Ratcatcher

“The bastard belongs in Bedlam,” Hawkwood said. “How come he’s working for you?”

“What’s he say?” Scully demanded.

“He doesn’t like you,” Lee said. “He thinks you should be in an asylum.”

“Does he now?” Scully said.

Scully’s fist thudded against the side of Hawkwood’s skull. For several seconds the world went dark. Hawkwood wondered if his jaw was broken. He probed the inside of his mouth with his tongue. A couple of teeth felt loose.

“Looks like the feeling’s mutual,” Lee observed.

The American took another lingering pull on his cheroot. “Actually, Scully here was recommended. Came across a shipmate of his in Le Havre. Said he’d sailed with Scully in the old days. Told me that he knew the river like the back of his hand and that he didn’t take much to authority. Told me he didn’t care much for your King George either. Sounded like a perfect combination to me. A man I could use.”

Scully grinned then. Hawkwood was reminded of a dog wagging its tail at the mention of its name.

“Funny,” Scully said, “but you ’as to laugh. Don’t see a bloody officer for months, then three of ’em come by all at once. Am I lucky, or what?”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

“You killed Warlock,” Hawkwood said hollowly.

“Warlock?” Scully frowned. “You mean your Runner pal? Aye, s’pose I did, when you think about it. Enjoyed every minute of it, too.”

Only the manacles prevented Hawkwood from going for Scully’s throat. He stared at Lee. “On your orders?”

Lee was coming to the end of his cheroot. He blew out smoke and shook his head. “Your colleague’s death was regrettable and it wasn’t my choosing. His lordship overreacted, I’m afraid. Though once your friend had blundered in, we couldn’t just let him walk away.”

So, like the good bloodhound that he was, Warlock had followed the clockmaker’s trail to Mandrake House. Somehow, he’d discovered a connection between the clock-maker’s disappearance and Lee’s plan for the submersible, and made a run for it with the drawings. But then he’d been found out, and they’d killed him. Or rather Scully had.

“Does that mean the old man’s dead too?”

“The clockmaker?” Lee shook his head again. “He’s more use to us alive.”

But Scully had said something about three coming by all at once. What did he mean…?

And suddenly, things became infinitely clearer.

“It was you,” Hawkwood said. “You held up the mail coach.”

Who better to have recognized a lieutenant’s uniform than an ex-seaman?

Hawkwood said, “You shot the courier. You cut his hand off.”

Scully’s knowing grin said it all.

Lee grimaced. “A mite excessive, I’ll grant you, but we had to retrieve the plans. Couldn’t risk your Admiralty boys getting their hands on them. Oh, I know they’ll have had access to Fulton’s earlier designs, but there’ve been a few improvements since then. No sense in making it easier for them. Mind you, full marks to that agent of yours. Led Bonaparte’s men a right merry dance. Why, they lost him so many times, they didn’t know whether they were coming or going. Sheer luck we were able to pick up his trail. Found out he’d taken passage on a smuggler’s ketch out of St Valery. Turns out the contrabandist was another of Scully’s old cronies. Been worth his weight in gold, has Scully. Ain’t that so?”

Hawkwood said, “So, who was your partner on that job, Scully? Who was it killed the driver? One of your mutineer friends?” Hawkwood’s gaze shifted to William Lee. “Or maybe it was you.”

Scully laughed. “It were neither, squire. An’ if I told you, you’d never believe me. If you only knew…”

Jago? Surely to God, not Nathaniel!

But, even as that thought entered his mind Hawkwood knew it couldn’t have been either Lee or Jago. From the witnesses’ descriptions, the robbers were like master and apprentice. Both Lee and Jago were too old.

“That’s enough!” Lee said, the warning implicit.

The grip on Hawkwood’s shoulder tightened perceptibly. Hawkwood tasted a coppery wetness on his lip. Blood, he guessed; Scully’s blow having split the skin.

Lee clicked his tongue. “Y’see, Captain, there’s the rub. You ask too many damned questions. And right now, I ain’t inclined to provide any more answers. Which means you’ll just have to die in ignorance.” The American shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Captain, but I don’t have a choice. You’ve become a nuisance. You might not know every last detail, but you’re still a risk we can do without.”

We?

“Come on now,” Lee said reassuringly. “Don’t look so aggrieved. You did damned well to get this far.”

This far? Hawkwood thought. As far as he could see, he hadn’t got anywhere. He’d managed to follow a half-cold trail which had led him precisely nowhere. A dead end. Literally, as it was turning out.

Lee pushed himself away from the table. “All right, Scully, I guess his time’s up. I’ll leave you to it.”

Hawkwood said desperately, “We know about Thetis.”

Lee smiled and shook his head. “No you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Scully hissed. “My oath, I am.”

The big seaman reached into his belt. Hawkwood was expecting him to draw the sword. Instead it was a length of blue metal. Hawkwood felt his stomach turn over. It was a marlinespike.

“And this time,” Lee said, his hand on the door latch, “make sure and hide the body. We don’t want him found like the other one.”

“Don’t you worry.” Scully gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve got just the place.”

Hawkwood said, “Whatever you’re planning, Lee, you won’t get away with it.”

The American smiled, unperturbed.

“The Devil will come for your soul, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “You’ll burn in hell for this.”

The American raised an eyebrow in surprise. “The Devil? Why, Officer Hawkwood, don’t tell me you’re a student of Marlowe? And here was I thinking you were just a simple peace officer. You continue to amaze me, you really do. But it’s a tad late I’m afraid.” Lee smiled disarmingly. “What was it the good doctor said? ’My heart’s so hardened. I cannot repent’?”

“They’ll hunt you down,” Hawkwood said. “They’ll find you and they’ll hang you.”

“They can try,” Lee said, “but they’ll be too damned late.” He pulled the door open. “Your servant, Captain.” The American paused. “By the way, did you know that Kit Marlowe died in Deptford? Curious that, don’t you think? A brawl over an unpaid bill, I believe. Well, I’ll warrant it won’t be a playwright’s death that Deptford’ll be remembered for. Not after I’ve done.” Lee winked, jammed the stub of the cheroot between his lips and bowed mockingly. The door closed behind him.

“Just you and me now, squire,” Scully said, breaking into Hawkwood’s confused thoughts. He tapped the marlinespike suggestively against the palm of his hand. His eyes were as black as stone.

An image of Henry Warlock’s shattered skull leapt uninvited into Hawkwood’s mind. Pierced, Dr McGregor had said, possibly by a chisel. Staring at the pointed shaft of metal in Scully’s meaty fist, it looked such an obvious murder weapon it was hard to believe they could have considered anything else.

“You’ll swing for this, Scully. You’ll be crow bait, too.”

“Funny,” Scully said. “That’s what your mate said, and look what ’appened to ’im.”

Hawkwood tugged at the chains, knowing it was futile. “Christ Almighty, Scully! The bastard’s working for the French!”

“So?”

“So, they’re the enemy, in case you’ve forgotten!”

“I ain’t forgotten nothing, squire. I ain’t forgotten the stinkin’ pay nor the stinkin’ food. I ain’t forgotten the bleedin’ arse-wipes who called themselves officers, neither, nor the floggings. You ever been flogged, Captain Hawkwood? Nah, don’t suppose you ’ave. Christ, you sound like you expect me to be grateful! Why d’you think I went over to the bleedin’ Frogs in the first place? You can’t be that bloody stupid?”