Ratcatcher

“Well, it’d take a braver man than me to argue with Captain Grant, my lord. What say you?”

The remark was rewarded with a glare from Charles Yorke. The Inspector General grinned.

Significantly, none of the Board ventured to enquire of James Read how he came to be acquainted with Wellington’s senior intelligence officer. They probably knew better than to ask, for it had long been rumoured that Chief Magistrate Read’s responsibilities extended beyond those of a purely domestic nature. There had been whispers of links between Bow Street and a number of government departments, not all of them available to public scrutiny. The word Spymaster hovered on some lips, but such was the nature of the murky world of espionage, that the truth of these rumours could never be confirmed. But then, more pointedly, they had never been denied either.

“As a matter of interest, this duel you mentioned, may one enquire as to the identity of the man he killed? You didn’t say.” The question was posed by Dalryde.

A nerve flickered along James Read’s cheek. “His name was Delancey. A nephew to the Duke of Rutland.”

“And not greatly missed, as I recall,” Blomefield murmured.

Dalryde raised an eyebrow. “Rather a harsh judgement.”

The First Sea Lord fixed the Inspector General with a baleful stare. “Indeed. The family is, by all accounts, an honourable one. And what was that about the man taking to the hills? I’d say the Admiral and I were due some sort of explanation, wouldn’t you, Blomefield? Chief Magistrate? Anybody?”

Blomefield looked towards James Read, as if seeking guidance. There was a pause, then the Chief Magistrate nodded imperceptibly.

Thomas Blomefield collected his thoughts. “It was Talavera,” he said eventually.

The First Sea Lord frowned. “The 95th were with Crauford, weren’t they? I thought the column missed the fight; didn’t arrive until the next day.”

Blomefield nodded. “That’s true, but Hawkwood wasn’t with the main column. Seems that Wellington had asked for a handful of riflemen to accompany the advance guard. Old Nosey wanted to see if their reputation was justified. Hawkwood was one of the chosen few.” Blomefield smiled. “He has the irritating habit, it appears, of being in the right place at the right time.”

“Evidently,” the First Sea Lord muttered, clearly not sharing Blomefield’s sense of humour. “So, what happened?”

The Inspector General hesitated, then said, “It was following the Frog assault by Lapisse and Sabastiani, when they were repulsed by Sherbrook’s division. You recall how the Guards and the Germans over-ran themselves? Crossed the river in pursuit?”

The First Sea Lord nodded wordlessly. The circumstances of the battle had been covered in the newspapers and were well known, except, apparently, for Hawkwood’s contribution. Which was probably just as well.

“It was Captain Hawkwood who advised the Guards’ major commanding the flank to hold his ground. Told him it would be unwise to follow. If they crossed the river, they’d run the risk of being cut off. Turned out the major was a fellow called Delancey, nephew to…well, you know who. Hawkwood might just as well have shown a red rag to a bull. No way was a captain going to tell a major, let alone a future peer of the realm, what he should or shouldn’t do. Delancey ignored the warning. And it happened just the way Hawkwood said it would. No sooner were the guards across the river than the Frogs counterattacked.

“It was a bloody disaster, of course. Not only did they open up a hole in our line, but the guards lost more than a quarter of their men. If it hadn’t been for Wellington sending in Mackenzie’s brigade to fill the gap, we’d have been done for.”

Blomefield shook his head. “Mackenzie died, of course, along with Lapisse, which I suppose was a kind of justice, but it was a close-run thing and no mistake.

“Anyway, the way I heard, at the end of the day, our Captain Hawkwood sought out Delancey and confronted him. Accused him of reckless behaviour and complete disregard for the lives of his men. In short, told him he was a bloody idiot and a disgrace to the uniform, and it would have been a blessing all round if he’d been among the poor bastards who hadn’t made it home. Bad enough man to man, of course, except this was in full view of Delancey’s friends. Only one thing to do and that was to call Hawkwood out.”

The First Sea Lord looked as if he was about to speak, but Blomefield beat him to it. “Oh, I know, regulations. Duelling strictly forbidden and all that, but for Delancey this was an affair of honour. Insult to the family name and so forth.”

“And Hawkwood killed him,” the First Sea Lord said bluntly.

“Aye. Shot him dead. Straight through the heart. Not only is our man undoubtedly a crack shot with a rifle, he can use a pistol as well.”

“And no one tried to stop it?”

Blomefield shook his head. “Delancey’s friends probably thought the affair was a foregone conclusion, thought Delancey would best the upstart. Turns out they were wrong. Only one outcome of course: court martial. I understand there were those who wanted Hawkwood sent back to Horseguards in chains and tried for murder, but nothing came of it.” Blomefield dropped his voice low. “I did hear it was Wellington himself who intervened.”

“How so?” Dalryde asked.

Blomefield shrugged. “No one knows for certain. When Hawkwood was cashiered it was generally assumed he’d be shipped back to England, but that didn’t happen.” Blomefield cast a sideways glance at the Chief Magistrate.

“So what became of him?”

Blomefield pursed his lips. “There was a rumour he’d upped and joined the guerrilleros.”

“The Spanish?” The First Sea Lord’s eyes widened.

“Went to fight with them in the mountains. He could speak the lingo, you see. French, too, it was said.” Another look towards James Read. “Whether it was with Wellington’s blessing, I wouldn’t know. I believe it was hinted that a man of Hawkwood’s experience would be better employed fighting the French than returning to England. It could be Wellington was planning to use him in some liaison capacity —that’s where your man Grant comes in, I’m thinking.” The Inspector General frowned. “I did hear another rumour that a number of his company deserted the ranks to join him. A sergeant and a brace of chosen men. Whatever the circumstances, the word was that Captain Hawkwood disappeared off the face of the earth. Until now, that is.”

There was a long silence during which the Admiral regarded James Read gravely. “That’s quite a story,” he said, finally. “And yet you’re telling us you have faith in this Hawkwood fellow? I would remind you this is more than a mere criminal matter. We are concerned with nothing less than the defence of the realm.”

“I have the utmost confidence in Officer Hawkwood,” Read said firmly. “He’s my best thief-taker. His contacts within the criminal fraternity are considerable. If anyone can track the villains to their lair, it is he.”

There followed several moments of reflection while the First Sea Lord exchanged exasperated glances with Blomefield and Dalryde. Finally, he sighed heavily. “Very well, Read. It seems we’ve little choice but to accept your recommendation. Let’s see what the fellow can do. However, I’ll require you to keep the Board informed on a daily basis. Is that understood?”

Read inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Whereupon the First Sea Lord pointed a blunt finger towards James Read’s chest. “But you had better be right, sir. Because God help you if your man lets us down. In fact,” he added with emphasis, “God help us all.”

The girl couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, but the look in her eyes was as old as time. She had gazed up at him, a sly expression on her grubby face, before running her tongue suggestively between parted lips. Then she’d said simply, “Jago sent me.”

She walked beside Hawkwood, a barefoot waif in a threadbare dress. Hawkwood was conscious of the looks the pair of them were attracting, the knowing grins, the nudges and winks. The girl was aware of them, too. She’d have to be blind not to be. But she seemed unconcerned. It was, no doubt, something she’d grown used to.

Along Great Earl Street, through the squalor of Seven Dials, towards the church of St Giles; she was leading him on a merry dance through the back alleyways. Hawkwood presumed this was in case they were being followed.