James McGee - Ratcatcher

Except that hadn’t been the case. Henry Warlock had been a law officer and he had been murdered. Savagely.

Hawkwood had witnessed death in many forms. In war, he’d seen men hacked to pieces by sabres and blown to shreds by cannon shot. And in his relatively short career as a Runner, he’d dealt with enough murder and maiming to last a lifetime. Viewing death was always hard. When it involved a stranger you could look upon it with a certain detachment, but when it came to one of your own, that was different. Hawkwood had experienced it on the battlefield with members of his own company. Staring down at Warlock’s distended carcass, he felt it now; the feeling of personal loss, the senseless waste and, above all, the stirrings of intense anger.

Smothering his revulsion, Hawkwood began a search of the dead Runner’s pockets. Not a pleasant task, but it had to be done. In the event, the search produced nothing. The dead man’s pockets were empty. No pocketbook, no coins, no personal belongings of any kind.

Hawkwood gnawed the inside of his lower lip. Inconceivable though it seemed, the evidence appeared beyond doubt. Runner Warlock, for all his experience in dealing with assorted villainy, had apparently fallen victim to one of the commonest crimes in London. Murdered and robbed by the very breed of criminal he had been obligated to pursue. Hawkwood wondered if Warlock had died appreciating the irony. A thought occurred to him. He turned to the boy. “Have you been over him already, Davey?”

The boy looked startled, then indignant. “Not me, Mr ’Awkwood. No way.”

Hawkwood clasped the boy’s arm. “The truth, Davey. It’s important.”

The boy shook his head vehemently. “Swear to God, Mr ’Awkwood.”

The boy’s expression told Hawkwood he was telling the truth. He nodded, accepting the response. “And I don’t suppose any of you saw anything?”

Davey shook his head. “Sorry, Mr ’Awkwood. We only just found ’im. It was Ned there who spotted ’im.” Davey indicated his companion.

“You tell anyone else?”

“Nah, you’re the only one we does business with.”

Hawkwood frowned. “How did you know where I’d be?”

The boy shrugged. “Didn’t. T’were only a guess. I sent Dandy to the Black Lion and Teaser to Bow Street. Reckoned you’d turn up sooner or later.”

Sound reasoning, Hawkwood thought. Dandy and Teaser being, he assumed, the remainder of young Davey’s band of ragamuffins. He fished in his pocket and handed over the coin. “You did the right thing, Davey. I’m grateful.”

As the boy bit into the coin, Hawkwood stared down at the body. Despite his urgent need to contact Jago again, it looked as if the ex-sergeant would have to wait a while longer for the pleasure of his company.

The Chief Magistrate regarded the stout man standing before him with expectation. “Well?”

The response was a declamatory spreading of the hands. “My dear sir, you must understand that determining the precise moment of death is hardly an exact science.”

James Read sighed in exasperation. “Very well, Doctor. In that case, in your learned opinion…”

The stout man shrugged. “Half a day, perhaps. Not more than one at the most.” He removed a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his brow.

The Chief Magistrate’s mouth formed itself into a thin, grim line. “And the cause?”

The handkerchief was placed back inside the sleeve. “Ah, now, of that there can be no doubt. Fracture of the cranium. The occipital bone-”

Read waved his hand impatiently. “In plain English, Dr McGregor, if you please.”

“He means,” Hawkwood said, “that the poor bastard was beaten to death.”

Beside him, the doctor winced. McGregor, the surgeon appointed by the coroner to examine the body of the murdered Runner, was overweight and round-faced and gave the impression that he was rather taken with his own importance and thus not used to being interrupted, whether by a Chief Magistrate or his subordinate. The web of red veins radiating across his nose and upper cheeks suggested that his high self-esteem was matched only by his fondness for port. He fixed Hawkwood with a cold glare.

“Not strictly true. The indications are that the skull was pierced rather than battered.”

“Either way, he died of it.” Hawkwood did not feel in the mood for niceties.

“Well, yes,” McGregor said, sniffing disdainfully. “Eventually.”

The Chief Magistrate’s head snapped back. “Explain.”

The doctor drew himself up. “It’s clear from the condition of the body and the deceased’s clothing that he spent some considerable time in the water. Initial examination of the victim’s lungs, however, has revealed that death was not due to drowning. Indicating, as I have said, that it was the blow to the head that killed him. The fact that the body was discovered above the high-water mark lends foundation to my own particular theory.”

Read frowned. “Which is what, exactly?”

“I think he’s telling us,” Hawkwood said, “that in all probability, the blow wasn’t immediately fatal. In other words, he was hit on the head and either fell or was pushed into the river, and it was the effort of dragging himself ashore that killed him.”

Read stared at the physician. “That’s your conclusion?”

McGregor, clearly annoyed that Hawkwood had stolen his thunder, scowled and nodded. “It is.”

There was a long silence. “What about the weapon?” Hawkwood asked.

The surgeon, still rankled by Hawkwood’s presence and lack of grace, pursed his lips. “The blow was driven with excessive force. I’d suggest an instrument both sharp and heavy, perhaps a pick or chisel of some kind. Beyond that, I cannot say with any certainty.”

“Jesus!” Hawkwood snapped. “Is there anything you can be certain about? Besides your bloody fee!”

McGregor jerked back as if he had been struck. “How dare you, sir! I-”

“Enough!” The Chief Magistrate’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

The doctor looked as if he was about to continue his bluster, but one look at James Read’s face persuaded him otherwise. Hawkwood discovered that both his own fists were tightly clenched.

Read stood. “Thank you, Doctor. As ever, you have been most helpful. My clerk will see you out.”

As if on cue, the door opened. Ezra Twigg stood framed in the opening. “This way, Doctor, if you please.”

The Chief Magistrate waited for the door to close before fixing Hawkwood with a stern eye. “That was uncalled for.”

“He’s a pompous oaf.”

James Read sighed. “Pompous he may be. He certainly has an unenviable capacity to irritate. But an oaf? He’s an excellent surgeon, Hawkwood, and I would remind you that we require his services rather more than he requires ours.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like him,” Hawkwood said.

“True,” Read agreed wearily. “Nevertheless, while I appreciate your feelings over the death of a colleague, I’d be obliged if you would refrain from insulting the man to his face, particularly in my presence.”

The warning glint in the magistrate’s eye was only too clear. Hawkwood gave way. “Yes, sir.”

Read nodded. Honour had been satisfied. “So, to business. Warlock’s murder-you’ve thoughts on the matter?”

Hawkwood shrugged. “Robbery or revenge. It has to be one of the two.”

The Chief Magistrate looked thoughtful. “Well, the area’s a notorious haunt for footpads. However…”

Hawkwood nodded. “I know. But the more I think about it, the less likely robbery seems. He was too fly to let himself be waylaid by a cutpurse. And the fact that his pockets were empty is no indication. Hell, another hour and he’d have been stripped naked. There’s not many who’d pass up the chance of a coat and a free pair of boots. My guess is revenge. He was a good thief-taker. He must have sent down a fair number of villains in his time, made plenty of enemies along the way. That’s a lot of people who’d like to see him dead.”