Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion - James McGee

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had always intrigued him. It had begun with the Orientals – Chinese and Lascars mainly – but the habit had started to spread among the Europeans. Forced to exist in the most primitive living conditions, without furniture, bedding, warmth or comfort, it was small wonder that so many of these forgotten folk had turned to crime or begging. While others had resorted to a less arduous means of escape.

      It had been the ships of the Elizabethan Levant Company that had first brought the black mud into the country. During that time the dealing had been controlled by Turkish merchants. Now, the opium was shipped in by the East India Company, and it was an expanding business. Controlled by legitimate concerns like the Apothecaries’ Company, the main brokers operated out of Mincing Lane. Auctions were held at Garraway’s Coffee House, close to the Royal Exchange. Over druggists’ counters it could be purchased as Kendal Black Drop or the Elixir. In the more disreputable districts of the East End, it was the pipe. The main dens were run by the Chinese, in Stepney, Poplar, the Limehouse Causeway, and Shadwell. In those areas, the Chinese also ran strings of lodging houses. It was a captive market.

      What struck Hawkwood most as he ducked past the lolling smokers were the blank stares and the emaciated state of their bodies. He watched one of the addicts prepare his smoke. The tiny ball of opiate was placed on the point of the needle with great care, before being turned in the lamp flame. The bamboo pipe was placed over the lamp and the sticky knobule was inserted into a hole in the pigeon-egg-shaped bowl. The smoker drew carefully on the pipe, his effort rewarded by a low gurgling sound. The look on the man’s face transfixed Hawkwood. He had expected hopelessness, yet what he saw was a kind of serenity, something completely at odds with the foetid surroundings.

      “Don’t mind them,” Weazle said. “They won’t bother you none.” The dwarf chuckled throatily. The sound was not dissimilar to that made by the gurgling pipes.

      A few paces further on, the little man halted outside a heavy wooden door. “Here we are – Captain’s cabin.” Weazle winked broadly. “Let’s see if he’s at ‘ome.”

      Weazle opened the door and Hawkwood followed him in.

      The cabin was low-ceilinged. Large stern windows indicated it had probably been the master’s quarters. A lantern hung from the underside of a deck beam. There were a few items of furniture: table and chairs, a battered dresser, a wooden bunk bearing a stained mattress and several grubby blankets.

      “Well, it’s about bleedin’ time. We’d just about given you up!” The gravelled voice came from behind, while a dark form detached itself from the shadows by the window and moved into view. A handsome face, grey hair cut short, the features quite recognizable.

      Instinctively, Hawkwood spun, his hand clawing for the baton beneath his jacket. But he was too late. He felt the cold kiss of steel against his throat, and watched the grin spread wide across Weazle’s face.

      “Move an inch, culley, and I’ll split you like a hog. They’ll be scooping your innards up with a spoon.”

      The speaker moved into view. Bull-necked, shaven-headed, and a twisted smile of triumph on his lips. The bruiser from the dog pit.

      Scully.

      And the thought that flashed through Hawkwood’s mind was as painful as someone plunging a blade between his ribs.

      For the last person he would have expected to betray him was Nathaniel Jago.

       15

      “Sorry about the restraints, Officer Hawkwood.” The grey-haired man smiled pleasantly. “Barbaric, of course, but useful when the need arises.”

      They had relieved Hawkwood of his baton. A still grinning Weazle had produced a set of manacles and secured his wrists and ankles, looping the wrist chain through the arms of the chair. Job done, the dwarf touched his forelock in mock salute and left the cabin.

      “I was told you’d gone north with Lord Mandrake,” Hawkwood said. Unobtrusively, he tried twisting his wrists inside the manacles, but there was no give at all. He was held fast.

      Another smile. “You were misinformed.”

      “I was also told you didn’t speak much English,” Hawkwood said.

      “Wrong again.”

      “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that your name isn’t de Rochefort, either.”

      “What do you think?”

      “It’s a wild guess,” Hawkwood said, “but I think your name’s William Lee.”

      “Well now, aren’t you the clever one. And how did you figure that?”

      “There was an American officer fought with Sherbrooke at Talavera. You sound just like him.”

      “Do I now? That’s interesting. And how come an American was fighting for an English king?”

      “I don’t remember,” Hawkwood said. “How come you’re fighting for Bonaparte?”

       And why was Jago working for the enemy?

      Lee folded his arms. “I have my reasons.”

      “Money.” Hawkwood spat out the word as if it were an obscenity.

      Lee’s face hardened. “You think that’s what this is about?” The American smiled thinly. “Oh, they’re paying me well, friend. I’ll not deny that. But the money ain’t the main incentive, Captain Hawkwood. It never was.”

      The American fell silent.

      Hawkwood waited, but Lee seemed wrapped in thought.

      “So, what was Mandrake’s price?” Hawkwood asked.

       And Jago’s.

      “Ah, now, that’s more straightforward. We made him an offer. Advised him, quietly of course, that if he didn’t help us, the United States Government would no longer guarantee the integrity of his … how shall I put it? … overseas investments? As you know, Lord Mandrake still enjoys a substantial income from the tobacco trade – plantations in Virginia, and so forth.”

      As if to add emphasis to the explanation, Lee reached into his pocket and extracted a half-smoked cheroot. The American opened the lantern and lit the cigar from the flame. Taking a long, luxuriant draw, Lee held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds before exhaling.

      “As you may have deduced, not only is my Lord Mandrake a remarkably astute businessman, he’s also a pragmatist.” William Lee smiled once more and examined the end of his cheroot.

      “You mean he’s a bloody turncoat!”

      “That kind of depends which side you’re on, doesn’t it?” Lee took another appreciative pull on his cigar.

      “Are we going to top the bastard, or not?”

      Hawkwood had forgotten Scully. The voice in his ear and the hand on his shoulder reminded him.

      Lee flicked ash. “Easy, Scully. Me and the captain here are having a conversation.”

      Hawkwood said, “How did you know I was a captain?”

       Fool! Because Jago would have told him.

      Lee rested his haunches on the table and rolled the cheroot between fingers and thumb. “Oh, you know, friends in high places. Word gets around. I know quite a lot about you. Question is, how much do you know about me?”

      “We know everything,” Hawkwood said. Even as he said it, he knew it didn’t sound very convincing.

      “Oh, I doubt that,” Lee said drily, picking a shred of tobacco from his lip. “I really do.”

      “We know about the plunging boat.” Immediately, Hawkwood wondered if that had been a wise admission.

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