Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion. James McGee

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СКАЧАТЬ through trade and banking and was a well-entrenched member of the establishment. He was a confidant of several members of parliament, including the Foreign Secretary. There was a rumour, Read told Hawkwood, that the Prince Regent might well put in an appearance.

      On hearing this, Hawkwood groaned inwardly. He had attended similar functions and detested them with a vengeance. He would rather have faced a frontal assault from a detachment of French lancers.

      “What about Redfern?”

      This time Read did not bother to look up. “Redfern’s in Manchester. A forgery case. He’s unlikely to return in the immediate future.”

      “Lightfoot, then?”

      “Protection duty at the Bank of England, overseeing the transportation of a bullion consignment.”

      With studied deliberation, James Read laid down his pen and sighed audibly. “Hawkwood, you are perfectly aware how many special constables I have at my disposal. Precious few. Seven, to be precise, including yourself. Now, whilst I’m not obliged to furnish you with details of their individual assignments, I will do so, if it will help to ease your troubled mind.

      “Redfern and Lightfoot, we’ve already mentioned. George Ruthven is in Dublin, attempting to serve a warrant on the embezzler, Patrick Doherty. McNiece is investigating a double murder in York. Lacey is recovering from wounds sustained in the arrest of the Taplin brothers –”

      “And Warlock?” Hawkwood enquired desperately, sensing as he did so that it was a futile exercise.

      “Also unavailable. The Woodburn case.”

      “Woodburn?” Hawkwood queried, mystified; though there was no reason why the name should have meant anything. Given the demands of the job, each Runner was usually too concerned with his own workload to take note of a fellow officer’s assignments.

      “The missing clockmaker.”

      Hawkwood feared he had misheard. “You’ve sent Warlock off to look for a clockmaker?”

      “Not just any clockmaker,” Read responded sharply, with just a hint of rebuke. “Josiah Woodburn is a master craftsman. A clockmaker to the nobility. Examples of his work grace half the salons in London, not to mention the grandest houses in the country.”

      “And he’s disappeared?” Hawkwood said hollowly.

      “It would appear he failed to return home from his workshop last evening.”

      “Probably spent the night tumbling some Haymarket doxy and lost track of the time.”

      There was a pause. A small nerve tremor dimpled the flesh on the magistrate’s left cheek.

      “Hardly,” Read said. “The man is sixty-eight years old and a strict Presbyterian.”

      The Chief Magistrate frowned suddenly, drew a watch from his pocket and compared the hour with that shown by the tall clock in the corner of the room. “Though perhaps it’s Officer Warlock’s timekeeping that has gone astray. He was supposed to call in and make his report but he has not yet done so. Most curious. It’s not like him to be tardy.” The frown disappeared, to be replaced by a beatific smile. “So, as you can see, Hawkwood, there’s no choice in the matter. You shall go to the ball.”

      The expression on Hawkwood’s face spoke volumes.

      “Frankly,” Read said, putting his watch away, “I would have thought you’d be flattered.”

      “I should? Why?”

      “You were requested by name. Upon the recommendation, I understand, of Sir John Belvedere. It seems Sir John was most impressed by the way you conducted yourself at his wife’s recent birthday celebrations.”

      Hawkwood recalled the evening a month previously: a well-attended but dull affair in Chelsea, enlivened only by an ill-fated attempt to remove, by stealth, Sir John’s birthday gift to his wife; an ornate and expensive necklace, reputedly once owned by the wife of the first Duke of Marlborough.

      Hawkwood had run the thief to ground, ruining a good pair of breeches in the process. In retrospect, though, he had to admit that the night had not been without its reward. Sir John had been effusive with his thanks and generous in his compensation, to the extent that it had almost restored Hawkwood’s faith in human nature. But he still loathed the pomp and ceremony.

      “What about the coach robbery?” Hawkwood said, grasping at one final straw.

      “I think it most unlikely that a breakthrough will be forthcoming between now and breakfast,” Read said. “Don’t you?”

      The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips and sat back. “Your lack of enthusiasm confounds me, Hawkwood. Had any of the others been available for duty, they would probably be fighting to attend.”

      Read was pointing out, none too subtly, a long accepted understanding. A Runner’s salary verged on the pitiful; just over a guinea a week, supplemented by equally meagre expenses should the assignment entail travel to a distant part of the country. A Runner also received a share of the parliamentary awards given for the seizure and conviction of criminals, but by the time the awards were split among the arresting officers the final sum usually amounted to little more than small change. Most Runners made their money through private enterprise; as bodyguards to royalty and politicians, or by hiring themselves out to institutions and wealthy private citizens for investigative and security work.

      “Now,” Read continued, ignoring Hawkwood’s pained expression, “while I’m sure you have your reasons for not wishing to attend, they are in this instance irrelevant for, had the others been here, I would still have assigned you, seeing as you’re the only one of my officers who speaks French.”

      It was Hawkwood’s turn to frown.

      The Chief Magistrate sat back in his chair. “As you may or may not be aware, Lord Mandrake has gained something of a reputation as a benefactor to the less fortunate members of our society: orphans, widows of the parish, war veterans and so forth. Meritorious causes, one and all. And his good works have not been limited to these shores. His patronage has also extended beyond our nation’s boundaries.”

      Hawkwood’s attempt to appear interested was only marginally successful.

      “Émigrés, Hawkwood. One of his most ardent suitors is the Comte d’Artois.”

      Hawkwood knew all about the Comte d’Artois, brother to Louis XVIII. In the early months of the Terror, the Comte had fled to England to escape the guillotine and set himself up as leader of the French in exile. Determined to see the monarchy restored, d’Artois and his compatriots, using funds donated by British sympathizers, had been running military training camps at Romsey, on the south coast, in preparation for the eventual overthrow of Emperor Bonaparte.

      “I’m told it’s Lord Mandrake’s desire that tonight’s ball will help forge even stronger links between Britain and the legitimate Bourbon government. It’s expected that several of the Comte’s inner circle will be attending the festivities. Hence the request for a French speaker. I need not remind you,” Read continued sternly, “that you are expected to conduct yourself in a manner befitting an officer of the law.”

      The Chief Magistrate scribbled on a card. “Here’s the address. You СКАЧАТЬ