It was not uncommon for the post of First Sea Lord to be held by a politician rather than a navy man. In such circumstances, the senior naval officer on the Admiralty Board was employed by the First Sea Lord in an advisory capacity. In this instance, Charles Yorke’s advisor was Admiral Bartholomew Dalryde.
From midshipman to admiral, Dalryde had served his country with distinction. His first command, the frigate Audacious, had been gained at the age of twenty-four. Since then, he had fought in the American War of Independence, served under Hood in the Mediterranean and with Nelson at Cape St Vincent and Trafalgar.
“His name is Hawkwood.”
“Hawkwood?” The chin of the second man seated at the broad table came up sharply.
The First Sea Lord fixed the speaker with a stern eye. “You know him, Blomefield?”
Thomas Blomefield, Inspector General of Artillery and Head of the Ordnance Board, frowned. In his late sixties, he was the oldest man present. In many respects his career mirrored that of the Admiral. Blomefield had begun his service as a cadet at Woolwich Military Academy. He, too, had fought in the American War, suffering wounds at Saratoga. It had been Blomefield who’d commanded the artillery during the Copenhagen expedition. His speciality was armaments. The Ordnance Board controlled the supply of guns and ammunition to both the army and the navy. As well as controlling the distribution of the guns, Blomefield also designed them. Many of his designs had become the standard pattern used on board ships of the line.
“There’s something about the name.” Blomefield’s brow furrowed. He looked at Read. “How long has he been with you?”
A sixth sense warned Read that he might be straying into potentially dangerous waters, but it was too late to retract. The truth would out anyway, given time. “Not long. A little over a year.”
“And before then?”
“He saw service in the military.”
Blomefield stiffened. Read could tell that somewhere in the dark recesses of the Inspector General’s brain a light had suddenly dawned.
“Hawkwood?” Blomefield repeated the name and sat up suddenly. “Of the 95th?”
Read said nothing.
“I’ll be damned!” Blomefield said.
An expression of displeasure flitted across the Admiral’s face. Dalryde was a strict church-goer who disapproved of strong language, especially when it involved taking the Lord’s name in vain. At sea, his reputation as a disciplinarian had been founded upon an unhealthy appetite for flogging any luckless seaman he overheard blaspheme. It was said that his appointment to the Admiralty Board had been met with considerable relief by the officers and men serving under his direct command.
“Would the Inspector General care to share his knowledge?” The First Sea Lord turned flinty eyes towards his fellow Board member.
Blomefield looked towards Read as if seeking his approval to continue, but the Chief Magistrate’s face remained neutral.
“I was merely thinking, if it is the same man, he has rather an interesting past.”
“Explain.”
Blomefield, obviously wishing he’d held his tongue, hesitated fractionally before replying. “There was an incident during his army service, I seem to recall. An affair of honour. He, er … killed a fellow officer.”
As Blomefield shifted uneasily in his seat, the First Sea Lord turned to James Read in bewilderment. “Is this true?”
The Chief Magistrate nodded. “The Inspector General is quite correct.”
“And you were aware of his past before you recruited him?”
“Naturally. I vet all my officers with the utmost care.”
The First Sea Lord stared aghast. “Good God, man! I’m due to report to the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary later this morning. How the devil do you expect me to tell them that the officer we’ve assigned to the investigation was a common soldier who once killed a man in a duel? Answer me that!”
“A common soldier?” Read responded quickly. “Hawkwood was an uncommonly fine officer, and I hardly need remind you, my lord, that the Rifle Company’s reputation is second to none.”
“I am quite familiar with their reputation,” the First Sea Lord replied tartly. “And I’m equally aware that certain accounts of their activities have been less than favourable.”
The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips. “I concede their tactics lean towards the unorthodox. Nevertheless –”
“Unorthodox?” Yorke rasped. “Unorthodox is naught but a highfalutin’ term for undisciplined. Why, I understand the officers even drill alongside the men!”
“But they achieve results,” Read countered. “Hawkwood’s an excellent officer, a shade unconventional in his methods, perhaps, but it has long been my experience in dealing with lawbreakers that the end quite often justifies the means.”
The First Sea Lord stared at the Chief Magistrate aghast. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He appeared lost for words.
“You’ve got to admit,” Blomefield broke in, “there is a kind of justice to it. Set a killer to track down a brace of murderers. Why, I’d say the fellow’s ideally suited to the task. Mind you, I confess I’m curious to know how you came by him.”
There was a half-smile on the Inspector General’s face. Read realized that Blomefield was offering him an opening.
“He was recommended,” Read said.
The Inspector General raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“By Colquhoun Grant.”
The Inspector General gave a sharp intake of breath. Blomefield had a right to be impressed. Colquhoun Grant was one of Wellington’s most experienced exploring officers. Exploring officers operated behind enemy lines, observing the enemy’s strength and troop movements. Revered by Wellington, Grant was the chief liaison between the guerrilleros and the Duke’s intelligence service and, despite the clandestine nature of his work, or possibly because of it, was well known in military circles.
“I’ll be damned,” Blomefield murmured. “So, the rumours were true. Your man did take to the hills.” The Inspector General turned to the First Sea Lord and smiled. “Well, it’d take a braver man than me to argue with Captain Grant, my lord. What say you?”
The remark was rewarded with a glare from Charles Yorke. The Inspector General grinned.
Significantly, none of the Board ventured to enquire of James Read how he came to be acquainted with Wellington’s senior intelligence officer. They probably knew better than to ask, for it had long been rumoured that Chief Magistrate Read’s responsibilities extended beyond those of a purely domestic nature. There had been whispers of links between Bow Street and a number of government departments, not all of them available to public scrutiny. The word Spymaster hovered on some lips, but such was the nature of the murky world of espionage that the truth of these rumours could never be confirmed. But then, more pointedly, they had never been denied either.
“As a matter of interest, this duel you mentioned, may one enquire as to the identity of the man he killed? You didn’t say.” The question was posed by Dalryde.
A nerve flickered along James Read’s cheek. “His name was Delancey. A nephew to the Duke of Rutland.”
“And not greatly missed, as I recall,” Blomefield murmured.
Dalryde raised an eyebrow. “Rather a harsh judgement.”
The First Sea Lord fixed the Inspector General with a baleful stare. “Indeed. The family is, by all accounts,