Hence the colonel’s less than benevolent expression earlier, Hawkwood thought.
“So, now it’s our turn,” Hawkwood said, unable to keep his anger in check. “What’s it to be? Boney’s barge on the Seine? We’re no bloody better than they are! What the hell’s it all been for?”
James Read looked at him. “Why, victory, Hawkwood—what else?”
Runner Jeremiah Lightfoot was thinking of his bed. He was also thinking about his plump wife, Ettie, and how much he’d like her to be in the bed with him. They had not seen much of each other of late, what with his duties at the bank and his journey north in pursuit of Lord Mandrake; a wasted journey, as he kept reminding himself. He had been looking forward to spending an evening at home, with his loving wife cuddled at his side. But it was not to be. Instead, here he was, loitering on a dark quayside with nothing to keep him company save for the ship’s cat and a small flask of brandy.
The cat was a friendly enough creature, rubbing up against his legs, purring whenever he reached down to stroke it, but he suspected the animal was more interested in the prospect of food than the force of his personality. Sadly, Lightfoot did not have any food, and if he had he sure as hell wouldn’t have shared it with any flea-ridden moggy.
Apart from a watchman dozing in a hammock on the foredeck, Lightfoot was the only man on board. The rest of the crew were ashore, spending their last night enjoying the delights of the local taverns. The ship—a Portuguese owned vessel called the
The woman was beautiful and it had been no hardship watching her as she walked around the deck, taking the air, prior to going below. He knew she was aware of his attention. She had smiled at him several times with her dark eyes and Lightfoot had wondered what it would be like to be with someone like her. But Jeremiah Lightfoot loved his wife, so all he did was wonder.
Dusk was falling as the small, fleet-footed figure made his way along the quayside. Lightfoot watched the boy approach and drew himself up straight.
At the top of the gangplank the boy reached into his pocket and held up a folded piece of paper. “Got a message for the lady.”
“Is that right? And what might your name be?”
“They call me Tooler.”
Lightfoot stiffened and looked around. The watchman was still asleep in his hammock, dead to the world, and taking no notice of the visitor. “Wait here.”
Lightfoot made his way down the companionway. There was a light burning behind the cabin door. He knocked softly.
“Enter.”
She was seated at the small table, reading a book. Lightfoot glanced at the leather binding. Something in French; he could not make out the title.
She looked up. “Yes?”
Her hair was unfastened and hung to her shoulders. She was wearing a low bodice. Lightfoot could see the tops of her breasts. Her skin glowed in the lantern light. Lightfoot swallowed. “There’s a boy. He says he has a message for you.”
“A message?” She frowned. It didn’t make her any less beautiful.
“A note. Says he didn’t want to come below, but he has to give it to you personally. Says it’s important.”
A small lie wouldn’t hurt, Lightfoot thought. Not in the long run.
“Here,” Lightfoot said, “let me get your shawl.” He found his hands were shaking.
The woman rose, accepted the shawl with a nod, and preceded Lightfoot out of the cabin.
The boy was waiting for her under the mast lantern. He watched her, thinking to himself that she was a looker all right.
“You have a message?” she said, drawing the shawl around her.
The boy held up the note, but did not move. “Told ter give you this—”
She stepped forward, held out her hand and the boy placed the note in it and moved away.
She unfolded the paper and held it up to the lantern glass. There was a single sentence.
The rifle ball took Gabrielle Marceau through the right eye, snapping her head back and exiting her skull in a spray of blood and brain matter. As her body collapsed, the note slid from her hand and fluttered like a butterfly to the deck.
Lightfoot and the boy stood over her and watched as she died. Bending down, Lightfoot retrieved the note and placed it unhurriedly in his pocket. He turned to the boy. “Leave now. Forget what you have seen.”
Wordlessly, Tooler turned and hurried back down the gangplank to the dock. Lightfoot stared dispassionately at the woman. The blood was spreading out beneath her, staining the planking. In the lantern light it looked as black as tar.
Lightfoot straightened and ran towards the foredeck. The watchman was still slumbering, undisturbed by the crack of the gunshot which was already fading into the night.
Lightfoot took a deep breath, went forward, shook the man awake, and began to yell.
“Murder! Murder!”
The cry rose over the moon-flecked quayside.
Two hundred yards away, on the second floor of a disused warehouse, Nathaniel Jago, kneeling in front of an open window, the Baker rifle barrel resting on his shoulder, clicked his tongue in admiration. Smoke from the rifle’s discharge drifted around his head like dissipating tobacco fumes.
“Nice shot.”
Hawkwood lowered the rifle. His shoulder was still tender. The muscles had not recovered their full strength so he had used Jago as a rest. He laid the rifle on the oilcloth and began to wrap it up.
“The boy did well,” Jago murmured.
“So did Jeremiah,” Hawkwood said.
The rifle concealed inside the oilcloth bundle, the two men made their way downstairs and out of the building. The sound of running feet could be heard. Backing into the shadows, they watched as a figure ran past: the crewman, off to fetch the constables. Only when he had disappeared did they step out on to the dockside.
“They’ll know it was you,” Jago said, as they fell into step.
“They’ll suspect it was me,” Hawkwood said. “But it won’t matter. The bitch is dead, that’s the main thing. Besides, I’ll have an alibi.”
“That’s right: you were with me, enjoyin’ a wet over at the Dog and Goat. You think they’ll believe it, me being a notorious villain an’ all?”
“What do you mean, villain? Magistrate Read’s spoken with his contacts at Horse Guards. You’ve been granted a full pardon. You’re no longer a deserter, you’re a pillar of society. It’s official.”
“Right,” Jago said, grinning. “And you’re the Emperor of China.”
Hawkwood smiled at his friend. “It’s true, Nathaniel, No more worrying about the provost, no more hiding.”
“Sounds boring,” Jago said. “Not sure I could ’andle that.”
“You could always join me,” Hawkwood said. “With Henry Warlock’s death, there’s an opening for a special constable.”
Jago stopped in his tracks. “Bloody hell! Me a Runner? You ain’t serious? Is this ’is honour’s idea?”
“He suggested I ask you.”
“Did ’e indeed? Suffered a crack on the ’ead recently, has ’e? Been struck by lightning, maybe?”
“It’s a genuine offer.”
Jago shook his head in disbelief, then looked up. “What’s it pay?”
Hawkwood told him, and Jago started to laugh. Hawkwood grinned and began to laugh too.
They were still laughing as they reached the end of the quayside. The sound carried in the darkness as the night closed over them like a cloak.
