The cost of the burial had been borne by the Public Office; a small courtesy, but it had meant the Runner’s remains could be buried in the same plot as his wife and infant son. Without it, Warlock’s body would have been consigned to an unmarked poor hole. James Read, Hawkwood knew, would never have countenanced such an indignity for one of his officers. The Chief Magistrate looked after his own.
There was no eulogy. The parson, his duty done, clasped his hands devoutly, and nodded to the waiting gravediggers.
While the Chief Magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and Runner Lightfoot, went to offer condolences to Warlock’s grieving sister, Hawkwood watched as the gravediggers replaced the soil. It took time. Read had ensured that Warlock’s body was buried deep. The resurrection men tended to work during the winter months when the anatomy schools were open, but it wasn’t unheard of for the body snatchers to operate out of season. So the precaution had been taken and Henry Warlock would sleep soundlessly in his grave, free from disturbance. Hawkwood stared down at the low mound of earth and the modest headstone bearing the names of Warlock’s wife and son. The Runner’s own name had yet to be inscribed. Small compensation, Hawkwood reflected, for fifteen years’ loyal service and a fractured skull.
He sensed he was being watched and looked up. The child’s presence came as a shock and he wondered how long she had been there. Jenny, the waif who had escorted him to his meeting with Jago. She approached him slowly, picking her way between the gravestones. Her bare feet made no noise on the soft grass.
“Told ter bring you this –” she said, and held out her hand.
Hawkwood took the scrap of paper and opened it. The scrawled message was succinct.
Rats Nest. Ten o’clock.
It was signed J.
Bound with brass, dark and pitted with age, the oak chest had survived a score of bloody campaigns. It had belonged to a major in the Guards before falling into Hawkwood’s possession. The major had died from wounds on the retreat to Corunna, and Hawkwood had acquired the chest at auction, the proceeds having gone to the major’s widow.
It contained the mementos of war.
Hawkwood opened the lid. The sheathed sword rested on top. A heavy, curved sword, with a blade designed to cleave bone and muscle. With great care, Hawkwood removed the weapon and laid it to one side.
Beneath the sword, carefully folded, lay the dark green, black-braided officer’s tunic. The tunic had been patched many times, most noticeably around elbow and shoulder. The stitching, though worn ragged by time, had been neatly executed. The mending had been done by the wife of a Chosen Man. A seamstress by trade, she had been one of the many camp followers who’d accompanied their husbands to the war.
Next to the tunic, also folded, lay a pair of grey cavalry breeches, reinforced with leather inserts down the inside of the leg. Like the tunic, they showed numerous signs of wear and tear. Alongside the breeches, the sash; once bright crimson, now tattered and torn and the colour of dried oxblood.
The officer’s greatcoat lay underneath. Weighty and warm, it had protected Hawkwood during the harsh Spanish winters; wind and rain, sleet and snow, nights so cold a man’s piss froze before it hit the ground.
Secured at both ends by ribboned ties, the long, grey oilcloth-wrapped bundle lay diagonally beneath the coat. Hawkwood reached in and lifted the bundle out. He hesitated before untying the ribbons.
The rifle barrel gleamed brightly in the candlelight. Etched on to a brass plate on the polished stock was the inscription: Ezekiel Baker & Son, gunmakers to His Majesty, London.
A hundred memories were stirred as Hawkwood rewrapped the gun and laid it on the bed. With this rifle he had shot and killed the Spanish general atop the ramparts at Montevideo. It had accompanied him into Portugal and Spain and it had served him well. In return, he had cared for it as if it had been a child. He had even slept with it at night. It had been as close to him as any woman.
There was more clothing and equipment. Shirts, hats, belts and boots, a case of duelling pistols, tools and moulds for making bullets, ammunition pouches, a powder horn, a bayonet, a brass telescope; the accoutrements of a lifetime’s soldiering, and more besides.
Hawkwood made his selection, returning the unwanted articles, including the rifle and sword, to the chest. Then he dressed.
The Rat’s Nest was in Shadwell and not the first place Hawkwood would have chosen for a meeting – not even in daytime, let alone the dead of night. He supposed Jago had his reasons for choosing it. To go there in normal attire would be to invite trouble. Remembering his welcome at Noah’s Ark, a degree of subterfuge was therefore required.
The person reflected in the mirror bore little resemblance to the austere, well-cut figure of a Bow Street Runner. Gone were the shirt and cravat, the tailored coat, the smart waistcoat and the dark breeches. In their place a threadbare brown shirt, a shabby woollen jacket, a pair of frayed and shiny-bottomed trousers bearing the scarlet seam of the 3rd King’s Own, and on his feet a well-scuffed pair of boots. Hawkwood had liberated the boots from the body of a dead French officer. French boots were good quality. This pair looked to have seen better days, but they were sound and comfortable and that’s what mattered.
Hawkwood knelt by the fire grate. Scooping up a handful of ash, he rubbed it into his clothes. Untying the ribbon at the back of his neck, he smeared the rest of the ash into his hair. He returned to the mirror and studied the result. Not a bad transformation. Cursory, but it would have to do. No one would take him for a law officer. A labourer, perhaps, or a discharged soldier down on his luck.
Satisfied with his disguise, Hawkwood tucked his baton into his belt and left the room. Using the back stairs, he descended into the passageway at the rear of the tavern and slipped silently into the night.
Hawkwood proceeded with caution. Shadwell lay at the eastern end of the Ratcliffe Highway. The streets were becoming narrower and increasingly claustrophobic. There were no lamps here, no link-men to guide the way. It was as if the cobblestones had absorbed all the light. It might just as well have been the dark side of the moon. No honest men walked here at night, not if they valued their souls.
The sound of a bottle shattering against stone halted Hawkwood in his tracks. He melted into a patch of shadow, face half-turned to the wall, and waited. Across the street, two figures struggled in a drunken embrace. A bottle was raised and swung. One of the brawlers went down. The victor leaned over his fallen companion and booted him viciously in the side of the head. Then, after conducting a hurried search of the victim’s pockets, he rose and staggered away, the remains of the bottle trailing loosely in his hand.
Hawkwood stepped out, past the body sprawled in the gutter. He did not bother to check for signs of life. He knew, as soon as he was out of sight, the scavengers would move in, jackals drawn to a rotting carcass. The remains would be picked clean in minutes.
The houses were crude affairs, some wood-built, most of them brick, all packed tightly together; a breeding ground for disease. There had been an outbreak of typhus here not so long ago. It was unlikely the contagion had died out completely. Most likely, it was only lying dormant, biding its time, like an enemy in the undergrowth.
Hawkwood was no stranger to the area, though he didn’t know it well. Like the inhabitants of the rookeries, the people here kept themselves to themselves. Strangers weren’t welcome. He would have to tread carefully. Turning into a narrow lane, he headed towards the river.
He saw it as soon as he emerged from the alleyway: a dark, monstrous shape tethered to the far end of the wharf. Beyond its black hulk, a forest of mastheads reared towards a full