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

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СКАЧАТЬ made it easy for Jago to track him down. Which meant it was now his responsibility to search out his old comrade and see if the former sergeant had come up with anything. He did not relish making another pilgrimage into the Holy Land, but he had no choice. An unannounced journey into the rookery was asking for trouble, however. It looked as if he’d have to have another discreet word with Blind Billy Mipps.

      As he set his empty coffee mug aside, Hawkwood wondered if and when he would see Catherine de Varesne again. He would need to gather his strength beforehand, he reflected wryly. He thought about those bewitching eyes, that smooth skin and the way her body had arched above his and, as the serving girl took away his empty plate, he couldn’t help but smile to himself at the memory of it.

      His attention was drawn again to the clock on the wall. The hours had sped by all too quickly. The day was nearly half over. It was time to pay that call on Blind Billy. Tossing payment for the meal on to the table, Hawkwood left the booth and exited the tavern.

      His first thought as he felt the brush of the boy’s hand against his sleeve was that of all the marks available, it was the young pickpocket’s supreme ill luck to have chosen a Bow Street Runner as his target.

      Hawkwood’s arm shot out with the speed of a striking cobra. His fingers encircled a thin wrist.

      “Not so fast, lad.”

      But instead of the expected cry of protest and whine of innocence, there was only the breathless, “Ease up, Hawkey! It’s me, Davey!”

      Hawkwood looked down. The face peering up at him was streaked with mud and set on a rail-thin body that would not have looked out of place on a sick sparrow. A fringe of ginger hair sprouted from beneath a filthy woollen cap.

      Hawkwood released the wrist. “Christ, Davey! You should know better, sneaking up on a body like that … And don’t call me Hawkey. I’ve told you before.”

      The boy pouted. “I weren’t sneakin’! An’ if I ‘ad’ve been, you’d never ‘ave spotted me! Never in a million bloody years!” The pout disappeared to be replaced by a disarming gap-toothed grin. “Mr ‘Awkwood.”

      Hawkwood couldn’t help but grin back. For indeed, had he been a legitimate mark, he knew that young Davey would have made the snatch and been off and running without him being any the wiser.

      Not that picking pockets was young Davey’s sole source of income.

      Davey was a mudlark, one of the many homeless children who prowled the Thames at low tide, wading through the stinking black mud and silt on the lookout for items that might have been washed ashore or had fallen or been tossed from a ship, boat or barge. Anything that could turn a profit. They operated alone and in packs, living by their wits, like rats in the darkness.

      Young Davey had other talents, too. They lay in the use of his eyes and ears, for the boy was one of Hawkwood’s most reliable informers. Despite the best efforts of watchmen patrols and the Wapping-based River Police, crime along the river was rife and the authorities relied on any help they could get.

      Davey and his cohorts were certainly no angels, it had to be admitted, but in the general scheme of things, they were small fry. Hawkwood and his fellow law officers were prepared to overlook instances of petty pilfering in order to land the bigger fish, the organized gangs of thieves and traffickers who stole to order from ships and warehouses the length and breadth of the water front.

      “So, what’s up, Davey? What have you got?”

      The boy glanced around. He looked apprehensive, as if afraid of being overheard. The cockiness of the previous few moments had evaporated. When he spoke his voice was low. “We’ve found a dead ‘un, Mr ‘Awkwood.”

      The first uncharitable thought that entered Hawkwood’s mind was that if the boy had only seen one dead body so far that morning he obviously hadn’t been trying hard enough.

      Not that the streets of the capital were strewn with corpses, but they were not that uncommon, providing one knew where to look. Old age, disease and foul play all took their toll, particularly among the poor and destitute. Venture down any dark alley in one of the rookeries and you could guarantee a cadaver most days of the week. Which, given the sort of company that young Davey ran with, made it all the more curious that the lad should have thought the matter worthy of Hawkwood’s attention. Hawkwood started to say as much when something in the boy’s eyes stopped him cold.

      “But, Mr ‘Awkwood, this ain’t no ordinary stiff. This ‘un’s different. ‘E’s one o’ yours. ‘E’s a Runner!”

       9

      The body lay partially embedded in the mud, head on one side. One arm was outstretched as if reaching for something. The other was twisted beneath the corpse.

      The smell coming off the river was foul even by the city’s grim standards. A stew of gut-churning odours – tar, damp cordage, stagnant water, rotting vegetation and raw sewage – vied with a thousand other noxious, throat-searing smells from the tanning factories, timber yards, mills and dye houses that lined the river bank.

      Cautiously, Hawkwood picked his way down the rough stone steps. Stepping off the bottom tier, he cursed as the stinking black ooze sucked at his boots. The boy, lighter on his feet, skipped across the treacherous surface with the agility of a sand crab. The broad span of Blackfriars Bridge loomed above them, blocking the sunlight.

      Two children squatted at the bottom of the steps; members of Davey’s gang. They stood up at Hawkwood’s approach. At first sight he’d taken them for boys, but then he saw that one was a girl of about nine or ten. Both looked to be on the point of bolting for cover. A quietly spoken word from Davey, however, was enough to persuade them that Hawkwood’s presence posed no threat, whereupon the girl picked up a stone and tossed it on to the mud. It was only when she began to hop and skip in between throws that Hawkwood realized she was playing some sort of game. A variation of hopscotch, he supposed. The girl’s companion remained seated and, with equal disregard, began to pick his nose, wiping the findings on the side of his breeches. Their features, beneath the layer of grime, were close enough alike to suggest they might be brother and sister.

      Hawkwood bent down. The sickly sweet smell of putrefaction and the sound of buzzing flies rose to meet him. He swallowed hard and tried not to retch.

      His first attempt to turn the body over met with scant success. The thick black mud was reluctant to relinquish its glutinous hold and the water-sodden clothing didn’t help. Hawkwood had to call on Davey to help. Together, after much tugging and with a sickening wrench, they managed to pull the corpse free. A series of long, liquid farts erupted from the various body orifices, as deep inside the intestinal tract disturbed stomach gases erupted. Hawkwood bit back on the sour taste of vomit as he wiped slime and weed from the dead man’s cheeks. A stab of horror moved through him as his eyes took in the bloated yet still familiar features.

      In life, Runner Henry Warlock had been a small man with a wiry physique. Neat in both manner and appearance, his somewhat timid looks had concealed a sharp mind and a terrier’s talent for hunting villains. Something of a loner – as indeed, given the nature of the job, were all the Runners – he had been a highly skilled operative.

      Death had not been kind to Runner Warlock. Immersion in the river had not only caused the body to swell, it had also transformed dead flesh into the colour and consistency of cheese curd.

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