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

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СКАЧАТЬ Woodburn?” Lee stared at Hawkwood. “Sparrow tells me Scully’s dead. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from him.” The American clicked his tongue in mock annoyance. “I do declare, Officer Hawkwood, you are one persistent son of a bitch! With the devil’s own luck, too.”

      Hawkwood said nothing.

      The American frowned. “Was it you that killed him?”

      “No,” Hawkwood said. He saw no point in embellishment.

      Lee held Hawkwood’s gaze for what seemed like several minutes before he shrugged and said, “No matter. He was a liability and no loss as far as brains are concerned. It means I’m a man short, though, and that’s an irritation I could do without. I swear, Officer Hawkwood, you try a man’s patience, you really do.”

      “You can’t win, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “I have men outside.”

      Lee shook his head and laughed. “No, you don’t. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. They’d have come running when we carried you in here. We’d be knee-deep in constables. No, sir, you’re on your own. Which means you’re all mine.”

      I have one man, Hawkwood thought. I have Jago. Maybe.

      A movement behind Lee caught Hawkwood’s eye. Sparrow, he assumed, but then the figure stepped into view – a slim figure, dressed in a dark, tight-fitting coat, matching breeches, and black, calf-length leather riding boots. And suddenly it all began to make perfect sense.

      “Good morning, Matthew,” Catherine de Varesne said. The pistol in her right hand was cocked and pointing directly at his heart.

      Hawkwood smiled. “Hello, Catherine.”

      She frowned. “You don’t seem surprised.”

      Hawkwood touched the wound on his head. “It was your perfume. It’s very distinctive.”

      Catherine de Varesne’s dark eyes shone with amusement. The pistol barrel did not waver.

      Lee grinned. “Well, now, isn’t this something?”

      Hawkwood looked at him.

      “She’s Bonaparte’s best agent, my friend, and she’s been playing you like a trout on a line.”

      Friends in high places, Hawkwood thought.

      He closed his eyes and wondered how he could have been so bloody stupid and why it had taken him so long. When he opened his eyes, he saw that she was still smiling.

      “We knew you’d been assigned to the coach murders,” Catherine said. “We knew of your reputation, Matthew, your tenacity. What we didn’t know was how to deal with you, how to get you out of the way. The ball presented us with our opportunity.”

      Hawkwood recalled his briefing with James Read. It was now clear why Lord Mandrake had asked for him specifically. It had been a heaven-sent opportunity for Mandrake and Lee to observe and take the measure of the man who had been put on their trail.

      It was also now clear why Lord Mandrake hadn’t been home when he’d called. It had been Catherine who had alerted him, sending word, probably via her maid, that Hawkwood had begun asking awkward questions.

      A thought struck him. “Was Rutherford part of it, too?”

      Catherine snorted scornfully. Her eyes flashed. “Rutherford’s an arrogant fool. I merely made use of him.”

      “You led Rutherford on,” Hawkwood said, understanding. “He and his friends were drunk. You made them think they could have you, then you acted the innocent, and you waited for me to come to your rescue.”

      “My knight in shining armour.” Her dark eyes mocked him. “It was simply a matter of setting the scene. We knew you couldn’t resist helping a lady in distress.”

      The servant must have been in on it as well, Hawkwood realized. Which accounted for the man’s less than co-operative attitude when Hawkwood had revisited Mandrake House.

      “You knew Rutherford wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Hawkwood said. “You knew that he wouldn’t back down in front of his cronies, that he’d call me out! What were you hoping? That he’d kill me?”

      As he spoke, he wondered about Lawrence’s contribution, but knew instinctively that the major could only have been an unwitting and convenient ingredient in the broth.

      She smiled. “More likely you’d kill him, Matthew. Either way, we would be rid of you.”

      “But you confounded us, Hawkwood,” Lee interposed. “Damn it, man, you let the bugger live!”

       Did you kill him?

      Hawkwood remembered her question in the carriage, following the duel. That indecipherable expression on her face had been, he now realized, one of half-concealed expectation. He recalled what had happened at the house; how, after she had tended his wound, she had initiated their energetic coupling, leaving him breathless and drained. It had been the knowledge that they had fought over her, that blood had been drawn, that had excited her, igniting the passion.

      “Well now,” Lee said, “much as I hate to interrupt this happy reunion, we’ve work to do. So, gentlemen, if you’d be so kind as to follow me. Time and tide, they say, wait for no man, especially today. Oh, and a warning, Captain Hawkwood; if you’re thinking of attempting something heroic, don’t. It won’t be you the mademoiselle’ll shoot first, it’ll be the old man.”

      Lee turned and led the way out of the cell, along a stone-flagged passageway. Their shadows, trapped in the lantern light, accompanied them in a flickering procession. Hawkwood had the distinct impression that the passageway sloped downwards and he suspected they were nearing the river. Certainly, the putrid smell of the water seemed to be getting stronger. His suspicions were confirmed when, after turning several corners and descending a narrow flight of stairs, they emerged into the warehouse’s main gallery.

      The gallery was long and narrow and must have stretched the full width of the warehouse. The walls were of wood but the stonework at the base of the walls indicated that this was probably the oldest part of the building, resting upon the original foundations. Half the gallery was taken up with the interior loading dock. It was here that cargoes would have been transferred from barrow to barge, and vice versa. The stout wooden doors that Jago had drawn to Hawkwood’s attention earlier were located at the end of the dock. They were still closed, but there was sufficient space between them for daylight to penetrate. Further illumination came courtesy of two narrow, high-set windows and several lanterns hanging from hooks. The place reminded Hawkwood of a flooded church vault.

      “Well, then,” Lee said. “What do you think of her?”

      Hawkwood stood and stared.

      The submersible was tethered to the dock by lines fore and aft. She looked bigger than he had expected; about twenty-five feet long. At first glance, with her wooden deck and tapering bow and stern, the vessel looked like any other small river craft. On closer inspection, however, a number of differences were discernible. Below the shortened bowsprit, protruding vertically from an extended prow, was a thin metal rod from which radiated four elliptical blades, each about two feet in length. Aft, below the stern rail, a similar device, horizontally set, could be seen. СКАЧАТЬ