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

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Two words, one of them incomplete, with no discernible meaning. Hawkwood sat back and frowned.

      The striking of the tavern clock brought him out of his trance. It was half past seven. The Bow Street Public Office closed at eight. Hawkwood knew, however, that in one room at least the candles would continue to burn brightly. He rolled up the sketches and replaced them inside the baton. Yet again he would have to delay his attempt to contact Jago. It was time to report back to James Read. Two heads were supposed to be better than one. It seemed an ideal opportunity to put the theory to the test.

      It occurred to Hawkwood that throughout his period of service at Bow Street he must have been privy to every permutation of mood change the Chief Magistrate had to offer. Anger, frustration, irascibility, sarcasm, amusement, and, on the odd occasion, even the depths of despair. The one thing he had never witnessed, however, had been James Read’s inability to produce speech. Until now.

      The look on the Chief Magistrate’s face as he removed the sketches from Warlock’s tipstaff would remain for ever etched in Hawkwood’s brain. James Read sucked in his breath and paled as the full details of the drawings came to light. Hawkwood could not recall seeing the man so profoundly shaken. After what seemed an age, the magistrate raised his head.

      “I want you to describe exactly how you came by these. I urge you to leave nothing out – nothing.”

      As Hawkwood spoke, the Chief Magistrate listened in silence. Not once did Read’s piercing blue eyes leave the Runner’s face. When Hawkwood had given his account, James Read continued to stare down at the drawings.

      Hawkwood, unable to curb his impatience, broke the silence. “What are they?”

      Without looking up, Read said, “It is my belief they are the former contents of the dispatch pouch stolen from the navy courier murdered during the mail coach hold-up on the Kent Road.”

      The room turned as cold and as quiet as a tomb. “I don’t understand,” Hawkwood said. “What the hell does a navy courier have to do with clocks?”

      “Clocks?” The Chief Magistrate stared at Hawkwood aghast. “Clocks? Do you seriously think that’s what this is about – the design for some newfangled timepiece? Good grief, man, if only it were that simple!” Without further explanation, the Chief Magistrate turned towards the door. “MR TWIGG!”

      The door opened almost before the summons was out of the magistrate’s mouth.

      “Sir?” Ezra Twigg blinked and waited for his instructions.

      Read reached for a pen and wrote quickly on a sheet of notepaper. Folding the paper and sealing it, he wrote an address and handed it to his clerk. “You are to deliver this posthaste, Mr Twigg. You’ll note that Caleb is waiting outside. Be so good as to inform him there will be two passengers. We’ll be down directly.”

      Spurred by the urgency in the magistrate’s tone, Twigg nodded. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

      As the clerk scampered out of the office, the Chief Magistrate reached for his cane.

      “Why wasn’t I told?” Hawkwood tried to keep his voice calm.

      The Chief Magistrate paused. “Told what?”

      “What was in the pouch. You knew what the contents were when you assigned me to the case. Why didn’t you tell me that’s what they were after all along? The passenger’s valuables were a diversion. You knew that.”

      “I thought it was a possibility. There was always the chance it was a simple highway robbery and, if that was the case, there was no point drawing unnecessary attention to the dispatch pouch or its contents. But enough of this, we’re wasting time.”

      “You should have trusted me,” Hawkwood said.

      The magistrate’s head came up swiftly. There was a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “For what it’s worth, Hawkwood, I do trust you. Keeping you in ignorance was not my choice. My hands were tied. However, if you want to find out the true facts behind this case, I suggest you rein in your vexation and come with me.” Without waiting for a response, the Chief Magistrate turned and hurried out of the room.

      Hawkwood swore under his breath. If it wasn’t about clocks, what the hell was it about? And, more to the point, how in God’s name had the proceeds of the coach robbery ended up in Warlock’s possession? None of it made any sense.

      It wasn’t until he heard Read give the waiting coachman his instructions that he learned their destination. Which made even less sense.

      The Admiralty Building, Whitehall.