hawkwood would find it-as illustrated by the incident aboard the Rat’s Nest. It had been sheer good fortune that had seen Jago arrive in the nick of time on that occasion. Jago had not pulled Hawkwood out of the fire, almost literally as it happened, in order for him to go wandering off again, sticking his nose into places it wasn’t wanted. All right, so the man was a police officer, but for Christ’s sake, didn’t he ever bloody learn?
“Bugger it!” Jago knew he couldn’t wait any longer. What had Hawkwood told him to do in the event of his nonappearance? Contact Magistrate Read? Jago shook his head in exasperation. Well, if the captain was expecting him to go running off to Magistrate Read, then the captain had another bloody think coming. Bending down, Jago secured the dinghy’s painter to the ring by the side of the jetty steps. Then, with another muttered curse, he set off along the busy waterfront.
“No! Wait!”
Sparrow’s finger whitened on the trigger.
“I said hold your fire, damn it!”
The pressure on Hawkwood’s skull eased fractionally, enough that he was able to lift his head. He heard Lee’s voice.
“Y’know, Sparrow, we’ve only Officer Hawkwood’s word that the authorities suspect Lord Mandrake’s involvement in our little enterprise, but they’ve no positive proof. It could be sheer coincidence that his lordship’s headed north. Likewise, we could be using his warehouse without his knowledge. Lord Mandrake’s a valuable ally with powerful friends at the heart of the government. Be a damned shame if we couldn’t continue to make use of him. If we leave Hawkwood’s body here, there’s a connection. But if Officer Hawkwood disappears, what then? They’d have nothing. If his Bow Street brothers come looking for him, they’ll find themselves up a blind alley with no trail to follow, and his lordship will live to serve another day. No, I say we dispose of Officer Hawkwood’s body somewhere else.”
“And how the hell do we do that?” Sparrow said. Light dawned in the seaman’s eyes. “Christ, you mean we take him with us? You can’t be serious?”
Lee shrugged. “Can’t say I like it any more than you do, but it makes more sense. We’ll transport him downriver, drop his corpse off later.”
Sparrow thought about it. “So I shoot him now and we take his body on board? All right, I can live with that.” Sparrow aimed the pistol.
Lee sighed. “I’ve no desire to try and lift his dead weight through the damned hatchway. It’s constricted enough as it is. Besides, I don’t want his blood all over my breeches. No, he can climb below by himself. And don’t look like that, Sparrow. My decision, and there’s an end to it. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance later. Now, tie his wrists. The mademoiselle there’ll keep her eye on him.”
With a look that could have flayed skin from bone, Sparrow did as he was instructed.
“And Master Woodburn?” Hawkwood asked, when Sparrow had performed his task and retrieved his pistol.
Lee smiled. “Don’t worry, he’s in safe hands-providing you do as you’re told. Bring him aboard, Mr Sparrow. Lively now.”
With Sparrow’s pistol at his back, Hawkwood stepped off the dock on to the submersible’s deck. The vessel moved gently beneath him.
Lee turned towards the woman. “You know what to do?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Then we’ll rendezvous later, as arranged.”
Lee brandished his own pistol and nodded towards the mooring lines. “I have him, Mr Sparrow. Cast off, if you please.”
Hawkwood looked back in the direction of the dockside and the old man. There was a strange, almost haunted look on the clockmaker’s face. Hawkwood suddenly felt as if he was missing something. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Was the old man trying to pass him a message? If that was so, Hawkwood was unable to decipher it, though he had the uncomfortable feeling that the expression on Josiah Woodburn’s face would remain etched in his memory for ever. He glanced at the woman.
Catherine de Varesne smiled. “Goodbye, Matthew.”
“I’ll see you in hell,” Hawkwood said.
A tiny inclination of her head, as if acknowledging the possibility. “I’ll look forward to it.”
She turned away. Sparrow used an oar to push the vessel off from the landing stage. With smooth precision, the submersible slipped through the doors and out into the river.
Jago let himself into the warehouse using a set of lock picks he’d confiscated from Irish Willie Lonegan. The picks were steel and of superior quality. Jago had confiscated them because Irish Willie was, as his name implied, from across the water, County Donegal, and thus not wise to the ways of the local fraternity of cracksmen. Willie had come a cropper the night he broke into an Eaton Square mansion and relieved the lady of the house of a jewellery box containing a fine selection of family heirlooms, including a ruby pendant, three sets of pearl earrings and a diamond necklace. His downfall came when he had paid a celebratory visit to Mistress Lovejoy’s Finishing School for Young Ladies on Bedford Street, and bragged drunkenly to his pliant companion of the evening about his exploits. Irish Willie barely had time to tuck himself back into his breeches before he was hauled unceremoniously before a glowering Jago, who had explained the rules very carefully. London was his patch and no itinerant bog-trotter was going to encroach on his territory without permission. Punishment was swift and severe. Irish Willie was relieved of his tools, the remains of his takings, and both thumbs. On reflection, the Irishman had considered himself lucky. As for the picks, as Jago had remarked at the time, waste not, want not.
Maybe, Jago thought, as he stepped over the threshold, this wasn’t such a good idea after all. He wished he was carrying something more substantial than a cudgel and a Runner’s baton. A pistol would have been much more reassuring. A rat skittered past his feet. Jago ignored it. The warehouse seemed unnaturally quiet and permeated by an air of neglect and abandonment. He turned a corner and found himself facing a dark passageway. The hairs along the back of his neck prickled. Jago was no stranger to fear. He had faced many dangers, on the battlefield and among the pitch-black alleyways of the Rookery, but the sense of dread that accompanied him along that corridor was as heavy as if the Devil was sitting on his shoulder. There was something terrible here, Jago knew. Something wicked.
“Damn fine morning, Officer Hawkwood. Wouldn’t you agree?” William Lee grinned, stuck the cheroot between his lips and puffed expansively.
Hawkwood didn’t answer. He was sitting on the deck, back against the gunwale, hands bound in front of him, eyeing the pistol in the American’s hand and wondering if it might be possible to overpower Lee without getting his head blown off. The odds, he decided, were not favourable, certainly not trussed as he was. And there was still Sparrow, now manning the tiller, to contend with. The mast had been raised and they were under sail, heading downstream, hugging the eastern shore, close hauled into a light south-easterly breeze. Mill Wall lay to port. Wells’s Yard lay off the starboard beam on the opposite side of the river.
Emerging from the warehouse and into the main river, Hawkwood’s eyes had moved instinctively to the steps where he’d left Jago. The boat was still there. Jago wasn’t. Had the boat been absent, it might have suggested that Jago had done as he was told and was now en route to alert Chief Magistrate Read. The fact that the boat was still in place meant it was more than likely that Jago had disobeyed Hawkwood’s instructions. Knowing Jago, the sergeant, restless at Hawkwood’s failure to return, had probably gone looking for him. No surprise there, Hawkwood thought, feeling a sudden rush of affection for the big man. Jago riding to the rescue, again. Only this time he’d be too damned late.
“Master Woodburn told me the vessel suffere
d damage,” Hawkwood said. He had the strong urge to keep Lee talking. As a means of delaying the inevitable, he didn’t think it would be that effective, but at this juncture, he was prepared to try anything.
Lee took a leisurely draw on his cheroot and flicked ash over the gunwale. “Nothing that couldn’t be fixed.” He looked at Hawkwood with amusement. “Storm in the Channel it was. Lost a man, too. Which is how I ended up with Sparrow there. Scully brought him in.” Lee took the cheroot out of his mouth and jabbed the stub towards Hawkwood’s face. “Now I’ve lost Scully, too. You, sir, have a great deal to answer for.”
“So, why here?” Hawkwood voiced the question that had been gnawing at him since he and Jago had left James Read’s office. “It’s bloody madness. You could have waited until the ship was in the estuary, given yourself room to manoeuvre, given yourself an escape route. Christ, man, this is a bloody death trap!”
Lee drew on his cheroot and spread an arm. “You know why they built the yards here, Officer Hawkwood? It’s so they’d be close to London and protected from foreign invasion. Deptford ain’t the largest, it ain’t the most strategic, and it ain’t Chatham or Portsmouth, but by Christ it’s the one that’s going to make ’em sit up and take notice! Can you imagine the effect when I sink your newest goddamned ship in the middle of your goddamned capital city, and with the Prince of Wales on board? Your Admiralty boys’ll be soiling their breeches for a month! It’ll set back your war effort so far, you might as well go ahead and scuttle your whole damned navy! That’s why we’re here, Officer Hawkwood.”
The door to the cell stood ajar. Jago used the cudgel to push the door open and the smell of death hit him. The body lay across the bed, face up. The artery in the neck had been punctured and there was a great deal of blood. The room stank of it.
Jago was not, by nature, a religious man, but he crossed himself nonetheless, and as he stared down at the corpse he felt himself torn by twin emotions: intense rage at the manner of death, and the absolute gut-wrenching certainty that he was unlikely to see Hawkwood alive again.
