Rapscallion (43 page)

This is all very civilized,
Hawkwood thought warily, and wondered what it was leading up to. Morgan didn't
seem the sort to indulge in social chitchat, and Pepper looked as if he'd
rather chew his good arm off than engage in conversation, polite or otherwise.

As
Lasseur lit up and drew on his cheroot, Morgan said, "That was an
interesting stroke you pulled back there, Captain."

Lasseur
leant back on the cushions and expelled smoke. "But fair, I think,
considering the return, especially when you're
expecting
men to risk their lives." Lasseur raised his goblet, flicking a glance
towards Hawkwood as he took a sip. "In any case, I think you would have
gone to twenty-five."

Morgan's
eyes widened. Then the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as he
jabbed his unlit cheroot towards Lasseur's face. "I might have, at
that." He turned to Hawkwood. "What about you, Captain Hooper? You
haven't had much to say for yourself so far. Something tells me there's more
going on in here than you let on." Morgan tapped the side of his head.
"I'll wager those scars of yours could tell some tales. Am I right?"

"They
just mean I was slow getting out of the way," Hawkwood said. "And all
soldiers carry scars."

He
took a sip of wine. Lasseur was right. The taste was exceptional.

"That's
true, but some run deeper than others, eh?" Morgan said.

Hawkwood
did not reply and watched as a shadow moved across Morgan's face.

"We
have a situation, gentlemen."

"Situation?"
Hawkwood said guardedly.

Morgan
paused to light his cheroot. Hawkwood suspected it was to give him time to
think.

When
the leaf was glowing to his satisfaction, Morgan continued. "We've been
having some problems with the Revenue. An occupational hazard, I know, but
there's a particular Riding Officer who's been sniffing at our heels. He's
developing into something of a nuisance."

Hawkwood
wondered how Morgan was expecting them to respond. It didn't seem the moment
for platitudes. He took another sip of wine, and waited. Lasseur was obviously
of the same mind. The privateer expelled a thin plume of tobacco smoke and made
a play of looking unconcerned while picking a shred of leaf from his bottom
lip.

Morgan
continued. "He was only appointed a few months back and he's been trying
to make a name for himself ever since. Probably thinks we haven't been taking
inventory, but we have.

Thing
is, he's not from round here. Usually, the Revenue recruits from the local
area. It's not like the militia: that lot reckon there's less chance of someone
perverting the course of justice if there are no family connections to the
immediate district. That's why Kent lads have been freezing their balls off in
Dumfries, poor sods, and Dungeness had to put up with a company from
Flintshire."

Morgan
took a pull on his cheroot before removing it from his lips and rolling it
between his fingers. He studied the end and looked up.

"As
I was saying, he was brought in from another county. His name's Jilks, by the
way, and
he's
proving rather more . . . conscientious
than we were led to expect."

"I
take it you've tried inducements?" Hawkwood said.

Morgan
nodded. "They haven't worked.
Prides himself on keeping
to the straight and narrow.
Anyway, over the last month or so, a number
of our runs have been intercepted. There was a landing at Sandwich a couple of
weeks back; we lost a hundred kegs and two men wounded. We've discovered he was
behind the Warden ambush. The last thing we need is for him to find out about
the Deal job and pass the word. That happens and we're all buggered. That means
you, me, Bonaparte's ability to pay his troops, future landings - the whole
damned trade. We can't risk that." Morgan paused. "We need to neuter
the son of a bitch before it's too late."

"Neuter?"
Lasseur said.

Hawkwood
felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation worm its way down his spine.

"Remove,"
Morgan said, taking a long draw on his cheroot and letting the smoke fill his
lungs.

The
word hung ominously in the air.

"You
want him dead," Lasseur said flatly.

"That
would be the preferred option."

Lasseur
sat up slowly as the light dawned.

The
pins and needles invading Hawkwood's spine suddenly felt more like chips of
ice.

There'll be a
price to pay.

"And
you want
us
to take care of
it," Hawkwood said.

Morgan
jabbed towards Hawkwood with the now glowing tip of his cheroot. "You,
sir, are as perceptive as your friend here." He turned to Pepper.
"Didn't I say they'd be a pair to be reckoned with?"

Lasseur
lowered his glass.
"Why us?"

Morgan
put his head on one side. "Delivering the gold to Bonaparte is my gesture
of good faith. This would be yours."

"I
don't follow," Lasseur said. Unseen by Morgan, he threw Hawkwood another
sideways glance.

"No?"
Morgan sucked on his cheroot stem, making a play of savouring the taste.
"Well, y'see, back in the refectory, when I was outlining my little plan, I
got it into my head that somehow you and Captain Hooper weren't warming to the
notion quite as quickly as the others. Which is a pity, because Cephus and I
took the two of you for a cut above the rest and we'd hate to think we might
have made a mistake in judgement.

"That's
not to say it hasn't happened before, mind. You know how it is; you hold out
the hand of friendship to someone, only to find they don't quite measure up to
expectations.
Creates all sorts of regrets and
recriminations.
Bottom line is
,
Cephus and I
need to know who we can depend on. Which is why I don't think it's unreasonable
to ask for proof of your commitment, do you?"

"By
asking us to kill a Revenue man?"

"To
prove you're fully on board." Morgan smiled engagingly. "I mean, it's
not as though the pair of you are choirboys, is it? There's the matter of that
incident back on the hulk. How many were killed? Five, wasn't it? That's a very
impressive total. One might even say
excessive.
That drew our attention right away, didn't it, Cephus?"

"Certainly
did," Pepper said. It was the first time Morgan's lieutenant had employed
emphasis.

"All
we're asking is that you put your expertise to good use," Morgan said.

"You
take us for assassins?" Lasseur said.

Morgan
shook his head. "The thought never entered my head.

But
you
are
still at war,
aren't you? Which means Riding Officer Jilks
is
the enemy and,
given what's at stake, I'd say that makes him as much a threat as a Royal Navy
frigate or a regiment of dragoons. Wouldn't you?"

"The
man's got a point," Hawkwood said.

"And
there's nothing to connect him with either you or Captain Hooper," Morgan
said. "Complete the job and in a few days you'll be on your way home,
considerably richer."

"You're
implying that we have an obligation?" Lasseur said.

"I'm
suggesting you're both supremely practical men who are about to embark on a
vital mission. What's the life of one man when weighed against the future of
France?"

"And
your investments."
Lasseur played
with the stem of his glass. "Let's not forget those."

"Without
which your Emperor will be considerably poorer and your army less well
equipped." If Morgan felt any rancour at Lasseur's reply, he gave no sign.
"It's your duty to turn that fortune around, Captain."

Lasseur
looked at Hawkwood.

"He's
right, my friend," Hawkwood sighed. "If we were on the
Scorpion
and we spied a
fat merchantman lying at anchor off the Downs, we wouldn't be having this
conversation. We'd be sanding the decks and running out the guns and Devil take
the hindmost. I say if this Jilks is the only thing standing between me and a
Goddamned
fortune, the bastard's fair game." Hawkwood
lifted his glass. "And you know it."

He
turned to Morgan. "You want him taken care of? Consider it done."

Chief
Magistrate James Read stood by his window, looking down on to the scene below.
Bow Street echoed with the sounds of a city going about its daily toil. The
clatter of hooves mingled with the rumble of carriage wheels while the wavering
cries of the street vendors rose into the air in a discordant chorus of
strangulated vowels.

Read's
eyes were drawn to the opposite side of the road and the exterior of the Brown
Bear public house. A small boy, one of the countless street urchins that roamed
the area, had just attempted to fleece a passing pedestrian of his pocket watch
and was being beaten roundly about the head by his intended victim. The boy was
struggling like a minnow on a hook. Read couldn't help but admire the young
pickpocket's nerve, plying his trade only strides from the entrance to the
Public Office. He shook his head despairingly as the boy kicked his aggressor
in the shins and ran off through the crowds. It took only a matter of yards
before he had vanished from view. It was interesting, Read thought, that no
one from downstairs had seen the altercation and thought to intervene. He would
have to make enquiries. Perhaps a constable stationed permanently by the front
entrance would rectify the situation.

Read
made a mental note and returned to his desk.
As he sat down, there was a knock at the door. It opened and Ezra Twigg
entered.

"A
communication from the Admiralty, sir.
Just delivered by courier.
I've told him to wait in
case there's a reply."

"Thank
you, Mr Twigg."

Read
slit open the seal while Twigg hovered. His eyes skipped unerringly to the
signature at the bottom of the page. The message was from Ludd.

Ezra
Twigg watched as the magistrate's brow darkened.

"I
take it there's been no word, sir?" Twigg said.

Read
did not reply. He laid the letter on his desk and said in a subdued tone,
"You may tell the courier he can go. There is no reply."

Twigg
nodded and headed for the door. He hesitated and turned. "Is everything in
order, sir?"

Read
looked at his clerk. "You were correct in your assumption, Mr Twigg.
Captain Ludd informs me that there has been no word from Officer Hawkwood since
he escaped from his confinement. Nor has there been any word
of
him."

Twigg
blinked behind his spectacles as he regarded the Chief Magistrate's solemn
expression. The clerk had worked for James Read long enough to know that look.
Read's appearance, from the swept-back silver hair and aquiline face to his
dark conservative dress, was everything one might expect from
a senior public servant. It led those who did not know him to suppose he was an
official who performed his duties with a puritanical zeal and a man who had no
personal regard for anyone who did not adhere to his own exacting standards.
Ezra Twigg knew differently.

Behind
the prim facade there resided a man who was fully and often painfully aware of
the responsibilities he carried on his slim and elegantly clad shoulders. Read
was indeed dedicated to his job. He was also dedicated to the men who worked
for him. The Chief Magistrate knew the dangers facing his officers. The
Runners were an elite band and few in number. They were thinly stretched and,
by the nature of their assignments around the country, often placed in harm's
way. Read knew them to be highly competent, resourceful and sometimes ruthless.
It wasn't unusual for an officer to remain out of contact for a time. But that
didn't stop Read from feeling concern for their welfare or their safety.

And
Read's pensive look told Ezra Twigg all he needed to know.