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

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СКАЧАТЬ mess of matted hair and riven tissue, it appeared as if the wound ran exceptionally deep. Hawkwood wondered what sort of weapon had been used to deliver the fatal blow. Some kind of hammer, perhaps.

      “Looks like the rats have been at ‘im,” Davey observed matter-of-factly, nodding at the corpse’s extended right hand. The boy seemed impervious to the smell and the deteriorating state of the corpse.

      Hawkwood followed Davey’s stare and saw the chewed and bitten flesh. Vermin, most likely, as the boy had suggested, or perhaps a hungry dog seeking an easy meal. Hawkwood wiped his hands on his coat hem. “How’d you know he was a Runner, Davey?”

      The boy looked at Hawkwood with something like pity. “Do us a favour, Mr ‘Awkwood. We can spot you lot a mile off. Besides, we knew this ‘un on account of ‘e caught Pen napping a clout a couple o’ weeks back.” The boy nodded towards the girl, then, squatting on his haunches, he ran his eyes down the body and sniffed. “He was all right. Not like the rest of ‘em ‘Orneys. Let ‘er off wiv a warning. She’d’ve been sent to the ‘ulks otherwise.”

      Hawkwood knew that Warlock’s sympathy for the children of the street had been regarded as a failing by many of his colleagues, a weakness ripe for exploitation. Certainly, most law officers made little or no concession when it came to apprehending felons. Be they adult or child, it made no difference. With Warlock it had been different. Few of Warlock’s fellow officers knew the reason for his soft-hearted – some had called it foolhardy – attitude. Those, like Hawkwood, who were in possession of the facts, did not allude to it openly. There had been a young wife, Hawkwood had learned, who’d died giving birth, and an infant – a son – who had succumbed to the fever less than a week later. Knowledge of such tragic events made it easier to understand why Warlock had not been the sort of man who’d have wanted the incarceration of a nine-year-old girl on his conscience. Eight years’ imprisonment would not have been an unusual sentence for stealing a lace hand-kerchief. There would have been precious little room for hopscotch on the overcrowded deck of a prison barge, Hawkwood reflected gloomily.

      He stood and looked around and wondered how many people had noticed the body. For, despite the squalid surroundings, the place was well frequented. The bridge was in constant use and there was a lot of waterborne traffic in the area. Large ships were unable to navigate beyond London Bridge, but lighters and small boats could pass through the arches of the bridge and travel upstream with comparative ease. Blackfriars was a convenient mooring place and an oft-used dropping-off point for the flotilla of bumboats ferrying passengers to and fro between shores.

      It was just feasible, Hawkwood supposed, given that the body had been half submerged and lying in shadow, that it might have remained undiscovered for days. What was more likely, however, was that passers-by had seen the corpse and simply chosen to turn a blind eye, viewing it as just another victim of a drunken brawl. In other words, a death of no consequence.

      Except that hadn’t been the case. Henry Warlock had been a law officer and he had been murdered. Savagely.

      Hawkwood had witnessed death in many forms. In war, he’d seen men hacked to pieces by sabres and blown to shreds by cannon shot. And in his relatively short career as a Runner, he’d dealt with enough murder and maiming to last a lifetime. Viewing death was always hard. When it involved a stranger you could look upon it with a certain detachment, but when it came to one of your own, that was different. Hawkwood had experienced it on the battlefield with members of his own company. Staring down at Warlock’s distended carcass, he felt it now; the feeling of personal loss, the senseless waste and, above all, the stirrings of intense anger.

      Smothering his revulsion, Hawkwood began a search of the dead Runner’s pockets. Not a pleasant task, but it had to be done. In the event, the search produced nothing. The dead man’s pockets were empty. No pocketbook, no coins, no personal belongings of any kind.

      Hawkwood gnawed the inside of his lower lip. Inconceivable though it seemed, the evidence appeared beyond doubt. Runner Warlock, for all his experience in dealing with assorted villainy, had apparently fallen victim to one of the commonest crimes in London. Murdered and robbed by the very breed of criminal he had been obligated to pursue. Hawkwood wondered if Warlock had died appreciating the irony. A thought occurred to him. He turned to the boy. “Have you been over him already, Davey?”

      The boy looked startled, then indignant. “Not me, Mr ‘Awkwood. No way.”

      Hawkwood clasped the boy’s arm. “The truth, Davey. It’s important.”

      The boy shook his head vehemently. “Swear to God, Mr ‘Awkwood.”

      The boy’s expression told Hawkwood he was telling the truth. He nodded, accepting the response. “And I don’t suppose any of you saw anything?”

      Davey shook his head. “Sorry, Mr ‘Awkwood. We only just found ‘im. It was Ned there who spotted ‘im.” Davey indicated his companion.

      “You tell anyone else?”

      “Nah, you’re the only one we does business with.”

      Hawkwood frowned. “How did you know where I’d be?”

      The boy shrugged. “Didn’t. T’were only a guess. I sent Dandy to the Black Lion and Teaser to Bow Street. Reckoned you’d turn up sooner or later.”

      Sound reasoning, Hawkwood thought. Dandy and Teaser being, he assumed, the remainder of young Davey’s band of ragamuffins. He fished in his pocket and handed over the coin. “You did the right thing, Davey. I’m grateful.”

      As the boy bit into the coin, Hawkwood stared down at the body. Despite his urgent need to contact Jago again, it looked as if the ex-sergeant would have to wait a while longer for the pleasure of his company.

      The Chief Magistrate regarded the stout man standing before him with expectation. “Well?”

      The response was a declamatory spreading of the hands. “My dear sir, you must understand that determining the precise moment of death is hardly an exact science.”

      James Read sighed in exasperation. “Very well, Doctor. In that case, in your learned opinion …”

      The stout man shrugged. “Half a day, perhaps. Not more than one at the most.” He removed a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his brow.

      The Chief Magistrate’s mouth formed itself into a thin, grim line. “And the cause?”

      The handkerchief was placed back inside the sleeve. “Ah, now, of that there can be no doubt. Fracture of the cranium. The occipital bone –”

      Read waved his hand impatiently. “In plain English, Dr McGregor, if you please.”

      “He means,” Hawkwood said, “that the poor bastard was beaten to death.”

      Beside him, the doctor winced. McGregor, the surgeon appointed by the coroner to examine the body of the murdered Runner, was overweight and round-faced and gave the impression that he was rather taken with his own importance and thus not used to being interrupted, whether by a Chief Magistrate or his subordinate. The web of red veins radiating across his nose and upper cheeks suggested that his high self-esteem was matched only by his fondness for port. He fixed Hawkwood with a cold glare.

      “Not strictly true. The indications are that the skull was pierced rather than battered.”

      “Either way, he died of it.” Hawkwood did not feel СКАЧАТЬ