Rapscallion

choirboys, is it? There's the matter of that incident back on the hulk. How many were killed? Five, wasn't it? That's a very impressive total. One might even say excessive. That drew our attention right away, didn't it, Cephus?'

'Certainly did,' Pepper said. It was the first time Morgan's lieutenant had employed emphasis.

'All we're asking is that you put your expertise to good use,' Morgan said.

'You take us for assassins?' Lasseur said.

Morgan shook his head. 'The thought never entered my head.

But you are still at war, aren't you? Which means Riding Officer Jilks is the enemy and, given what's at stake, I'd say that makes him as much a threat as a Royal Navy frigate or a regiment of dragoons. Wouldn't you?'

'The man's got a point,' Hawkwood said.

'And there's nothing to connect him with either you or Captain Hooper,' Morgan said. 'Complete the job and in a few days you'll be on your way home, considerably richer.'

'You're implying that we have an obligation?' Lasseur said.

'I'm suggesting you're both supremely practical men who are about to embark on a vital mission. What's the life of one man when weighed against the future of France?'

'And your investments.' Lasseur played with the stem of his glass. 'Let's not forget those.'

'Without which your Emperor will be considerably poorer and your army less well equipped.' If Morgan felt any rancour at Lasseur's reply, he gave no sign. 'It's your duty to turn that fortune around, Captain.'

Lasseur looked at Hawkwood.

'He's right, my friend,' Hawkwood sighed. 'If we were on the Scorpion and we spied a fat merchantman lying at anchor off the Downs, we wouldn't be having this conversation. We'd be sanding the decks and running out the guns and Devil take the hindmost. I say if this Jilks is the only thing standing between me and a Goddamned fortune, the bastard's fair game.' Hawkwood lifted his glass. 'And you know it.'

He turned to Morgan. 'You want him taken care of? Consider it done.'

Chief Magistrate James Read stood by his window, looking down on to the scene below. Bow Street echoed with the sounds of a city going about its daily toil. The clatter of hooves mingled with the rumble of carriage wheels while the wavering cries of the street vendors rose into the air in a discordant chorus of strangulated vowels.

Read's eyes were drawn to the opposite side of the road and the exterior of the Brown Bear public house. A small boy, one of the countless street urchins that roamed the area, had just attempted to fleece a passing pedestrian of his pocket watch and was being beaten roundly about the head by his intended victim. The boy was struggling like a minnow on a hook. Read couldn't help but admire the young pickpocket's nerve, plying his trade only strides from the entrance to the Public Office. He shook his head despairingly as the boy kicked his aggressor in the shins and ran off through the crowds. It took only a matter of yards before he had vanished from view. It was interesting, Read thought, that no one from downstairs had seen the altercation and thought to intervene. He would have to make enquiries. Perhaps a constable stationed permanently by the front entrance would rectify the situation.

Read made a mental note and returned to his desk. As he sat down, there was a knock at the door. It opened and Ezra Twigg entered.

'A communication from the Admiralty, sir. Just delivered by courier. I've told him to wait in case there's a reply.'

'Thank you, Mr Twigg.'

Read slit open the seal while Twigg hovered. His eyes skipped unerringly to the signature at the bottom of the page. The message was from Ludd.

Ezra Twigg watched as the magistrate's brow darkened.

'I take it there's been no word, sir?' Twigg said.

Read did not reply. He laid the letter on his desk and said in a subdued tone, 'You may tell the courier he can go. There is no reply.'

Twigg nodded and headed for the door. He hesitated and turned. 'Is everything in order, sir?'

Read looked at his clerk. 'You were correct in your assumption, Mr Twigg. Captain Ludd informs me that there has been no word from Officer Hawkwood since he escaped from his confinement. Nor has there been any word of him.'

Twigg blinked behind his spectacles as he regarded the Chief Magistrate's solemn expression. The clerk had worked for James Read long enough to know that look. Read's appearance, from the swept-back silver hair and aquiline face to his dark conservative dress, was everything one might expect from a senior public servant. It led those who did not know him to suppose he was an official who performed his duties with a puritanical zeal and a man who had no personal regard for anyone who did not adhere to his own exacting standards. Ezra Twigg knew differently.

Behind the prim facade there resided a man who was fully and often painfully aware of the responsibilities he carried on his slim and elegantly clad shoulders. Read was indeed dedicated to his job. He was also dedicated to the men who worked for him. The Chief Magistrate knew the dangers facing his officers. The Runners were an elite band and few in number. They were thinly stretched and, by the nature of their assignments around the country, often placed in harm's way. Read knew them to be highly competent, resourceful and sometimes ruthless. It wasn't unusual for an officer to remain out of contact for a time. But that didn't stop Read from feeling concern for their welfare or their safety.

And Read's pensive look told Ezra Twigg all he needed to know.

The Chief Magistrate was worried.

'Is there anything I can do for you, sir?'

Read looked up. His face remained serious and thoughtful.

'Yes, Mr Twigg, there is. I'd be obliged if you could deliver a message for me.'

'Very good, sir.' Twigg waited expectantly. After a pause, he said, 'And to whom am I delivering this message, sir?'

Read told him.

Twigg's eyebrows rose. 'Do you think he'll come?'

Read nodded. 'He'll come.'

'I'll leave right away.' Twigg made for the door.

'Mr Twigg?'

The clerk turned. 'Your Honour?'

'Please tread carefully,' Read said.

Twigg permitted himself a small smile. 'I always do, sir.'

Read nodded. The clerk closed the door behind him. Read looked at the clock in the corner of the room. He took a watch from his pocket and consulted the dial. Walking to the clock he reached up and moved the minute hand to a quarter past the hour.

Perhaps it was an omen, he thought. Time was ticking away.

In the outer office, Ezra Twigg sent the waiting courier on his way and reached for his hat.

He wasn't sure if he should offer a prayer for his safe return before he left.

For he was, after all, about to pay a visit to the Holy Land.

The Hanged Man public house lay in a dark alleyway behind Buckbridge Street. It was not the sort of establishment frequented by gentlemen or ladies of a genteel disposition. It catered mostly for those who lived on the edges of conventional society, the borderland between the criminal and the lawful. Gamblers, tricksters, forgers and debtors; opportunists, seducers, procurers and paramours all frequented its dim-lit, beer-steeped, smoke-filled interior.

At the back of the main room on the first floor, four men wreathed in tobacco fumes were playing dominoes. The men's faces were serious as they concentrated on the game before them. Their moves were brisk and confident. There was little banter. The position of the counters in front of each player face down, in two rows of three - and the pile of coins by each participant's elbow testified to the spirit in which the game was being played.

One man seemed to be ahead in his winnings. He was stocky, with a craggy face and short, pewter-coloured hair. His back was to the wall. When he was not concentrating on his counters, his eyes watched the room. There