In the kitchen of the house, Constable Edmund Rafferty scratched his ample belly and gazed at the display of valuables on the table. He cast a wary eye on the figure of Eli Gant who, having recovered from the baton blow, was seated on the floor, his back to the wall, rocking slowly from side to side, while staring mournfully down at the handcuffs that had been fastened around his wrists. In his present predicament, he looked as harmless as a puppy.
Rafferty stole another surreptitious glance at the table and started as a voice behind him said, “We caught four of the little beggars, Irish. What should we do with ‘em?”
The speaker was a thin, ferret-featured individual dressed similarly to Rafferty, save for the colour of his waistcoat, which was scarlet instead of blue. His right hand was clamped around the collar of a small boy. He was holding the boy in such a way that the tips of the child’s toes only just touched the cobbles. The child was trying to pull away. His attempt to escape, however, was instantly curtailed when his captor cuffed him violently round the back of the head.
Rafferty eyed the figure at the door with scorn. “You hold on to ‘em, Constable Warbeck, until I tells you otherwise. Now, take him outside, there’s a good lad.”
The constable touched his cap and moved away, and Rafferty breathed a sigh of relief. It was Rafferty’s considered opinion that Constable Warbeck hadn’t the brains he’d been born with, and his habit of addressing Rafferty as “Irish” was also beginning to irk considerably. Unfortunately, Warbeck was married to Rafferty’s younger sister, Alice, who had persuaded her brother to sponsor Warbeck’s entry into the police force; an act of charity about which he was beginning to have severe misgivings. Not least, regarding the said constable’s apparent inability to look the other way at opportune moments. Clearly, the man had much to learn. Still, Rafferty concluded, it was early days.
Moving to the table, Rafferty eyed the small array of pocketbooks and jewellery with increasing interest. Looking over his shoulder to ensure he was not being observed, he investigated the contents of the pocketbooks. Several of them, to his delight, held banknotes. He extracted one crisp note from each and replaced the pocketbooks on the table. Then his eyes alighted on the watch.
It was a very fine watch; gold-cased, with matching chain. Undoubtedly the property of a gentleman. Rafferty held the timepiece up to his ear. The ticking was like a tiny heartbeat. He inserted the end of a blunt fingernail under the clasp and was about to flick open the cover when his ears detected footsteps and a curious scraping sound. Quickly, Rafferty dropped the watch into the deep pocket of his coat. Just in time. He grinned expansively as Hawkwood emerged from behind the curtain, dragging the body of Mother Gant into the room.
“Well now, Captain, there I was wondering where you’d got to. Thought we might have to send out a search party, so I did.” Rafferty’s glance dropped to the body of the Widow Gant, who had regained consciousness and was staring up at Hawkwood with a degree of malevolence that was chilling in its intensity.
“See you caught the old crone, then?” Rafferty studied the rent in Hawkwood’s sleeve and frowned. “Gave you a bit of trouble, did she?”
Hawkwood hauled the old woman across the floor and dropped her next to her son. When he looked up his eyes were as dark as the grave.
“How many?”
Rafferty sighed. “Four. The rest scarpered. My lads’ve got ‘em outside.” Rafferty found himself wavering under the other man’s gaze. There was something in that hard stare that made Constable Rafferty’s blood run cold. To his relief, Hawkwood merely nodded in acceptance.
“Probably as many as we deserved. All right, you know what to do. Take them away.”
Rafferty nodded. “Right you are.” The constable aimed a kick at Eli Gant’s shin. “On your feet! You, too, Mother, else you’ll get my boot up your skinny arse!”
Hawkwood turned away as Rafferty bundled his charges out of the house.
“Wait!”
The command cut through the air. Rafferty paused on the doorstep. A cold wind touched his spine. When he turned around he found that Hawkwood was looking at him, and his breath caught in his throat.
The bastard knew!
Hawkwood held out his hand. “I’ll take the watch, Rafferty.”
“Eh?” Instinctively, in voicing that one word of feigned innocence, Rafferty knew he’d betrayed his guilt. Conceit and fear, however, dictated that he make at least a half-hearted attempt to extricate himself from the mire.
“Watch? And what watch would that be, then? Sure, and I don’t know what you mean.”
Hawkwood’s expression was as hard as stone. “I’ll ask you once more, Constable. You’ve already made one mistake. Don’t compound the error. Hand it over.”
Even as he blustered, Rafferty knew the game had been played to its conclusion. His only recourse was to try and retire with as much bravado as he could muster. He frowned, as if searching his memory, and then allowed a broad smile to steal across his face.
“Och, sweet Mary! Why, of course! What was I thinking? Sure and didn’t I just slip it into my pocket for safekeeping and then forget all about it? Memory’ll be the death of me, so it will. Here it is, now! I’m glad you reminded me, for it’s likely I’d have walked off with it, so I would.”
And with a grin that would have charmed Medusa, Constable Rafferty reached into the pocket of his coat and brought forth the watch with the dexterity of an illusionist producing a rabbit from a hat.
“There you go, Captain.” Rafferty handed the watch over. “And a very fine timepiece it is, too, even if I does say so myself. Cost a pretty penny, I shouldn’t wonder.” A mischievous wink caused the right side of the constable’s face to droop alarmingly. “Take a bit of a liking to it yourself, did you? And who’d blame you, is what I’d say. Why, I –”
Hawkwood turned the watch over in his hands and looked up. His expression was enough to erase the grin from the constable’s face.
“You can dispense with the bejesus and the blarney, Rafferty. It might fool the ladies and the scum you drink with, but it doesn’t impress me.”
Rafferty’s skin reddened even further and he shifted uncomfortably, but Hawkwood hadn’t finished.
“A warning, Rafferty. You ever work with me again, you’d best keep your thieving hands to yourself. Otherwise, I’ll cut them off. Is that clear?”
The constable opened his mouth as if to protest, but the words failed him. He nodded miserably.
“Good, then we understand each other. The watch stays with me. Take the rest of the loot to Bow Street. It can be stored there as evidence. And mark this, Rafferty. I’m holding you responsible for its safe arrival. You never know, the owners may actually turn up to claim it. Now, get the hell out of my sight.”
Hawkwood waited until Rafferty and his constables had left with their prisoners, before flicking open the watch cover and reading the inscription etched into the casing. Then, closing the watch, he dropped it into his pocket and let himself out of the house.
In the stable yard behind the Blind Fiddler, the fight was nearing the end. It was the forty-seventh round. By the standards of the day, and by common consent, it had been an enjoyable contest.
Both fighters had taken severe punishment. Benbow, his face a mask of blood and nursing two broken ribs, waited for his opponent to come within range.
Figg, rendered almost deaf and blind by the injuries he had received, his wrists and hands swollen to twice normal size, wits scrambled by a barrage of punches to the face and leaking sweat from every pore, spat out a gobbet of blood, and circled unsteadily.
Both men could barely