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

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       4

      Whitehall echoed to the uneven clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels as James Read stepped down from his carriage. He stared up at the imposing entrance of the Admiralty building before turning to the driver.

      “You may wait, Caleb. My business should not take long.”

      The driver touched his hat. “Very good, your honour.”

      Read swung his cane and made his way under the archway into the main forecourt. The driver watched the trim, black-coated figure disappear from view before retrieving the nosebag from the carriage’s rear compartment and looping it over the mare’s head. As the mare dipped her nose and began to feed, the driver regained his seat, removed a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco. His movements were leisurely. The Chief Magistrate was a regular customer and, while his interpretation of a short time did not always correspond to everyone else’s, he did have a tendency to tip generously so it was often worth the wait.

      Read strode briskly up the steps between the tall white columns and into the main building. Despite the early hour, the place was already humming with activity. Blue-uniformed naval personnel seemed to fill the hallways. They gathered in corridors and lingered on the stairs, all in the hope of catching the eye of an admiralty clerk who might speed their passage to whatever audience they hoped to arrange with the high and mighty.

      Read, however, was not required to wait. The lugubrious lieutenant who escorted him through the building under the curious stare of onlookers did so in silence. Only after he had passed Read into the care of the admiral’s clerk at the entrance to the Board Room did he salute and bid the Chief Magistrate a formal “good day” before walking quickly away.

      Entering the room, Read was struck, not for the first time, by the confines of the Admiralty Office. Considering it was the nerve centre of Britain’s naval administration, exerting influence that spanned every continent, it was unexpectedly modest in size.

      The walls were hung with maps and roll-down charts. At one end of the room a huge globe was framed by tall, narrow, glass-fronted bookshelves. Mounted on the wall above the globe was a large dial scored with the points of the compass. This indicator, linked to the weather vane on the roof, gave an instant reading of the wind direction. The reading showed the wind was from the north east, which probably explained, Read thought, why he felt so damned cold.

      A heavy, rectangular oaken table bracketed by eight chairs dominated the room. At each end, suspended from the ornate ceiling, was a tasselled bell-pull. Books and manuals formed a ridge down the middle of the table.

      Three men were in attendance. Two were seated, the third stood gazing out of the window. Middle-aged, dressed in a well-fitting, double-breasted tail coat, he turned abruptly.

      “Ah, Read! There you are! About time! Well, what progress?”

      Charles Yorke, First Lord of the Admiralty and Fellow of the Royal Society, was a barrister by profession and a former Member of Parliament.

      Read ignored the imperious greeting. Elegant and composed, he approached the table. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

      The two seated men, their expressions solemn, nodded in quiet reply.

      “Well, sir?” The First Sea Lord could barely conceal his impatience. His brow creased into a scowl while his pendulous lower lip trembled defiantly. “Do you have anything to report, or not?”

      Read turned and answered calmly: “Only that the investigation is in hand and that I have assigned my best man to the task.”

      “And how much have you told him?”

      “The minimum. Sufficient for him to initiate enquiries.”

      “You’re aware time is of the essence?”

      “Naturally,” Read said, refusing to be intimidated by the First Sea Lord’s arrogant manner. A flash of annoyance showed on Yorke’s face as he watched Read place his cane on the table and remove his gloves. The First Sea Lord obviously regarded Read as something of a fop. Had he chosen to examine the cane more closely, however, he might well have revised his opinion. Concealed within the slim shaft was a twenty-four-inch, perfectly balanced blade crafted from the finest Toledo steel. Made specially for him by William Parker of Holborn, it was a weapon with which James Read was extremely adept.

      Over the years he had held office, Read had received numerous threats from criminals he’d sent down or from their associates who’d sworn revenge for seeing their kith and kin hanged, imprisoned or transported. Most of the threats, issued in the heat of the moment, would never be carried out. The will to exact vengeance usually faded with the passage of time, but Read was of the opinion that it paid to be cautious. Twice he had been forced to defend himself. The first assailant had managed to limp away with only a superficial leg wound. The second had died from a pierced lung. On both occasions, Read had emerged unscathed.

      “He’s trustworthy, this officer of yours?” the First Sea Lord enquired bluntly.

      There was a pause. “All my officers are trustworthy,” Read said. The Runners at any rate, he thought to himself. Constables and watchmen were a different matter.

      “Er СКАЧАТЬ