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

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      Hawkwood felt as if he had just been struck by one of Reuben Benbow’s uppercuts. He stared at the old man in amazement. “Warlock was here?”

      To Hawkwood’s consternation, the clockmaker appeared to find the question surprising.

      “But, of course, before his escape, we –”

      The old man broke off, struck by the expression on Hawkwood’s face.

      Hawkwood found his voice. “What do you mean ‘before his escape’?”

      Josiah Woodburn gasped. Hawkwood looked down and found he was gripping the clockmaker so tightly that the old man’s wrist had turned white. He let go quickly.

      The clockmaker looked at Hawkwood in confusion. “But I thought that was how you came to be here. Did Officer Warlock not get word to the authorities?”

      “Officer Warlock’s dead,” Hawkwood said. “They killed him.”

      The clockmaker’s face fell. “Then how …?”

      “I think it should be me asking you that question,” Hawkwood said, and waited expectantly.

      It took some time before the clockmaker had composed himself sufficiently to explain, but once started, the tale did not take long in the telling. It transpired that Warlock had followed the old man’s trail by the simple expedient of questioning Lord Mandrake’s coachman. This had been as a consequence of his visiting Josiah Woodburn’s home and workshop and his meeting with the boy Quigley, who had told him, as he had told Hawkwood, that he’d seen Master Woodburn in Lord Mandrake’s carriage. Warlock had subsequently made his way to Limehouse, where he’d managed to gain entry to the warehouse, only to fall into the clutches of Lee and his fellow conspirators. Which answered a number of questions; all but the most important ones. How had Warlock managed to effect an escape and why hadn’t he taken the clockmaker with him?

      “Effecting your colleague’s escape was no problem, Officer Hawkwood,” Josiah Woodburn said matter-of-factly. “I simply opened the door for him.”

      Hawkwood thought he must have misheard. Either that or the blow to his head had done more damage than had first been supposed.

      “You forget, my boy, I’m a clockmaker. I’ve been crafting delicate timepieces for more than fifty years.” The old man smiled and held up his hands. “These are my tools. Simple locks hold no secrets from me.”

      As Hawkwood continued to stare in astonishment, the clockmaker reached under the bed. His hand emerged holding a bent iron nail. “You see?”

      Hawkwood looked at the nail then at the old man. “Why didn’t you go with him?”

      The old man twisted the nail in his hand and sighed. “Because I couldn’t risk my granddaughter’s life. She’s everything to me, my dear, darling Elizabeth. When my daughter Catherine died, I almost lost my faith. But now, when I look at my granddaughter, I know Catherine’s still with me. She lives in her, you see?” The old man clenched his fists. In a voice that was close to breaking, he added, “They threatened to kill Elizabeth if I didn’t do what they asked. They said she would be taken from me and I’d never see her again. She’s only a child, an innocent child! I couldn’t bear the thought of what they might do to her, so I didn’t dare try to escape. You do see that? I had no choice. That is why I did what he asked of me.”

      “William Lee?”

      The old man nodded and laid a hand on Hawkwood’s arm. “A duplicitous rogue. He is plotting something terrible.”

      “We know about the undersea boat,” Hawkwood said.

      Josiah Woodburn nodded again. “His submersible; ah, yes, a remarkable device.” Gathering himself, the old man said, “I knew of Fulton’s invention, of course. In fact, I actually met the fellow once. We’ve a mutual acquaintance, Sir Joseph Banks. Sir Joseph was on the committee convened by Prime Minister Pitt to evaluate the submersible’s potential six years ago, just before Trafalgar.”

      Hawkwood recalled his conversation with Colonel Congreve. This would have been the same committee that had deemed the submersible technically feasible, but likely to be impracticable in combat.

      “Tell me about Lord Mandrake,” Hawkwood said.

      The old man sighed. “He told me he had a close friend who wanted to commission a timepiece. Said his friend was confined to his bed and unable to call personally. He offered me the use of his carriage to take me to the client. Alas, it was but a ruse to deliver me into the hands of our captor.” Josiah Woodburn looked up. “Has his lordship been detained?”

      Hawkwood shook his head. “Not yet, but he will be. And then he’ll hang.”

      Josiah Woodburn gave a dry smile. “I suspect Lord Mandrake will be made to answer to a much higher authority for his brand of treachery.”

      “But why you?” Hawkwood asked. “What did Lee need you for?”

      “They were sailing the submersible here when they were hit by a storm in mid Channel. The timing device was damaged. It’s clockwork, you see, and very delicate. They needed someone with special skills to repair it; a clockmaker such as myself.”

      “A timing device for what?” Hawkwood cut in.

      Josiah Woodburn looked puzzled, as if the question had been superfluous. “Why, for his submarine bomb, of course. His torpedo.”

      So the madman really was going to go through with it, Hawkwood thought.

      “I discovered copies of Lee’s drawings of the submersible,” Josiah Woodburn said, “and gave them to Officer Warlock so that he could pass them to the authorities.” The old man shook his head. “But, given what you’ve told me, I don’t suppose he was successful.”

      “We found them,” Hawkwood said. “The Admiralty has them.”

      So the Chief Magistrate had been correct in his surmise. They were indeed the drawings taken from Lieutenant Ramillies’ corpse during the coach robbery. Serendipity had delivered them into the hands of the clockmaker and the unfortunate Warlock.

      The old man let go a long breath. “We had so little time. I had but a moment to write the name of the ship. All I could do was hope that the authorities would make sense of it.”

      Which explained the hurried calligraphy, Hawkwood thought.

      “We know about Thetis.”

      A light flared in the clockmaker’s eyes. “Thank God!”

      Suddenly, Hawkwood felt his arm gripped. The clockmaker placed his mouth next to Hawkwood’s ear. “There’s something else, Officer Hawkwood, another reason why I didn’t go with Officer Warlock. I must tell you. I –”

      But before the clockmaker could elaborate, there came the rattle of a key in the lock and the door swung open. Hastily, the clockmaker thrust the nail back in its hiding place. Hawkwood had a moment to notice that the hinges had been oiled, like those of the outside door, which had been opened so quietly he hadn’t heard the approach of the person who had knocked him out.

      William СКАЧАТЬ