Kitabı oku: «Ratcatcher», sayfa 2
As Tooler and Jem and the other children ran for the door, the lumbering, moon-faced figure of Eli Gant emerged from the gloom. Hearing Mother’s cry, Eli was reacting solely on instinct. The shrill note in the old woman’s voice told him that there was trouble and that she needed his help. That was all he needed to know. When he rose to his feet, the cudgel that had been propped against the arm of the chair was in his hand.
Hawkwood avoided the thrown soup ladle with ease. As the utensil clattered against the wall a flicker of amusement passed over his face. Then he caught sight of the apparition looming towards him and his expression changed. He turned to confront the new threat.
“Stop him, Eli! He’s here to hurt Mother!” The old woman’s voice pierced the room.
The attack, when it came, was sudden. For a man of his huge bulk, Eli Gant moved with surprising speed.
But Hawkwood was quicker. Even as the cudgel was raised, he swung his foot and kicked Gant hard between the legs. Eli’s jaw went slack. Dropping the club, he doubled over. A baton appeared in Hawkwood’s hand. Without losing momentum, he sidestepped and drove the short club viciously against the side of Gant’s head. The ground shook as Gant’s body hit the earthen floor. Staring down at the wheezing, prostrate form, Hawkwood shook his head wearily. He’d seen it all before.
When he looked up, Mother Gant had disappeared.
Hawkwood cursed and turned. “Rafferty!”
A bulky figure materialized behind him. Red-faced and coarse-featured, wearing the uniform of a conductor of the watch: black felt hat, double-breasted blue jacket and matching waistcoat. His eyebrows rose as he took in the man on the ground.
His eyes widened further as Hawkwood leapt over the stricken Gant, crossed the room and ripped away the ragged curtain that hung on a rail on the opposite wall. Concealed behind the curtain was an open doorway. Pausing on the threshold, Hawkwood peered into the darkness that lay beyond. A cold draught caressed his face and a vague shuffling noise sounded from somewhere ahead, then his eyes caught the feeble glow of a lantern and a hunched, dark-clothed figure scurrying away. Mother Gant, having abandoned her idiot son to guard her back, was on the run.
Hawkwood knew he had to act quickly. There was no telling how far the tunnel stretched or where it emerged. Given the nature of the area, it was likely the shaft led into a honeycomb of passages, trap doors, hidden stairwells and twisting alleyways running above and below ground level. And the old woman, of course, would know the place like the back of her crabby hand.
There was no time to find a lantern of his own. He’d have to rely on the faint light ahead of him as a guide. He turned and nodded past the constable’s legs to where the hapless Eli Gant was still curled foetally on the floor. “Watch him.” Clasping the baton firmly, he plunged into the hole.
The smell was dreadful. It was the stench of damp and decay, pungent enough to clog the nostrils and make the eyes water. The floor of the tunnel was firm underfoot, but here and there the ground squelched alarmingly, sucking at his heels. More than once, his ears picked up the faint squeak of rodents and he felt the soft touch of their tiny paws as they ran across the toe of his boot.
It was hard to tell what the walls were made of. Sometimes his fingers brushed brick, sometimes wood, often so rotten it flaked off in his hand. Similarly, it was impossible to determine if it was sky over his head or stone. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he began to make out openings in the tunnel walls: junctions leading to even more escape routes. Occasionally, through a chink in a wall, he caught a glimmer of light, the flicker of a candle flame, a sign that somewhere within this strange subterranean world there existed vermin of a higher intellect than rats and mice. And always the fluttering lantern carried by the Widow Gant drew him further into the maze.
Abruptly, the glow ahead of him died. He paused, listening. He moved forward cautiously, senses alert for the slightest movement. He wondered how far he had come. It seemed like a mile, but in the darkness, distance was deceptive. It was probably no more than a hundred paces, if that.
He could just make out a pale crescent of light ahead. It appeared to be low down, perhaps an indication that there was a dip in the tunnel or a stairway. And then he saw there was a bend in the passage. He continued slowly, the baton held tightly in his fist.
He turned the corner and saw that the lantern had been placed on the ground next to what looked to be the old woman’s shawl. He bent to examine it.
It was then that the wizened, bat-like creature detached itself from the wall to his right, accompanied by a scream of such intensity it was almost impossible to imagine the source could be human.
Even as he turned, dropping the shawl, the glow from the lantern caught the glint of the knife blade as it curved towards his throat. Hawkwood hurled his body aside. The sliver of steel whipped past his face and he heard the grunt as the old woman realized she had missed her target. Christ, but she was fast! Faster than he would have thought possible, and hate had given her added impetus. Already she was turning again, driving the weapon towards his heart.
He felt the cloth tear on his upper arm as the razor-sharp blade sliced through his coat sleeve, the material parting like grape skin. Transferring the baton to his left palm, he struck upwards to turn the strike away, at the same time reaching for her wrist with his other hand. Her arm was no thicker than a child’s, but the power in the reed-thin body was astonishing. His fingers encircled her wrist, deflecting the blade’s cutting edge. At the same time, he struck down with the baton and heard the brittle snap of breaking bone. The knife dropped to the floor and her squeal of pain reverberated off the walls.
But, incredibly, she wasn’t finished. In the next second, her left hand was reaching towards his face as she launched herself at him, spitting and swearing as if possessed by devils, clawing for his eyes with nails as sharp as talons. So ferocious was the force of her attack, he was slammed against the wall of the tunnel. Air exploded from his lungs.
One-handed, she clung to him, kicking and gouging. Flecks of spittle landed on his face. He felt, too, her hot breath on his cheek, as rancid as a midden, and knew that somehow he had to finish it. He hooked the end of the baton into her stomach, felt the grip on his collar loosen, used his full body weight to drive his fist under her ribcage and punch her away.
There was a flat thud as the back of her head hit the wall, the screech dying on her lips as her frail body slid to the ground. She landed awkwardly, winded, legs akimbo, dress around her knees, thin breasts rising and falling as she gasped for air.
Hawkwood straightened and wiped the smear of phlegm from his jaw.
“Bitch.”
The crumpled figure at his feet let out a low moan.
Slipping the ebony baton inside his coat, he bent to retrieve the discarded shawl. He used the shawl to bind her wrists, making no allowances for the broken arm. In the vapid glow from the lantern, he could see that her eyes were glazed with pain. Her resistance was clearly spent.
When he had finished trussing her arms, he picked up the lantern. Holding it aloft, he lifted the old woman by the collar of her dress and began to retrace his steps down the tunnel, dragging her limp, unprotesting body behind him.
2
In the kitchen of the house, Constable Edmund Rafferty scratched his ample belly and gazed at the display of valuables on the table. He cast a wary eye on the figure of Eli Gant who, having recovered from the baton blow, was seated on the floor, his back to the wall, rocking slowly from side to side, while staring mournfully down at the handcuffs that had been fastened around his wrists. In his present predicament, he looked as harmless as a puppy.
Rafferty stole another surreptitious glance at the table and started as a voice behind him said, “We caught four of the little beggars, Irish. What should we do with ‘em?”
The speaker was a thin, ferret-featured individual dressed similarly to Rafferty, save for the colour of his waistcoat, which was scarlet instead of blue. His right hand was clamped around the collar of a small boy. He was holding the boy in such a way that the tips of the child’s toes only just touched the cobbles. The child was trying to pull away. His attempt to escape, however, was instantly curtailed when his captor cuffed him violently round the back of the head.
Rafferty eyed the figure at the door with scorn. “You hold on to ‘em, Constable Warbeck, until I tells you otherwise. Now, take him outside, there’s a good lad.”
The constable touched his cap and moved away, and Rafferty breathed a sigh of relief. It was Rafferty’s considered opinion that Constable Warbeck hadn’t the brains he’d been born with, and his habit of addressing Rafferty as “Irish” was also beginning to irk considerably. Unfortunately, Warbeck was married to Rafferty’s younger sister, Alice, who had persuaded her brother to sponsor Warbeck’s entry into the police force; an act of charity about which he was beginning to have severe misgivings. Not least, regarding the said constable’s apparent inability to look the other way at opportune moments. Clearly, the man had much to learn. Still, Rafferty concluded, it was early days.
Moving to the table, Rafferty eyed the small array of pocketbooks and jewellery with increasing interest. Looking over his shoulder to ensure he was not being observed, he investigated the contents of the pocketbooks. Several of them, to his delight, held banknotes. He extracted one crisp note from each and replaced the pocketbooks on the table. Then his eyes alighted on the watch.
It was a very fine watch; gold-cased, with matching chain. Undoubtedly the property of a gentleman. Rafferty held the timepiece up to his ear. The ticking was like a tiny heartbeat. He inserted the end of a blunt fingernail under the clasp and was about to flick open the cover when his ears detected footsteps and a curious scraping sound. Quickly, Rafferty dropped the watch into the deep pocket of his coat. Just in time. He grinned expansively as Hawkwood emerged from behind the curtain, dragging the body of Mother Gant into the room.
“Well now, Captain, there I was wondering where you’d got to. Thought we might have to send out a search party, so I did.” Rafferty’s glance dropped to the body of the Widow Gant, who had regained consciousness and was staring up at Hawkwood with a degree of malevolence that was chilling in its intensity.
“See you caught the old crone, then?” Rafferty studied the rent in Hawkwood’s sleeve and frowned. “Gave you a bit of trouble, did she?”
Hawkwood hauled the old woman across the floor and dropped her next to her son. When he looked up his eyes were as dark as the grave.
“How many?”
Rafferty sighed. “Four. The rest scarpered. My lads’ve got ‘em outside.” Rafferty found himself wavering under the other man’s gaze. There was something in that hard stare that made Constable Rafferty’s blood run cold. To his relief, Hawkwood merely nodded in acceptance.
“Probably as many as we deserved. All right, you know what to do. Take them away.”
Rafferty nodded. “Right you are.” The constable aimed a kick at Eli Gant’s shin. “On your feet! You, too, Mother, else you’ll get my boot up your skinny arse!”
Hawkwood turned away as Rafferty bundled his charges out of the house.
“Wait!”
The command cut through the air. Rafferty paused on the doorstep. A cold wind touched his spine. When he turned around he found that Hawkwood was looking at him, and his breath caught in his throat.
The bastard knew!
Hawkwood held out his hand. “I’ll take the watch, Rafferty.”
“Eh?” Instinctively, in voicing that one word of feigned innocence, Rafferty knew he’d betrayed his guilt. Conceit and fear, however, dictated that he make at least a half-hearted attempt to extricate himself from the mire.
“Watch? And what watch would that be, then? Sure, and I don’t know what you mean.”
Hawkwood’s expression was as hard as stone. “I’ll ask you once more, Constable. You’ve already made one mistake. Don’t compound the error. Hand it over.”
Even as he blustered, Rafferty knew the game had been played to its conclusion. His only recourse was to try and retire with as much bravado as he could muster. He frowned, as if searching his memory, and then allowed a broad smile to steal across his face.
“Och, sweet Mary! Why, of course! What was I thinking? Sure and didn’t I just slip it into my pocket for safekeeping and then forget all about it? Memory’ll be the death of me, so it will. Here it is, now! I’m glad you reminded me, for it’s likely I’d have walked off with it, so I would.”
And with a grin that would have charmed Medusa, Constable Rafferty reached into the pocket of his coat and brought forth the watch with the dexterity of an illusionist producing a rabbit from a hat.
“There you go, Captain.” Rafferty handed the watch over. “And a very fine timepiece it is, too, even if I does say so myself. Cost a pretty penny, I shouldn’t wonder.” A mischievous wink caused the right side of the constable’s face to droop alarmingly. “Take a bit of a liking to it yourself, did you? And who’d blame you, is what I’d say. Why, I –”
Hawkwood turned the watch over in his hands and looked up. His expression was enough to erase the grin from the constable’s face.
“You can dispense with the bejesus and the blarney, Rafferty. It might fool the ladies and the scum you drink with, but it doesn’t impress me.”
Rafferty’s skin reddened even further and he shifted uncomfortably, but Hawkwood hadn’t finished.
“A warning, Rafferty. You ever work with me again, you’d best keep your thieving hands to yourself. Otherwise, I’ll cut them off. Is that clear?”
The constable opened his mouth as if to protest, but the words failed him. He nodded miserably.
“Good, then we understand each other. The watch stays with me. Take the rest of the loot to Bow Street. It can be stored there as evidence. And mark this, Rafferty. I’m holding you responsible for its safe arrival. You never know, the owners may actually turn up to claim it. Now, get the hell out of my sight.”
Hawkwood waited until Rafferty and his constables had left with their prisoners, before flicking open the watch cover and reading the inscription etched into the casing. Then, closing the watch, he dropped it into his pocket and let himself out of the house.
In the stable yard behind the Blind Fiddler, the fight was nearing the end. It was the forty-seventh round. By the standards of the day, and by common consent, it had been an enjoyable contest.
Both fighters had taken severe punishment. Benbow, his face a mask of blood and nursing two broken ribs, waited for his opponent to come within range.
Figg, rendered almost deaf and blind by the injuries he had received, his wrists and hands swollen to twice normal size, wits scrambled by a barrage of punches to the face and leaking sweat from every pore, spat out a gobbet of blood, and circled unsteadily.
Both men could barely stand.
The end, when it came, proved to be something of an anti-climax. Benbow, swaying precariously, hooked a punch towards his opponent’s belly. The blow landed hard. Figg collapsed. Blood gushed from his mouth, and the crowd groaned. It was a certain indication that Figg’s lungs had been damaged. The sight was sufficient cause for the referee, in a rare display of compassion, to end the contest and award the bout to the Cornishman.
So suddenly was the decision announced that a hush fell over the spectators. But then, like ripples spreading across a pond, an excited chatter began to spread through the assembled gathering. Benbow sat down on a low stool, probed his mouth with a finger, spat out a tooth, took a swig from a proffered brandy bottle, and looked on without pity as the defeated Figg was helped away by his seconds.
Beneath the stable arch, the red-haired major clapped his companion on the back and shook his head in admiration. “By God, Fitz, that was as fine a contest as I’ve witnessed, and I’m ten guineas better off than I was before the bout, thanks to the Cornishman. Damn me, if winning hasn’t given me a raging thirst. What say we wet our whistles before we meet the ladies? I do believe we’ve an hour or two to kill before we’re expected.”
The major reached into his sash and his face froze with concern. “Hell’s teeth, Fitz! My watch and chain! Gone! I’ve been robbed!”
The two men looked about them. A futile gesture, as both were fully aware. Whoever the thief was, he or she was long gone, swallowed up by the rapidly dispersing crowd.
“Damn and blast the thieving buggers!” The major swore vehemently and gritted his teeth in anger and frustration.
It was the sense of someone at their shoulder that caused them both to turn. The red-haired officer’s first impression was that the stranger was a man of the cloth. The dark apparel hinted as much, but as the major took in the expression in the smoke-grey eyes he knew that the man was certainly no priest. It was then the major saw the object held in the stranger’s open hand.
“I’ll be damned, Fitz! Will you look at this! The fellow has my watch! May I enquire how the devil you came by it, sir?”
Hawkwood held the watch out. “Sorry to disappoint you, Major, but sorcery had nothing to do with it. I spotted the boy making the snatch. As for the rest, let’s just say that I persuaded him to see the error of his ways.”
Reunited with his property, the major could not disguise his joy. Clasping the watch in his fist, he smiled gratefully. “Well, I’m obliged to you, sir, I truly am. It’s fortunate for me you’ve good eyesight. But here, I’m forgetting my manners. Permit me to introduce myself. The name’s Lawrence, 1st Battalion, 40th Light Infantry. My companion, Lieutenant Duncan Fitzhugh.”
The younger officer gave a ready smile and touched the peak of his shako. “Honoured, sir.”
Hawkwood did not reciprocate. Instead, to the surprise of the two officers, he merely gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and turned away.
The major was first to protest. “Why, no! Stand fast, sir! You’ll allow me the opportunity to express my gratitude. The watch means a great deal to me. The lieutenant and I were about to partake of a small libation. You’ll join us, of course?”
“Thank you, no.” Hawkwood’s reply was abrupt.
“But, sir!” the major remonstrated. “I insist –”
Skilfully interpreting the expression on Hawkwood’s face, the lieutenant took his companion’s arm. “You’d best let him go, sir. You’re embarrassing the poor fellow.”
The major made as if to argue, but then changed his mind and shrugged in acceptance. “Oh, very well, but it don’t alter the fact that I’m indebted to you. If I can repay the favour in any way …” The major’s voice trailed off. Putting his head on one side, he frowned. “Forgive me, sir, this may seem an odd question, but have we met before?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, Major.”
“You’re certain? Your face seems familiar.” The major narrowed his eyes.
“Quite certain.” Hawkwood inclined his head. “Good day, Major … Lieutenant.” Then he turned on his heel and strode away without a backward glance.
“Damned odd,” the major murmured. He paused, looked around quickly, caught the eye of a hovering street vendor and crooked a finger. The hawker, scenting custom, touched his cap. The wooden tray suspended from a cord around his neck offered a variety of sweetmeats. Several bloated flies arose lazily from the tray. Fitzhugh wrinkled his nose in disgust.
The hawker grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Yes, your honour, what’s your pleasure?”
The major dismissed the proffered titbits with an impatient wave of his hand. Instead, he nodded across the yard. “The severely dressed fellow with the long dark hair, disappearing yonder. Do you know him?”
The man peered in the direction the major indicated. To the officers’ surprise, the hawker’s face appeared to lose colour. He eyed them suspiciously. “What’s it to you?”
Lawrence smiled easily and retrieved a coin from his pocket. “Curiosity, my friend, nothing more. His face looked familiar to me, that’s all.”
The hawker eyed the coin furtively, but only for a second before his thin fingers closed around it. Biting into the coin, he muttered darkly, “If I was you, your honour, where that one’s concerned, you’d best turn and walk the other way.”
Lawrence and Fitzhugh exchanged startled glances. “How so?”
“Because he’s the law, that’s why.”
Lawrence’s eyebrows rose. “The law?”
“Works out of Bow Street, don’t he? One of them special constables. Runners, we calls ‘em. Mean bastards every one.”
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 him on your trail.”
“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:
Lieutenant D.C. Lawrence, 40th Regiment.A gallant officer.
With grateful thanks, Auchmuty.February 1807
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?” As if he didn’t know.
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, directly?”
“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 God-botherer, 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 was the better man.”
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 them. 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.
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