Hawkwood sipped wine, admiring her smooth naked body. “Tell me about Lord Mandrake.”
Catherine frowned. “Lord Mandrake?”
“What do you know about him?”
She smiled brightly. “I know he is rich.”
“That much I know,” Hawkwood said. “What else?”
Mandrake’s wealth emanated from many sources, chiefly trade. In their capacity as merchant adventurers, the Mandrakes had, over successive generations, established a lucrative import business, involving tobacco from America, silks and spices from the east, and other luxury goods, including Indian tea, and fine wines.
She slipped the robe around her shoulders. “Why all these questions, my love?”
Hawkwood shrugged. “Idle curiosity.”
“You’re a little jealous, perhaps?” Amusement danced in her dark eyes. She returned to the bed, laughing at his expression. “There’s no need to be.” She climbed up beside him, making no attempt to secure the robe. The material parted. Her dark-tipped breasts moved tantalizingly beneath the silken sheath.
She took the glass from him, took a slow sip of wine and shrugged. “He’s been a friend to my uncle’s family for many years. They’ve shared several business ventures. Most of the wines imported by Lord Mandrake come from grapes grown in the family’s vineyards in Portugal. When my uncle saw that I intended to remain in Europe, he asked Lord Mandrake for his help. He has been a very loyal friend. He has even given me the use of this house while I am in London. I think he’s one of the kindest men I have known, and he has been most generous in his support for the Comte d’Artois.”
He could afford to be, Hawkwood reflected, recalling the opulence of the ball.
“What about his friends?”
“I know he has a great many. I do believe he even dines with your Prime Minister.” She looked at him quizzically. “Why, Matthew, you sound as if you suspect him of something. Why is that?”
Hawkwood allowed himself a grin. “I’m a police officer. I suspect everyone.”
“Even me?”
Her expression was beguiling, but her words jolted him. She was looking at him over the rim of the glass.
“No.” Hawkwood smiled. “Should I?”
She gazed at him perceptively. “Everyone has something to hide, Matthew.” She lifted her palm to his neck and traced the area of bruising. “Isn’t that so?”
The footman stared at Hawkwood with a mixture of confusion and distrust. Hawkwood, presuming the man had misunderstood his announcement, repeated it.
“Special Constable Hawkwood, here to see Lord Mandrake.” Hawkwood held out his warrant. He wondered if the servant could even read, but he knew the document’s official seal would probably be enough to gain him access to the house.
His evening with the insatiable Catherine having yielded no useful information, other than the fact that Lord Mandrake was on nodding if not intimate terms with most of the government of the day, Hawkwood had decided that his only recourse was to take the more direct approach, and revisit Mandrake House.
The footman’s eyes scanned the warrant. “His lordship’s not at home.”
“When do you expect him back?”
The footman hesitated, his caution suddenly heightened by Hawkwood’s sharpened tone.
“Well?” Hawkwood said, returning the warrant to his tipstaff.
“I’m not certain. His lordship’s gone, you see.”
“I know he’s gone,” Hawkwood said, with rising exasperation. “You’ve just told me that. Gone where?”
“His estate at Northwich. I believe it was the Comte’s wish to visit the country.”
“Comte?”
“His lordship’s house guest, the Comte de Rochefort.”
The Frenchman, the student of Montaigne, who had displayed an unusual degree of interest in Hawkwood the night of the ball. Hawkwood wondered what de Rochefort would think of the north. Northwich was in Cheshire, a long way from the capital’s fashionable salons and enticements. There was always fox hunting, of course, though, from Hawkwood’s recollection, the Comte had not looked the type to engage in strenuous activity of any sort, unless it involved pitching dice or fanning a hand of cards.
The door began to close slowly.
“Not so fast, culley,” Hawkwood said. Jamming his boot through the gap in the door, he pushed past the servant, and was immediately aware, even as he entered the vast entrance hall, of how quiet the mansion was. It was in complete contrast to his previous visit when the house had been filled with bright lights, music and laughter.
“Sir, I protest!” But the footman’s objections went unheeded. With the servant trotting abjectly in his wake, Hawkwood checked the ground floor. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the lofty passages. No doubt about it, the cupboard was bare. Hawkwood heard voices, but when he investigated the source, he found only servants performing last-minute chores, cleaning fireplaces and placing dust covers over the furniture.
“When did they leave?” Hawkwood asked.
Lord Mandrake, accompanied by his wife and guest and a not inconsiderable amount of luggage, had vacated the house early that morning. Very early, it transpired, not much past first light.
Was it usual, Hawkwood asked pointedly, for Lord Mandrake to depart for his northern estates at this time of year? And if so, was it also his lordship’s custom to depart at the crack of dawn?
The servant’s reply wasn’t much help. Lord Mandrake visited his estates whenever the mood took him. As for setting off early, it was a long journey, therefore, the earlier the family left, the earlier the family arrived.
Hawkwood bit down on his frustration. A thought struck him.
“Tell me, has his lordship been having any trouble with his clocks?”
The footman blinked uncomprehendingly. “Clocks?”
“Yes, his bloody clocks, damn it! Were any of the household clocks in need of repair?”
“Er, no, sir, not as I recall.” It was apparent from his expression that the footman had begun to harbour serious doubts about Hawkwood’s sanity.
Well, it had been a random shot, anyway. They returned to the front door, where the servant could not hide his relief at showing Hawkwood out. The Runner stood on the steps and reflected. There was little doubt that Lord Mandrake had left in unseemly haste.
But for what reason?
Coincidence or conspiracy?
“And so we commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In sure and certain hope …”
The parson’s voice droned on, flat and unemotional, giving the impression that the burial service was a task to be endured. Hawkwood found himself wishing for what would probably be the Reverend Fludde’s more strident style of oratory. He stared into the open grave at the rough wooden coffin, and wondered if his own funeral would be so sparsely attended. Probably, he concluded ruefully.
It was late afternoon. The corner of the tiny churchyard was dappled in fading sunlight. Next to Hawkwood, James Read leaned on his stick, his face sombre. Aside from Hawkwood and the Chief Magistrate, there were only three other mourners. There was Ezra Twigg, looking suitably solemn. At the clerk’s shoulder, a heavy, thickset man: Runner Jeremiah Lightfoot, currently on assignment with the Bank of England. Standing several paces away, shaded beneath the branches of an apple tree, a slight black-shawled woman, face drawn with grief, sobbed into