On this occasion, however, there was only one person he could approach. And to speak with that individual he would have to enter a dangerous place; a world into which no officer of the law would dare venture if he valued his life. But first, certain arrangements would have to be made.
Blind Billy Mipps was at his usual pitch: the pavement outside the Black Lion Chop House on Little Russell Street.
Blind Billy was as thin as a whip. His hair was long and matted with filth. His threadbare, lice-infested clothes hung loosely upon his weedy body. The tray from which he sold his tapers and tallow candles hung from his neck by a frayed cord. Also around his neck was suspended a card upon which was scrawled in barely legible script:
A yellowing, blood-encrusted strip of bandage was tied around Billy’s head, covering his eyes. A white stick hung from his wrist by a leather thong. Even among the other beggars and hawkers who plied their meagre wares on the capital’s crowded streets, the candle seller cut a pathetic figure.
Like every other mendicant of note, Blind Billy had established his own particular routine. Whenever he sensed the passing of a potential customer, Billy would tap his stick, rattle his tin mug and whine beseechingly, “Buy a candle, yer honour. Penny candles. Spare a copper for an old soldier!” or variations thereof.
Business so far this evening had been poor. Even the theatre crowds, traditionally a prominent source of income, had failed to display their usual generosity. Blind Billy’s tin mug did contain a few coins, but mixed in with the money was a substantial number of buttons and nails. Perhaps it was time to move on and find another stand.
Then Billy’s sharp ears picked up an approach and he went into action. “Spare a penny, sir, for the sake of the children. Buy a candl--”
“You can spare me the speech, Billy,” a harsh voice said. “I’ve heard it before.”
Billy immediately feigned deafness. He put his head on one side and rattled his tin mug in pitiful anticipation. “What’s that y’say? Spare a pen--”
Billy’s whine was cut short by the hand that gripped his wrist and the voice that murmured in his ear.
“You’re not listening, Billy. Pay attention.”
The pressure on Billy’s wrist increased. For a second or two he thought his bones might snap.
“I want you to take a message for me. To Jago. Tell him the Captain wants a meeting.”
“Jago?” Billy wheezed hoarsely. “I don’t know no Jago. I—”
Another plaintive wail as pain shot through Billy’s arm from wrist to shoulder.
“Don’t argue, Billy. You haven’t the wit for it. Just do as you’re told. Deliver the message. Understood?”
Blind Billy nodded vigorously, whereupon the hold on his wrist slackened and the pain in his arm subsided to a dull throb.
“Good. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
The question was followed by the tinkle of coinage dropping into the tin mug. Footsteps retreated into the distance.
Blind Billy waited a full twenty seconds before lifting the edge of the eye bandage and glancing nervously up and down the street. There were plenty of people around, but either no one had seen the threat or else they had chosen to ignore it. Billy lifted the mug and peered into it. He tipped the contents into his palm. Several donations had been made since he had last inspected the profits. Discarding the nails and the broken belt buckle, Billy transferred the coins to the pouch beneath his tattered waistcoat. He followed this by removing the placard from around his neck. Then, showing a remarkable fleetness of foot for a blind man, he proceeded along the street at a shuffling run.
Seated at a window table inside the Black Lion Chop House, Hawkwood watched the pedlar’s departure with a grim smile. All he had to do now was wait.
4
Whitehall echoed to the uneven clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels as James Read stepped down from his carriage. He stared up at the imposing entrance of the Admiralty building before turning to the driver.
“You may wait, Caleb. My business should not take long.”
The driver touched his hat. “Very good, your honour.”
Read swung his cane and made his way under the archway into the main forecourt. The driver watched the trim, blackcoated figure disappear from view before retrieving the nosebag from the carriage’s rear compartment and looping it over the mare’s head. As the mare dipped her nose and began to feed, the driver regained his seat, removed a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco. His movements were leisurely. The Chief Magistrate was a regular customer and, while his interpretation of a short time did not always correspond to everyone else’s, he did have a tendency to tip generously so it was often worth the wait.
Read strode briskly up the steps between the tall white columns and into the main building. Despite the early hour, the place was already humming with activity. Blue-uniformed naval personnel seemed to fill the hallways. They gathered in corridors and lingered on the stairs, all in the hope of catching the eye of an admiralty clerk who might speed their passage to whatever audience they hoped to arrange with the high and mighty.
Read, however, was not required to wait. The lugubrious lieutenant who escorted him through the building under the curious stare of onlookers did so in silence. Only after he had passed Read into the care of the admiral’s clerk at the entrance to the Board Room did he salute and bid the Chief Magistrate a formal “good day” before walking quickly away.
Entering the room, Read was struck, not for the first time, by the confines of the Admiralty Office. Considering it was the nerve centre of Britain’s naval administration, exerting influence that spanned every continent, it was unexpectedly modest in size.
The walls were hung with maps and roll-down charts. At one end of the room a huge globe was framed by tall, narrow, glass-fronted bookshelves. Mounted on the wall above the globe was a large dial scored with the points of the compass. This indicator, linked to the weather vane on the roof, gave an instant reading of the wind direction. The reading showed the wind was from the north east, which probably explained, Read thought, why he felt so damned cold.
A heavy, rectangular oaken table bracketed by eight chairs dominated the room. At each end, suspended from the ornate ceiling, was a tasselled bell-pull. Books and manuals formed a ridge down the middle of the table.
Three men were in attendance. Two were seated, the third stood gazing out of the window. Middle-aged, dressed in a well-fitting, double-breasted tail coat, he turned abruptly.
“Ah, Read! There you are! About time! Well, what progress?”
Charles Yorke, First Lord of the Admiralty and Fellow of the Royal Society, was a barrister by profession and a former Member of Parliament.
Read ignored the imperious greeting. Elegant and composed, he approached the table. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
The two seated men, their expressions solemn, nodded in quiet reply.
“Well, sir?” The First Sea Lord could barely conceal his impatience. His brow creased into a scowl while his pendulous lower lip trembled defiantly. “Do you have anything to report, or not?”
Read turned and answered calmly: “Only that the investigation is in hand and that I have assigned my best man to the task.”
“And how much have you told him?”
“The minimum. Sufficient for him to initiate enquiries.”
