opened and closed at will, with the positions of the shutters representing letters of the alphabet. Ludd had taken Hawkwood up to the roof of the Admiralty building to show him the signalling mechanism in action. It was an ingenious contraption. Ludd had boasted that, given good visibility, a message could be relayed from Portsmouth to Whitehall in less than ten minutes. Preparatory signals could be acknowledged in a quarter of that time, which was impressive, given that it had taken almost five minutes for Hawkwood and Ludd just to reach the roof.
There were two lines of shutter stations in Kent. One ran from Sheerness to Faversham - Hawkwood assumed notification of his and Lasseur's escape had been sent down that route. The other line ran from the roof at Whitehall via a dozen stations, including Chatham and Faversham, all the way to Deal.
Given the farm's location in relation to the coast, Hawkwood estimated the Shottenden telegraph was the nearest. It was probably no more than seven or eight miles away, but it lay across country. Barham, the next station down the line, sat on the main Canterbury to Dover Road. The distance was perhaps a mile or so longer, and it was a route Morgan was probably monitoring, but the journey would be quicker. Hawkwood knew if he could get to Barham, he could alert both the Admiralty and the Deal authorities at the same time.
'Then wait until morning,' Lasseur argued. 'That's still more than enough time for the signal to be seen. You need to eat and you'll be fully rested. If you leave at first light, you're less likely to find Morgan's men on the road, and you'll be in better shape should you need to take evasive action.'
Hawkwood pulled on his left boot and reached for his jacket, which he had laid on the bed. It was more of a struggle than he had anticipated. He felt slightly nauseous and the bitter aftertaste of the Widow Flynn's tincture was suddenly strong at the back of his tongue. His clothes were beginning to feel tight around him, too, after the looseness of the nightshirt. He had the sudden, intense desire to rest his head on the nearest pillow.
In his heart, he knew there was sense in what Lasseur was telling him. His body was warning him that it needed rest. He hadn't eaten in a long time. He was in no condition to sit astride a horse and endure a nine-mile ride or deal with any threat that came at him.
He nodded reluctantly. 'All right - you win. I'll leave at dawn.'
When Pepper walked into the room, Morgan was at his desk, going through the accounts ledger. He was not having a good day. Despite the upheaval - in particular, the threat posed by the disappearance of the Runner and the Frenchman - work had to go on. There were still things that required his attention: runs and meetings to arrange, people to manage, deliveries to supervise, accounts to be maintained, both the legitimate ones and those 'off the books'. He looked up. There was no warmth in his gaze. 'Cephus.'
'Ezekiel,' Pepper said, closing the door behind him.
Morgan glowered at his lieutenant. 'Well?'
The severe expression on Pepper's face told him all he needed to know.
Morgan slammed his pen down on to the table. His features darkened. 'God damn it to hell! Somebody must know something!' He shook his head in anger and exasperation. 'That bastard Runner can't have made it home. There's been no sign that an alarm's gone out. Deal's quiet. There's no extra troop activity. The place would be crawling if the Admiralty or the army had been alerted.'
'We're still on, then?' Pepper said. He stood as if awaiting orders.
Morgan glanced towards the unlit hearth, where the two mastiffs were stretched out, hogging most of the carpet. Useless bloody animals, he thought, and felt more anger building. The dogs did not look up. It was as if they were trying to avoid eye contact, knowing they were the objects of Morgan's displeasure.
'I haven't decided.' He tried to keep his voice steady.
'We're cutting it fine,' Pepper said.
'I bloody know that, Cephus!' Frustrated, Morgan pushed the books to one side. So much for keeping calm. He knew he was running out of time; the decision could not be put off for much longer. As a result he could feel the tension welling up inside him like a dam threatening to burst. He chewed his lip. 'What's happening with our guests?'
'Restless. They want it over and done with.'
'Don't we all.'
'They keep asking if we've news of Lasseur.'
'They miss him?'
'No,' Pepper said. 'I think they want to kill him.'
'Then they'll have to join the bloody queue,' Morgan snarled. He sat back. 'I suppose we should be thankful
'It won't be, not as long as they think they're going to make money,' Pepper said.
'Just so long as they keep thinking that,' Morgan said, rising from his desk.
Walking across to the side table, Morgan reached for the bottle of brandy and poured a measure into a small, ornate glass. He downed the brandy in one swallow. He did not offer a drink to Pepper.
Pepper said nothing. He waited.
Without warning, Morgan picked up the bottle and hurled it at the wall above the fireplace. He followed it with the tumbler. As the bottle shattered and the glass and spirit rained down upon them, the dogs shot to their feet and fled towards the shelter of the desk. 'God damned bastard sons of bitches!' Morgan roared. Globules of spittle flecked his beard. He picked up another bottle and threw it at the brindle mastiff, catching it across its rear end. The dog yelped and tried to hide behind one of the chairs.
'Ezekiel?' Pepper said, moving towards him, halting abruptly when he saw that Morgan had retrieved one of the loaded pistols from the table.
Morgan cocked the pistol, aimed at the fawn dog, and fired. The dog howled and fell away, paws scrabbling impotently on the carpet. Suddenly, it began to shake, its back legs kicking uselessly. The howls became whimpers. The dog's flanks stopped moving. Blood pooled on the floor beneath it.
'For the love of God, Ezekiel!' Pepper cried as the brindle mastiff padded cautiously out of hiding and started to lick the blood off its companion's hindquarters.
Morgan lowered the gun. He stared down at the dog, then walked purposefully across the room and laid the pistol on the desk.
He turned to Pepper. His face suddenly composed. 'Get someone in to clear that mess up.' Morgan pointed to the dead mastiff.
Pepper hesitated then nodded silently. He could hear footsteps and muted voices outside; people wondering what was happening.
Morgan stepped around the corpse. Absently he stroked the brindle mastiff's ears before sitting back down at his desk. He felt, he realized, remarkably at peace now.
'And, Cephus?'
Pepper halted by the door.
'The Runner and the Frenchman - I want them found; I want their balls served up on a plate.'
'We're looking,' Pepper said.
'Look harder. Lasseur will be making for the coast. He'll be trying to get home. I want every fisherman, every skipper, anyone with a bloody rowboat between Rye and Rochester to keep his eyes peeled.'
'And the Runner?'
'He's the dangerous one. He'll want to tell everyone what he's heard here, whereas the Frog'll want to keep his head down.' Morgan hesitated. 'You can't deny they're damned effective as a pair. It could be the two of them will stick together at first, so they can watch each other's backs. Increase the reward. I want people on their toes, so start pulling in markers. Everyone who owes us - and that's
'I'll do that,' Pepper said. Rackham was Morgan's pet surgeon. His surgical skills wouldn't win him any kudos at Barts or St Thomas's, but he was discreet, and that was what counted.
'All right,' Morgan said.
Pepper let himself out.
Morgan returned to his books but found it impossible to concentrate. Restless, he stood up and moved to the window.
