“I’m well, sir, thank you.” Hawkwood tried to keep the wariness from his voice. The Chief Magistrate wasn’t usually this concerned for his health; at least not to his face.
“Splendid. Plenty of exercise, I trust? My physician tells me that a diet of regular physical activity can be a great aid to recovery, providing one doesn’t indulge in over exertion, of course.”
The Chief Magistrate fixed Hawkwood with another penetrating look. If he’d been wearing spectacles like his clerk, he would have been regarding Hawkwood over the rims, as if daring him to contradict.
“An excellent idea, sir. I’ll bear that in mind the next time I’m stabbed or shot.”
The corner of Read’s mouth lifted. Lowering his coat-tails, the Chief Magistrate gazed towards the window to where the sounds of the city rose stridently from the street below, as a bewildering variety of vendors and costermongers attempted, without much success, to drown out the incessant cacophony of cart wheels and clattering hooves.
Hawkwood waited expectantly.
James Read turned back. “I’ve a job for you.” The Chief Magistrate paused and then said, “I’m placing you on secondment.”
Not something Hawkwood was expecting. The word carried a distinct sense of foreboding, though he wasn’t sure why.
“Secondment?” He tried to keep his voice calm. “With whom?”
“Superintendent Brooke.”
Hawkwood wondered if the name was supposed to mean something. It didn’t.
“Never heard of him. Who is he?”
Read’s eyebrows rose momentarily at the less than reverential tone in Hawkwood’s voice and then he sighed.
“I’d be surprised if you had heard of him, frankly. Superintendent Brooke prefers to keep to the – how shall I put it? – less well-lit side of the street. In fact, I doubt there’s a dozen people who have heard of him. Even within his own department,” Read added cryptically.
Which sounds even more bloody ominous, Hawkwood thought.
Warmed through, Read stepped away from the hearth and walked to the window. “The superintendent’s responsibilities fall within the remit of the Home Office.”
Was that supposed to mean something? Hawkwood wondered.
“So, what are my duties to be . . . sir?”
Read hesitated, looked thoughtful, and then said, “It’s best if I leave it to Superintendent Brooke to brief you.” The magistrate glanced towards the clock dial. “Talking of whom; you are to present yourself without delay. Number 20 Crown Street.”
Read stepped across to his desk and retook his seat. “Caleb’s waiting downstairs. He has instruction to convey you to the address.” Read picked up his pen and reached for some papers. “That is all. You may relay my respects to Superintendent Brooke.”
Dismissed, Hawkwood headed for the door. He was on the threshold and about to close it behind him when he thought he heard Read’s voice. He paused and looked round. “Sir?”
The Chief Magistrate, he saw, had his head down and was engrossed in a document. There was no outward sign that he’d spoken. He did not look up.
Must have been my imagination, Hawkwood thought, though he could have sworn he’d heard the Chief Magistrate whisper the words, “Bon chance.”
As he let himself out, he wondered why he found that idea disquieting.
Chapter 3
Whitehall was as busy as Smithfield on market day.
But then Whitehall was always busy. Every time he’d travelled down it, whether by carriage or on foot, Hawkwood had never known an occasion when it wasn’t. Though that was to be expected, he supposed, given the nature of the business conducted in the grand buildings sited along its broad expanse. That and the fact that the nation was at war; for a nation at war was always on the move. The decisions reached in the offices of state concealed behind the impressive façades affected the lives of every man, woman and child in the land. As a soldier in the service of the king, Hawkwood had been subject to the whims and vain posturings of statesmen more than most. As a police officer, too. It was a depressing fact that there didn’t seem to be any escape from officialdom, no matter who, where, or what you were. And this place was at the centre of it all; the heartbeat.
The road was thronged with carriages; most of them in motion, though a good few were parked, either awaiting the return of their passengers or else competing for fares. Pedestrians hugged the verges in a vain bid to avoid the mud, dust and dung that coated the road. Those who were bold enough to attempt a crossing did so at their peril for the oncoming traffic invariably showed no inclination to cede its right of way.
Carriages weren’t the only means of transport in view. There were plenty of people on horseback, too, a great many of them in uniform, including a phalanx of cavalry heading for the exercise ground. The troopers drew applause as they trotted past.
In the wide forecourt of the Admiralty building, anxious blue-coated naval officers scurried around the high porticoed entrance like ants. It was the same with the Horse Guards. The only difference lay in the cut and the colour of the uniforms. From this imposing building had been issued the orders dispatching Hawkwood and thousands like him to Spain, Portugal and South America and a score of other outposts scattered across the furthest reaches of the globe. He gazed up past the sentry boxes and wondered what new strategies were being hatched on the other side of the high windows.
The cab skirted the front of the Treasury and the defile that was the entrance to Downing Street. Crown Street lay a few yards further on, between Fludyer Street and Charles Street, tucked away from the noise and bustle of the main avenues. Here, the low-hanging sun was partially obscured by inconvenient rooftops, so corners of the narrow street still lay in chilly shadow, giving it a disquieting air of gloom. There were a few strollers about, but Caleb’s was the only carriage. The horses’ hooves echoed on the road like stones in a hollow log.
The cab halted. Hawkwood alighted and told Caleb there was no need to wait. Caleb touched two fingers to his cap and drove off.
From the outside, Number 20 looked to be as unremarkable as its neighbours, save for the small, unobtrusive brass plate that was positioned to the right of the door. On it were inscribed the words: alien office.
Hawkwood stared down at the plate.
So that was why Magistrate Read had been so evasive.
A middle-aged, lank-haired clerk with pockmarked skin and a lugubrious cast to his features answered Hawkwood’s summons on the bell and, after fixing him with a baleful stare and taking his name, instructed him to wait. When the clerk returned he was accompanied by a formally dressed and much younger man, who looked Hawkwood up and down with ill-disguised condescension. Unlike his colleague, his hair looked freshly barbered. Hawkwood’s nostrils detected the faint whiff of pomade.
“Officer Hawkwood? My name is Flint. This way, if you please.” He crooked a finger. Hawkwood resisted the urge to snap it off.
Moving primly, Flint led the way upstairs. Apart from the sound of their footsteps, the building seemed eerily quiet. If it hadn’t been for the nameless functionary on the ground floor, they might well have been the only two in the place. Leading Hawkwood to a door at the top of the stairs, Flint knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside.
Hawkwood found himself in a spacious, high-ceilinged room that resembled a library more than it did an office. Books were displayed on every wall. The areas of panelling that did not contain bookshelves supported an impressive gallery of maps; the majority of which appeared to cover Europe – France and the Peninsula mostly – though India and Egypt, Hawkwood noticed,