The two officers stared across the yard. The hawker spat on to the cobbles. “You take heed, friend. You ever find yourself in trouble, you’d best pray they don’t put
“Well, I’m damned,” Lawrence said, adding, “but his name, man! Do you know his name?”
The pieman’s expression hardened. “Name? Oh, yes, I know his name, right enough. It’s Hawkwood, may God rot him. Now…” the hawker lifted his tray pointedly “…if you gentlemen ’ave no intention of buyin’…”
But the major wasn’t listening. He was staring off in the direction the dark-haired man had taken. He looked like a man in shock. It was Fitzhugh who finally dismissed the waiting pieman. Muttering under his breath, the vendor limped away.
Fitzhugh regarded his companion with concern. “Are you all right, sir? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Lawrence remained motionless and said softly, “Maybe I have.” He turned and favoured the lieutenant with a rueful smile. “By God, Fitz, memory’s a fickle mistress!”
“You do know him, then? You’ve met before?”
“We have indeed,” Lawrence said softly, adding almost abstractedly, “and both of us a damned long way from home.”
Fitzhugh waited for the major to elaborate, but on this occasion Lawrence did not oblige. Instead, the major nodded towards the door of the tavern. “I think I’m in need of a stiff brandy, young Fitz. What say you and I adjourn to yon hostelry and I’ll treat you to a wee dram out of my winnings.” Lawrence clapped his companion on the shoulder. “Who knows? I may even have an interesting tale to tell along with it.”
From the shadow of an archway, Hawkwood watched the major and his companion enter the inn. It had been a strange sensation seeing Lawrence again. In Hawkwood’s case, recognition had been immediate, confirmed by the engraving on the watch casing:
An inscription which could not be ignored. The watch was not merely an instrument for keeping time but a reward for services rendered; an act of outstanding bravery. The words alone indicated, to the recipient at least, that it was worth far more than gold. Hawkwood had seen the anguish on the major’s face when he’d discovered the loss.
It would have been an even greater crime had the watch remained in Constable Rafferty’s thieving clutches. Despite his warning to Rafferty, Hawkwood wondered just how many of the other stolen items would find their way back to their rightful owners. Precious few, he suspected. Sadly, men like Rafferty, guardians of the public trust with a tendency to pilfer on the side, were only too common.
Hawkwood’s thoughts returned to the major. His intention to return the watch had been instinctive. Call it duty, a debt of honour to a former comrade in arms, albeit one whose companionship had been fleeting in the extreme. There had been little hesitation on his part.
So, why deny recognition? The answer to that question was easy. Old wounds ran deep. Reopening them served no useful purpose. He shook his head at the thought of it. A chance encounter and it was as if the years had been rolled away. But sour memories were apt to leave a bitter aftertaste. What was done was done. He’d performed a service for which thanks had been given; a public servant performing a civic duty. That’s all it had been. Now it was over. Finished.
Hawkwood was about to step away when a discreet cough sounded at his elbow.
Shaken out of his reverie, he looked down and found himself confronted by a small, bow-legged, sharp-nosed man dressed in funereal black coat and breeches. An unfashionable powdered wig peeked from below the brim of an equally outmoded three-cornered black hat. Eyes blinked owlishly behind a pair of half-moon spectacles.
Hawkwood gave a wintry smile. “Well, well, Mr Twigg. And to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”
The little man deflected the sarcasm with an exaggerated sigh of sufferance. “A message for you. Magistrate Read sends his compliments and requests that you attend him directly.”
Hawkwood’s eyebrows rose. “ ’Requests’, Mr Twigg? I doubt that. And where am I to attend him,
“Bow Street. In his chambers.”
As he spoke, Ezra Twigg allowed his gaze to roam the stable yard. By now the crowd had all but disappeared. The Godbotherer, sermon concluded, had dismantled his home-made pulpit and was steering a course for the tavern door. A handful of pedlars remained, ever hopeful of attracting late custom. Close by the ringside, a small knot of people had gathered. In their midst, Reuben Benbow, nursing cracked ribs, joked with his seconds and celebrated his hard-fought victory.
The bewigged clerk’s eyes took on a calculated glint. Removing his spectacles, he breathed on the lenses and polished them vigorously on the sleeve of his coat.
Hawkwood grinned. “You were right, Ezra. The Cornishman
Ezra Twigg replaced his spectacles, looked up at Hawkwood and blinked myopically. His gaze turned towards the open door of the tavern and the corner of his mouth twitched.
Hawkwood patted the little man’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Ezra. I’ll see you back at the Shop.”
Without waiting for a response, Hawkwood turned and walked away. He did not look back. Had he done so, he would have seen the bowed figure of Ezra Twigg hurrying briskly towards the tavern door, the spring in the clerk’s step matched only by the broad smile on his lips and the twinkle in his eye.
Shadows were lengthening as Hawkwood picked his way through the chain of courts and alleyways.
The few street lamps that did exist were barely adequate, and small deterrent to footpads who continued to stalk the darkened thoroughfares with impunity. Even in broad daylight, it was almost impossible to walk the streets without being propositioned or relieved of one’s belongings. For the unwary pedestrian, dusk only brought added risk. A few gas lamps had been installed in the West End but they were the exception, not the rule. For the most part, night-time London was a world of near impenetrable darkness, fraught with hidden dangers, where even police foot patrols and watchmen feared to tread.
Hawkwood, however, walked with confidence. His presence was acknowledged, but there were no attempts to impede his progress. There was something about the way he carried himself that caused other men to step aside. The scar on his face only added to the aura of menace that emanated from his purposeful stride.
Not that Hawkwood was immune to his surroundings. It was merely that he was hardened to it. He could not afford to be otherwise. London was a fertile breeding ground for every vice known to man. As a Bow Street Runner, Hawkwood had seen more of the city’s dark underbelly than he cared to recall. The shadowy, refuse-strewn byways held precious few surprises, but nevertheless he remained alert as he continued on towards his appointment.
3
“So,” Fitzhugh said, “our Samaritan—who was he?”
The two officers were seated in a candlelit alcove in the Blind Fiddler. The fight had attracted a lot of extra custom and the tavern was doing brisk business. Both men were drinking Spanish brandy.
