“Er … what boy?”
“That one!” Maddie’s eyes flashed green fire as she pointed an accusing finger.
Hawkwood looked around. A small, grubby face was peering round the edge of the doorframe. A hand beckoned urgently.
An ominous sigh sounded close by. Hawkwood realized it was emanating from between Maddie’s tightly clenched teeth. He sensed the landlady was about to erupt, spectacularly.
“All right, Maddie,” Hawkwood interposed quickly. “Leave it to me. I’ll deal with it.”
Hawkwood walked to the door and stepped out into the alleyway.
“Davey?”
“Over ‘ere, Mr ‘Awkwood!”
The urchin emerged from the shadow of a nearby archway. One hand was hidden inside his ragged jacket. He looked around nervously.
“What the hell’s going on, Davey?” Hawkwood asked.
“Got a present for you, Mr ‘Awkwood.”
Slowly the boy took his hand from inside his coat. He was clutching something. Hawkwood couldn’t quite make out what it was. “Reckon I should give you this.”
The boy held out his hand. Hawkwood stared at the object. His heart went cold.
It was a Runner’s baton.
Hawkwood found his voice. “Where’d you get it?”
The boy looked down, avoiding Hawkwood’s eye.
“Davey?”
“Sorry, Mr ‘Awkwood. It were Ned. I didn’t know he ‘ad it, honest.”
Ned? Hawkwood had to think for a moment. Then he remembered it was the name of the boy who had discovered Warlock’s corpse.
“Where did he find it?”
“Said it were next to the body. Half-buried, he told me. Didn’t plan on tellin’ no one on account of he thought he could clean it up and flog it. It were Pen who told me he ‘ad it. I made ‘im ‘and it over.”
Instinctively, Hawkwood reached into his pocket, but the boy shook his head. “Nah, that’s all right, Mr ‘Awkwood. Don’t want nothing fer it. You been good to us. Treated us fair and square. That other geezer, too. Don’t seem right, takin’ money off you this time. My way of thinkin’ is you can ‘ave this ‘un with our compliments.” The boy grinned. “On the ‘ouse, you might say.”
Hawkwood gripped the ebony baton tightly. “I’m obliged, Davey. I mean that.”
The boy nodded solemnly. There followed a moment of awkward silence, eventually broken by the urchin. “Well, I’d best be gettin’ back. Don’t like leaving the rest of ‘em on their own for too long. No knowin’ what manner o’ mischief they’ll be gettin’ up to without me to ‘old their ‘ands.”
Hawkwood nodded. “Take care of yourself, Davey. You tell Ned I said thanks. I owe you.”
The boy laughed. “Think I don’t know that? Next time, we’ll charge you double!”
Still laughing, the boy ran off. Hawkwood, assailed by a sudden and inexplicable feeling of melancholy, turned and walked back into the tavern.
Maddie Teague raised the coffeepot and arched an eyebrow suggestively. “Would the kind gentleman care for anything else?”
Hawkwood sat back as the beverage was poured. The landlady’s free hand rested on Hawkwood’s shoulder. Covertly, her fingers traced the nape of his neck. “Fancy some company later?”
Hawkwood knew he still had to find Billy Mipps to arrange another meeting with Jago. “Sorry, Maddie. Not tonight.”
Framed by the neckline of her bodice, the shadow between Maddie’s breasts darkened invitingly.
“You’re sure?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “Can’t, Maddie. Duty calls.”
Maddie straightened abruptly and tossed her fiery mane in mock annoyance. “Well, there’s a fine thing! It occurs to me, Matthew Hawkwood, that some men don’t know when they’re well off!”
Hawkwood watched Maddie pout and flounce away. Despite the sense of despondency that had gripped him earlier, he couldn’t help but smile at the landlady’s theatrics. Maddie Teague had that effect.
As he followed Maddie’s departure, Hawkwood thought about Catherine de Varesne, her dark sensuality so different from Maddie’s pale, Celtic beauty. Unaccountably, he felt a sharp stab of guilt at having made the comparison, for there had been many occasions when Maddie Teague had been a welcome visitor to Hawkwood’s bed.
Maddie Teague was a widow. Her late husband had held a captaincy with the East India Company and had purchased the inn from profits made on the Far Eastern spice routes. The captain had perished, lost at sea along with the rest of his crew and a cargo of Chinese porcelain, when his ship had foundered on a reef during a storm off the Andaman Islands.
Maddie had inherited the Blackbird along with several outstanding debts and a small coterie of creditors. The accumulation of debt had meant that the tavern had been at risk. Salvation had come with the timely arrival of Hawkwood, newly returned from the Peninsula, with a letter of commendation from Colquhoun Grant to the Chief Magistrate at Bow Street, and a need for a roof over his head.
Maddie Teague had welcomed him with a cautious smile. The open arms had come later.
Hawkwood had enjoyed his fair share of women. During his years in the army his dark good looks and the uniform had ensured he had rarely been without female company. But military life and the hardship of campaigning were demanding mistresses and it was an understanding woman who was prepared to put up with the life of a soldier, whether it meant staying at home or following him into battle with the other regimental wives.
Becoming a Runner had brought little change in his circumstances. The job and the inherent dangers that accompanied it were all consuming and there had been scant opportunity to develop lasting friendships, let alone anything resembling romance. Male friends were hard enough to find, never mind women.
Not that Hawkwood had ever viewed himself as the marrying kind. Hearth and slippers? He didn’t think so. It wasn’t in his nature. It might have suited someone like Runner Warlock, but Hawkwood valued his independence too much. So he had taken his pleasure as and when it became available, mostly with molls. There were always willing participants to be found among the better Covent Garden establishments, but they were fleeting liaisons of little consequence. So, now and again, when the mood took them, Hawkwood and Maddie Teague would seek each other’s company and, for a short while, perhaps a night or two, they would take comfort in each other’s embrace and try to keep the loneliness at bay.
Hawkwood took a slow sip of coffee and surveyed the scene and tried to put the thoughts of the two contrasting women out of his head. As if he didn’t have enough to contend with.
A low hum of conversation filled the tavern. There was the usual mix. Several lawyers, a few of whom Hawkwood knew by name, a smattering of clergy, and a brace of well-dressed individuals who could have been either bankers or doctors. Candlelight created strange moving shadows in the oak-beamed room. The atmosphere was relaxed and cordial.
Warlock’s baton lay on the table at Hawkwood’s right elbow. It looked decidedly out of place. There had been a clumsy attempt to clean its pitted surface, but traces of dried mud could still be seen engrained in the grip and on the small brass crown at the tip. Hawkwood picked it up and hefted it in his hands. There was something about the baton, the weight and feel, that was strangely comforting. A Runner’s baton was a measure of the man who carried it. It gave him great authority: the power to search, to seize, to interrogate and to arrest, a right granted to very few officers, less than the number that could be counted on the fingers of two hands. It