Seated cross-legged on the bed, a silk robe over her shoulders, she had relived her childhood.
“I was twelve years old when they sent my father to the guillotine.”
Prior to his arrest, the Marquis de Varesne, aware of the fate that awaited him, had arranged for his wife and daughter’s escape from France. The Marquis had remained behind in order to allay suspicion, fully intending to make his own way out of the country at a later date. The Committee for Public Safety, however, in carrying out its own sinister agenda, had apprehended the Marquis before he could put the final stage of his plan into operation.
“We were taken across the mountains into Spain and then on to Portugal and my mother’s family estate.” Fists clenched, she had blinked back the tears. “My mother never recovered from my father’s death. She died less than a year later. They told me she died of a broken heart. Perhaps it’s true. I know she adored my father. He was a sweet and gentle man who loved his country. I was brought up by my aunt. That was how I learned to speak English. I had cousins my own age. The family employed an English governess. I was very happy there.”
Hawkwood had watched as a shadow stole over her face.
“But even then we were not safe.”
Bonaparte’s invasion of the peninsula had forced the family to break apart once more. At the first rattle of French musketry, Hawkwood recalled, the Portuguese king and queen had taken flight to Brazil, along with a good number of Portuguese aristocrats. It had been the beginning of a chain of events that had led, eventually, to Britain’s involvement with the war in Spain.
And yet she had remained behind. At risk. Why?
She had given a wistful sigh. “Here, in England, I am close to France, among friends who feel as I do, who will never rest until Bonaparte is defeated and we can all return home.”
Her eyes had flickered to the stiletto on the nightstand. It had been her father’s, she told him, pressed upon her when he had engineered his family’s escape from the guillotine. She had kept it with her at all times, during her flight across the mountains into Portugal, concealed within the folds of her dress by day and beneath her pillow at night. Because, she told him, those who opposed Bonaparte were never safe and the English Channel was no protection against determined agents whose sole agenda was to eradicate the Bourbon dynasty and all those who supported it.
“They took my father,” she had told Hawkwood. “They will not take me!”
The chiming of the tavern clock brought Hawkwood back to the present with a reminder that a day and a half had passed since his meeting with Jago. He had hoped that the ex-sergeant might have come up with something by now, a clue that would lead to the identities of the two highwaymen. But he had heard nothing. Experience had taught Hawkwood that Chief Magistrate Read, a man not widely known for his patience, would be expecting, if not demanding, a progress report. And the Chief Magistrate was not a man who accepted disappointment lightly.
To be fair, Hawkwood, due to circumstances not entirely unpleasurable, had not made it easy for Jago to track him down. Which meant it was now his responsibility to search out his old comrade and see if the former sergeant had come up with anything. He did not relish making another pilgrimage into the Holy Land, but he had no choice. An unannounced journey into the rookery was asking for trouble, however. It looked as if he’d have to have another discreet word with Blind Billy Mipps.
As he set his empty coffee mug aside, Hawkwood wondered if and when he would see Catherine de Varesne again. He would need to gather his strength beforehand, he reflected wryly. He thought about those bewitching eyes, that smooth skin and the way her body had arched above his and, as the serving girl took away his empty plate, he couldn’t help but smile to himself at the memory of it.
His attention was drawn again to the clock on the wall. The hours had sped by all too quickly. The day was nearly half over. It was time to pay that call on Blind Billy. Tossing payment for the meal on to the table, Hawkwood left the booth and exited the tavern.
His first thought as he felt the brush of the boy’s hand against his sleeve was that of all the marks available, it was the young pickpocket’s supreme ill luck to have chosen a Bow Street Runner as his target.
Hawkwood’s arm shot out with the speed of a striking cobra. His fingers encircled a thin wrist.
“Not so fast, lad.”
But instead of the expected cry of protest and whine of innocence, there was only the breathless, “Ease up, Hawkey! It’s me, Davey!”
Hawkwood looked down. The face peering up at him was streaked with mud and set on a rail-thin body that would not have looked out of place on a sick sparrow. A fringe of ginger hair sprouted from beneath a filthy woollen cap.
Hawkwood released the wrist. “Christ, Davey! You should know better, sneaking up on a body like that … And don’t call me Hawkey. I’ve told you before.”
The boy pouted. “I weren’t sneakin’! An’ if I ‘ad’ve been, you’d never ‘ave spotted me! Never in a million bloody years!” The pout disappeared to be replaced by a disarming gap-toothed grin. “Mr ‘Awkwood.”
Hawkwood couldn’t help but grin back. For indeed, had he been a legitimate mark, he knew that young Davey would have made the snatch and been off and running without him being any the wiser.
Not that picking pockets was young Davey’s sole source of income.
Davey was a mudlark, one of the many homeless children who prowled the Thames at low tide, wading through the stinking black mud and silt on the lookout for items that might have been washed ashore or had fallen or been tossed from a ship, boat or barge. Anything that could turn a profit. They operated alone and in packs, living by their wits, like rats in the darkness.
Young Davey had other talents, too. They lay in the use of his eyes and ears, for the boy was one of Hawkwood’s most reliable informers. Despite the best efforts of watchmen patrols and the Wapping-based River Police, crime along the river was rife and the authorities relied on any help they could get.
Davey and his cohorts were certainly no angels, it had to be admitted, but in the general scheme of things, they were small fry. Hawkwood and his fellow law officers were prepared to overlook instances of petty pilfering in order to land the bigger fish, the organized gangs of thieves and traffickers who stole to order from ships and warehouses the length and breadth of the water front.
“So, what’s up, Davey? What have you got?”
The boy glanced around. He looked apprehensive, as if afraid of being overheard. The cockiness of the previous few moments had evaporated. When he spoke his voice was low. “We’ve found a dead ‘un, Mr ‘Awkwood.”
The first uncharitable thought that entered Hawkwood’s mind was that if the boy had only seen one dead body so far that morning he obviously hadn’t been trying hard enough.
Not that the streets of the capital were strewn with corpses, but they were not that uncommon, providing one knew where to look. Old age, disease and foul play all took their toll, particularly among the poor and destitute. Venture down any dark alley in one of the rookeries and you could guarantee a cadaver most days of the week. Which, given the sort of company that young Davey ran with, made it all the more curious that the lad should have thought the matter worthy of Hawkwood’s attention. Hawkwood started to say as much when something in the boy’s eyes stopped him cold.
“But, Mr ‘Awkwood, this ain’t no ordinary stiff. This ‘un’s different. ‘E’s one o’ yours. ‘E’s a Runner!”
The body lay partially embedded in the mud, head on one side. One arm was outstretched as if reaching for something. The other was twisted