Ratcatcher

“You’re aware time is of the essence?”

“Naturally,” Read said, refusing to be intimidated by the First Sea Lord’s arrogant manner. A flash of annoyance showed on Yorke’s face as he watched Read place his cane on the table and remove his gloves. The First Sea Lord obviously regarded Read as something of a fop. Had he chosen to examine the cane more closely, however, he might well have revised his opinion. Concealed within the slim shaft was a twenty-four-inch, perfectly balanced blade crafted from the finest Toledo steel. Made specially for him by William Parker of Holborn, it was a weapon with which James Read was extremely adept.

Over the years he had held office, Read had received numerous threats from criminals he’d sent down or from their associates who’d sworn revenge for seeing their kith and kin hanged, imprisoned or transported. Most of the threats, issued in the heat of the moment, would never be carried out. The will to exact vengeance usually faded with the passage of time, but Read was of the opinion that it paid to be cautious. Twice he had been forced to defend himself. The first assailant had managed to limp away with only a superficial leg wound. The second had died from a pierced lung. On both occasions, Read had emerged unscathed.

“He’s trustworthy, this officer of yours?” the First Sea Lord enquired bluntly.

There was a pause. “All my officers are trustworthy,” Read said. The Runners at any rate, he thought to himself. Constables and watchmen were a different matter.

“Er—quite so, quite so,” the First Sea Lord said, suddenly and surprisingly contrite. “No offence meant.” He wafted a placatory hand.

“May we be permitted to know the fellow’s name?”

The question came from one of the seated men; a sandyhaired, austere-looking individual in naval dress. The three stripes on his sleeve denoted his rank.

It was not uncommon for the post of First Sea Lord to be held by a politician rather than a navy man. In such circumstances, the senior naval officer on the Admiralty Board was employed by the First Sea Lord in an advisory capacity. In this instance, Charles Yorke’s advisor was Admiral Bartholomew Dalryde.

From midshipman to admiral, Dalryde had served his country with distinction. His first command, the frigate Audacious, had been gained at the age of twenty-four. Since then, he had fought in the American War of Independence, served under Hood in the Mediterranean and with Nelson at Cape St Vincent and Trafalgar.

“His name is Hawkwood.”

“Hawkwood?” The chin of the second man seated at the broad table came up sharply.

The First Sea Lord fixed the speaker with a stern eye. “You know him, Blomefield?”

Thomas Blomefield, Inspector General of Artillery and Head of the Ordnance Board, frowned. In his late sixties, he was the oldest man present. In many respects his career mirrored that of the Admiral. Blomefield had begun his service as a cadet at Woolwich Military Academy. He, too, had fought in the American War, suffering wounds at Saratoga. It had been Blomefield who’d commanded the artillery during the Copenhagen expedition. His speciality was armaments. The Ordnance Board controlled the supply of guns and ammunition to both the army and the navy. As well as controlling the distribution of the guns, Blomefield also designed them. Many of his designs had become the standard pattern used on board ships of the line.

“There’s something about the name,” Blomefield’s brow furrowed. He looked at Read. “How long has he been with you?”

A sixth sense warned Read that he might be straying into potentially dangerous waters, but it was too late to retract. The truth would out anyway, given time. “Not long. A little over a year.”

“And before then?”

“He saw service in the military.”

Blomefield stiffened. Read could tell that somewhere in the dark recesses of the Inspector General’s brain a light had suddenly dawned.

“Hawkwood?” Blomefield repeated the name and sat up suddenly. “Of the 95th?”

Read said nothing.

“I’ll be damned!” Blomefield said.

An expression of displeasure flitted across the Admiral’s face. Dalryde was a strict church-goer who disapproved of strong language, especially when it involved taking the Lord’s name in vain. At sea, his reputation as a disciplinarian had been founded upon an unhealthy appetite for flogging any luckless seaman he overheard blaspheme. It was said that his appointment to the Admiralty Board had been met with considerable relief by the officers and men serving under his direct command.

“Would the Inspector General care to share his knowledge?” The First Sea Lord turned flinty eyes towards his fellow Board member.

Blomefield looked towards Read as if seeking his approval to continue, but the Chief Magistrate’s face remained neutral.

“I was merely thinking, if it is the same man, he has rather an interesting past.”

“Explain.”

Blomefield, obviously wishing he’d held his tongue, hesitated fractionally before replying. “There was an incident during his army service, I seem to recall. An affair of honour. He, er…killed a fellow officer.”

As Blomefield shifted uneasily in his seat, the First Sea Lord turned to James Read in bewilderment. “Is this true?”

The Chief Magistrate nodded. “The Inspector General is quite correct.”

“And you were aware of his past before you recruited him?”

“Naturally. I vet all my officers with the utmost care.”

The First Sea Lord stared aghast. “Good God, man! I’m due to report to the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary later this morning. How the devil do you expect me to tell them that the officer we’ve assigned to the investigation was a common soldier who once killed a man in a duel? Answer me that!”

“A common soldier?” Read responded quickly. “Hawkwood was an uncommonly fine officer, and I hardly need remind you, my lord, that the Rifle Company’s reputation is second to none.”

“I am quite familiar with their reputation,” the First Sea Lord replied tartly. “And I’m equally aware that certain accounts of their activities have been less than favourable.”

The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips. “I concede their tactics lean towards the unorthodox. Nevertheless —”

“Unorthodox?” Yorke rasped. “Unorthodox is naught but a highfalutin’ term for undisciplined. Why, I understand the officers even drill alongside the men!”

“But they achieve results,” Read countered. “Hawkwood’s an excellent officer, a shade unconventional in his methods, perhaps, but it has long been my experience in dealing with lawbreakers that the end quite often justifies the means.”

The First Sea Lord stared at the Chief Magistrate aghast. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He appeared lost for words.

“You’ve got to admit,” Blomefield broke in, “there is a kind of justice to it. Set a killer to track down a brace of murderers. Why, I’d say the fellow’s ideally suited to the task. Mind you, I confess I’m curious to know how you came by him.”

There was a half-smile on the Inspector General’s face. Read realized that Blomefield was offering him an opening.

“He was recommended,” Read said.

The Inspector General raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“By Colquhoun Grant.”

The Inspector General gave a sharp intake of breath. Blomefield had a right to be impressed. Colquhoun Grant was one of Wellington’s most experienced exploring officers. Exploring officers operated behind enemy lines, observing the enemy’s strength and troop movements. Revered by Wellington, Grant was the chief liaison between the guerilleros and the Duke’s intelligence service and, despite the clandestine nature of his work, or possibly because of it, was well known in military circles.

“I’ll be damned,” Blomefield murmured. “So, the rumours were true. Your man did take to the hills.” The Inspector General turned to the First Sea Lord and smiled.