lieutenant would have to remain in blissful ignorance.
Lawrence traced the watch casing with his thumb. I owe Hawkwood at least that much, he thought.
The early evening crowds were beginning to gather as Hawkwood made his way along Bow Street. Theatre- goers mingled beneath the wide portico of Rich’s Theatre, while others wended their way towards the Lyceum and the Aldwych. The coffee shops, gin parlours, brothels and taverns that were housed within and around Covent Garden were already full to overflowing, and the bloods, pimps and molls who frequented the area were out in force. The jangle of horse-drawn carriages added to the general noise and bustle. From somewhere within the melee arose the grinding strains of a barrel organ.
Number 4 Bow Street was a narrow, five-storeyed town house with a plain facade. Save for the extra floor, there was little to distinguish the building from the adjoining architecture. It was the room at the rear of the ground floor, however, that gave the place its name. To those who toiled within its confines, it was referred to as “The Shop”. To the rest of the city’s inhabitants it was known as the Public Office.
Hawkwood pushed his way through the handful of loiterers camped on the front step and entered the open doorway. A narrow passage ran towards the back of the building. Hawkwood’s boots echoed hollowly on the wooden floor.
The offices were not yet closed for the day. Studious, wheyfaced clerks laden with paperwork, scuttled along candlelit corridors. In the Public Office itself, a late court was in session. The room was crowded. Seated at the bench, the presiding magistrate gazed out over the proceedings with a look of resigned boredom on his puritanical face.
Hawkwood removed his riding coat and ascended the stairs to the first floor and the Chief Magistrate’s private chambers. Hawkwood laid his coat across the back of a chair, walked across to the door and knocked once.
“Come!” The order was given brusquely.
The room was square and oak panelled. Several portraits lined the walls. They showed dour, waxen-faced men in sombre dress; previous occupants of the office. A desk filled the space in front of the high, curtained windows. A large fireplace, flanked by a matching pair of high-backed, heavily upholstered chairs, stood against the wall to Hawkwood’s left. Logs were burning brightly in the grate. A long-cased clock stood guard in the corner. Its hypnotic ticking added to the air of solemnity.
The silver-haired man seated at the desk did not acknowledge Hawkwood’s entrance but continued writing, the scratch of nib on paper tortuous in the still, quiet room.
Hawkwood waited.
Eventually, the man at the desk looked up. He placed the pen in the inkstand, straightened his papers and gazed at Hawkwood for several moments. “The operation against the Gant woman went well, I trust?”
“Better than I’d expected,” Hawkwood said.
The news was received with a frown.
“I didn’t think we’d get close enough to catch her, but she hadn’t bothered to post lookouts. She must be getting careless in her old age.”
The silver-haired man pondered the significance of the statement. “She’s in custody?”
“She and her lackwit son. They’re in the cells across the road.”
Curiously, the Bow Street Public Office did not possess facilities for detaining felons. A long-standing arrangement was in force by which the landlord of the Brown Bear pub on the opposite side of the street was paid a nominal sum to provide special strong-rooms that could be used as holding cells.
The silver-haired man nodded in quiet satisfaction. “Excellent. They’ll be dealt with in the morning. They gave you no trouble?”
Hawkwood thought about the knife tear in his coat. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“And the children?”
“I gave the constable instructions to send them to Bridewell.”
“From where, no doubt, they will abscond with ease.”
The silver-haired man sighed, placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself upright. His movements were unhurried and precise.
James Read had held the office of Chief Magistrate for five years. He was of late middle age, with an aquiline face, accentuated by the swept-back hair. A conservative dresser, as befitted his station, his fastidious appearance was deceptive, for there were often occasions when he displayed a quite dry, if not mordant, sense of humour. Read was the latest in a long line of dedicated men. One factor, however, set him apart from those who had gone before. Unlike his illustrious predecessors, and whether as a measure of his indifference or as a throwback to a lowly Methodist upbringing, James Read had refused the knighthood which the post of Chief Magistrate traditionally carried.
Read walked across the room, stood in front of the fire, his back to the flames, and lifted his coat-tails. “This damned house is like a barn. Nearly midsummer and I’m frozen to the bone.”
He studied Hawkwood without speaking, taking in the unfashionable long hair, and the strong, almost arrogant features. Shadows thrown by the flickering firelight moved across Hawkwood’s scarred face. A cruel face, Read thought, with those dark, brooding eyes, and yet one which women probably found compellingly attractive.
“I have another assignment for you,” Read said, his face suddenly serious. He adjusted his dress and stepped away from the fire. “Last evening there was an attack on a coach. Two people were killed: the guard and one of the passengers.”
“Where?”
“North of Camberwell. The Kent Road.”
Hawkwood knew the area. Wooded heath and meadowland, and a well-known haunt of highwaymen. Of late, attacks had been few and far between; a result of the reintroduced horse patrols, bands of heavily armed riders, mostly ex-cavalry men, who guarded the major routes in and out of the capital.
“What was the haul?”
“Money and valuables; perhaps fifty guineas’ worth. They were very thorough.”
Hawkwood looked up. “
“A man and a boy, judging from the accounts of the witnesses.” Read gave a short, bitter laugh. “Master and apprentice.”
The magistrate reached into his pocket and extracted a small, oval snuffbox. With practised dexterity, he flicked open the mother-of-pearl lid and placed a pinch of snuff on the juncture between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He inhaled the fine powder through his left nostril. Repeating the procedure with his right, he closed the box and tucked it away.
“Any descriptions?” Hawkwood knew the answer to that question. A shake of the Chief Magistrate’s head confirmed his suspicion.
The Magistrate wrinkled his nose. As he did so, he removed a silk handkerchief from his sleeve.
“Both were masked. It was the older man who did all the talking. It’s possible the boy was a mute. They are, however, both murderers. ’Twas the older man who killed the courier. The—”
“Courier?” Hawkwood interjected.
“An admiralty courier. He joined the coach at Dover. The guard was shot by the accomplice. This is a pair of callous rogues, Hawkwood, make no mistake.”
“Anything else?”
Hawkwood winced as the Chief Magistrate let go a loud sneeze. It took a moment for Read to recover. Pausing to wipe his nose with the handkerchief, the Chief Magistrate shook his head once more. “Nothing substantial. Though there was one rather curious observation. The surviving passengers had got the impression that the older man was not much of a horseman.”
“How’s that?”
“In the course of the robbery, they were surprised by a mounted patrol. In his haste to make an escape, the fellow very nearly took a tumble. Managed to hang on to his nag more by luck than judgement, apparently.”
“A highwayman with no horse sense,” Hawkwood mused. “There’s an interesting combination.”
“Quite so,” Read sniffed. “Though I don’t suppose it means anything. Still, it was a pity. Had Officer Lomax
