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

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СКАЧАТЬ of an ecclesiastical persuasion. Writers, actors and politicians – callings that often went hand in hand – had also been known to duck through its low portals in search of a late supper and a soothing dram.

      To Hawkwood, however, the Blackbird was more than a convenient watering hole. It was home. The two rooms he inhabited beneath the tavern’s sloping roof were a quiet haven to which he could retreat from the bustling streets that were such an integral part of his life.

      Several booths were occupied. One or two of the regulars glanced up and nodded in silent recognition as he entered. Not everyone was eating. Some groups conversed over drinks. A few customers had paired off and were engaged in games of chess. Others played whist, while a number of individuals, at ease with their own company, were content merely to sip coffee, enjoy a quiet pipe, and peruse the morning papers.

      “Well, now, if it isn’t Officer Hawkwood! And I suppose you’ll be wanting breakfast?”

      The voice came from behind. Hawkwood turned and smiled.

      “Morning, Maddie.”

      Maddie Teague was a woman who carried her beauty without a trace of vanity. Tall and slender, her most arresting features – a pair of emerald eyes framed by a halo of dark auburn hair – had been known to strike men dumb at over fifty paces. It was safe to say that those striking good looks were as responsible for attracting the many and varied customers into the comfortable dining room as the tavern’s Epicurean delights. Maddie Teague ruled the place with an effective combination of grace and efficiency. Under her guiding hand, the Blackbird had become one of the area’s most respected establishments.

      Watching Maddie and her girls distribute an assortment of steaming platters among the diners reminded Hawkwood that it had been a while since he had last eaten. The aroma of the food wasn’t helping matters either. A late breakfast, Hawkwood decided, wouldn’t go amiss. He placed an order for eggs, ham and cheese.

      “Coffee, too, Maddie, if it’s no trouble.”

      Maddie wiped her hands on her apron, all efficient. “No trouble at all, Officer Hawkwood. You just sit yourself down and I’ll be with you in two shakes.” She looked Hawkwood up and down and arched an eyebrow. “You look as though you could do with a decent meal inside you. Hard night was it?”

      Hawkwood forced a grin. “You know what they say, Maddie. No rest for the wicked.”

      “Do they indeed?” Maddie responded wryly. “And that’s why you’ll be wanting me to send your shirt to the seamstress, I suppose?” She paused before aiming the killer punch. “That’ll be after the blood’s been washed out, no doubt?” Having delivered her parting salvo, Maddie straightened her shoulders, turned on her heel and headed back towards the kitchen.

      God’s teeth! Hawkwood thought. The woman was as sharp as a tack. Speechless, he could only stare in admiration at the landlady’s shapely form as she made her departure.

      An hour later, his meal over, Hawkwood sipped the dregs from his second mug of coffee and sat quietly. A copy of the Chronicle had been abandoned at the next table. He picked it up and skimmed the latest news. The war had been relegated to a couple of columns on the second page. There were two prominent articles on the front page. One was a description of a failed insurrection by French prisoners on a prison hulk anchored off the Woolwich shore. The other concerned an upcoming prizefight at Five Courts, the calibre of which was destined to be far higher than the brawl in the yard of the Blind Fiddler. One of the fighters belonged to the stable of Bill Richmond, the ex-slave turned pugilist who, the previous December, had taken on Tom Cribb. Cribb had won the fight, but rumour had it that Richmond had a new fighter under training who had the potential to beat Cribb and the Five Courts contest was to be the first taster of his protégé’s abilities. Hawkwood read the articles with only half an eye. He was unable to concentrate. Oblivious to the murmured discourse going on around him, his thoughts returned to the morning’s events.

      By anyone’s reckoning, it had been an extraordinary day. He doubted he could remember a stranger one. Not only had he participated in and survived a duel, he had just spent the last three hours with one of the most beautiful and enticing women he had ever met. Had it not been for the nagging pain from the wound on his stomach and the scratches on his back, he could well have thought he’d imagined the entire episode. Only the throbbing hurt along his ribcage and the dull yet not unpleasant ache that was permeating another, more intimate, part of his anatomy swiftly dispelled that notion.

      And in the quiet aftermath of their lovemaking, he had learned more of Catherine de Varesne.

      Seated cross-legged on the bed, a silk robe over her shoulders, she had relived her childhood.

      “I was twelve years old when they sent my father to the guillotine.”

      Prior to his arrest, the Marquis de Varesne, aware of the fate that awaited him, had arranged for his wife and daughter’s escape from France. The Marquis had remained behind in order to allay suspicion, fully intending to make his own way out of the country at a later date. The Committee for Public Safety, however, in carrying out its own sinister agenda, had apprehended the Marquis before he could put the final stage of his plan into operation.

      “We were taken across the mountains into Spain and then on to Portugal and my mother’s family estate.” Fists clenched, she had blinked back the tears. “My mother never recovered from my father’s death. She died less than a year later. They told me she died of a broken heart. Perhaps it’s true. I know she adored my father. He was a sweet and gentle man who loved his country. I was brought up by my aunt. That was how I learned to speak English. I had cousins my own age. The family employed an English governess. I was very happy there.”

      Hawkwood had watched as a shadow stole over her face.

      “But even then we were not safe.”

      Bonaparte’s invasion of the peninsula had forced the family to break apart once more. At the first rattle of French musketry, Hawkwood recalled, the Portuguese king and queen had taken flight to Brazil, along with a good number of Portuguese aristocrats. It had been the beginning of a chain of events that had led, eventually, to Britain’s involvement with the war in Spain.

      And yet she had remained behind. At risk. Why?

      She had given a wistful sigh. “Here, in England, I am close to France, among friends who feel as I do, who will never rest until Bonaparte is defeated and we can all return home.”

      Her eyes had flickered to the stiletto on the nightstand. It had been her father’s, she told him, pressed upon her when he had engineered his family’s escape from the guillotine. She had kept it with her at all times, during her flight across the mountains into Portugal, concealed within the folds of her dress by day and beneath her pillow at night. Because, she told him, those who opposed Bonaparte were never safe and the English Channel was no protection against determined agents whose sole agenda was to eradicate the Bourbon dynasty and all those who supported it.

      “They took my father,” she had told Hawkwood. “They will not take me!”

      The chiming of the tavern clock brought Hawkwood back to the present with a reminder that a day and a half had passed since his meeting with Jago. He had hoped that the ex-sergeant might have come up with something by now, a clue that would lead to the identities of the two highwaymen. But he had heard nothing. Experience had taught Hawkwood that Chief Magistrate Read, a man not widely known for his patience, would be expecting, if not demanding, a progress report. And the Chief Magistrate was not a man who accepted disappointment lightly.

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