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

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      “Sir, I protest!” But the footman’s objections went unheeded. With the servant trotting abjectly in his wake, Hawkwood checked the ground floor. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the lofty passages. No doubt about it, the cupboard was bare. Hawkwood heard voices, but when he investigated the source, he found only servants performing last-minute chores, cleaning fireplaces and placing dust covers over the furniture.

      “When did they leave?” Hawkwood asked.

      Lord Mandrake, accompanied by his wife and guest and a not inconsiderable amount of luggage, had vacated the house early that morning. Very early, it transpired, not much past first light.

      Was it usual, Hawkwood asked pointedly, for Lord Mandrake to depart for his northern estates at this time of year? And if so, was it also his lordship’s custom to depart at the crack of dawn?

      The servant’s reply wasn’t much help. Lord Mandrake visited his estates whenever the mood took him. As for setting off early, it was a long journey, therefore, the earlier the family left, the earlier the family arrived.

      Hawkwood bit down on his frustration. A thought struck him.

      “Tell me, has his lordship been having any trouble with his clocks?”

      The footman blinked uncomprehendingly. “Clocks?”

      “Yes, his bloody clocks, damn it! Were any of the household clocks in need of repair?”

      “Er, no, sir, not as I recall.” It was apparent from his expression that the footman had begun to harbour serious doubts about Hawkwood’s sanity.

      Well, it had been a random shot, anyway. They returned to the front door, where the servant could not hide his relief at showing Hawkwood out. The Runner stood on the steps and reflected. There was little doubt that Lord Mandrake had left in unseemly haste.

      But for what reason?

      Coincidence or conspiracy?

      “And so we commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In sure and certain hope …”

      The parson’s voice droned on, flat and unemotional, giving the impression that the burial service was a task to be endured. Hawkwood found himself wishing for what would probably be the Reverend Fludde’s more strident style of oratory. He stared into the open grave at the rough wooden coffin, and wondered if his own funeral would be so sparsely attended. Probably, he concluded ruefully.

      It was late afternoon. The corner of the tiny churchyard was dappled in fading sunlight. Next to Hawkwood, James Read leaned on his stick, his face sombre. Aside from Hawkwood and the Chief Magistrate, there were only three other mourners. There was Ezra Twigg, looking suitably solemn. At the clerk’s shoulder, a heavy, thickset man: Runner Jeremiah Lightfoot, currently on assignment with the Bank of England. Standing several paces away, shaded beneath the branches of an apple tree, a slight black-shawled woman, face drawn with grief, sobbed into a handkerchief. Warlock’s sister, whose husband, Hawkwood had learned, had been killed at Almeida. Henry Warlock had been her last surviving kin. Over by the railings, a pair of gravediggers squatted against a moss-encrusted tombstone, smoking clay pipes as they waited patiently for the parson’s signal.

      The cost of the burial had been borne by the Public Office; a small courtesy, but it had meant the Runner’s remains could be buried in the same plot as his wife and infant son. Without it, Warlock’s body would have been consigned to an unmarked poor hole. James Read, Hawkwood knew, would never have countenanced such an indignity for one of his officers. The Chief Magistrate looked after his own.

      There was no eulogy. The parson, his duty done, clasped his hands devoutly, and nodded to the waiting gravediggers.

      While the Chief Magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and Runner Lightfoot, went to offer condolences to Warlock’s grieving sister, Hawkwood watched as the gravediggers replaced the soil. It took time. Read had ensured that Warlock’s body was buried deep. The resurrection men tended to work during the winter months when the anatomy schools were open, but it wasn’t unheard of for the body snatchers to operate out of season. So the precaution had been taken and Henry Warlock would sleep soundlessly in his grave, free from disturbance. Hawkwood stared down at the low mound of earth and the modest headstone bearing the names of Warlock’s wife and son. The Runner’s own name had yet to be inscribed. Small compensation, Hawkwood reflected, for fifteen years’ loyal service and a fractured skull.

      He sensed he was being watched and looked up. The child’s presence came as a shock and he wondered how long she had been there. Jenny, the waif who had escorted him to his meeting with Jago. She approached him slowly, picking her way between the gravestones. Her bare feet made no noise on the soft grass.

      “Told ter bring you this –” she said, and held out her hand.

      Hawkwood took the scrap of paper and opened it. The scrawled message was succinct.

       Rats Nest. Ten o’clock.

      It was signed J.

       14

      Bound with brass, dark and pitted with age, the oak chest had survived a score of bloody campaigns. It had belonged to a major in the Guards before falling into Hawkwood’s possession. The major had died from wounds on the retreat to Corunna, and Hawkwood had acquired the chest at auction, the proceeds having gone to the major’s widow.

      It contained the mementos of war.

      Hawkwood opened the lid. The sheathed sword rested on top. A heavy, curved sword, with a blade designed to cleave bone and muscle. With great care, Hawkwood removed the weapon and laid it to one side.

      Beneath the sword, carefully folded, lay the dark green, black-braided officer’s tunic. The tunic had been patched many times, most noticeably around elbow and shoulder. The stitching, though worn ragged by time, had been neatly executed. The mending had been done by the wife of a Chosen Man. A seamstress by trade, she had been one of the many camp followers who’d accompanied their husbands to the war.

      Next to the tunic, also folded, lay a pair of grey cavalry breeches, reinforced with leather inserts down the inside of the leg. Like the tunic, they showed numerous signs of wear and tear. Alongside the breeches, the sash; once bright crimson, now tattered and torn and the colour of dried oxblood.

      The officer’s greatcoat lay underneath. Weighty and warm, it had protected Hawkwood during the harsh Spanish winters; wind and rain, sleet and snow, nights so cold a man’s piss froze before it hit the ground.

      Secured at both ends by ribboned ties, the long, grey oilcloth-wrapped bundle lay diagonally beneath the coat. Hawkwood reached in and lifted the bundle out. He hesitated before untying the ribbons.

      The rifle barrel gleamed brightly in the candlelight. Etched on to a brass plate on the polished stock was the inscription: Ezekiel Baker & Son, gunmakers to His Majesty, London.

      A hundred memories were stirred as Hawkwood rewrapped the gun and laid it on the bed. With this rifle he had shot and killed the Spanish general atop the ramparts at Montevideo. It had accompanied him into Portugal and Spain and it had served him well. In return, he had cared for СКАЧАТЬ