James McGee - Ratcatcher

Sparrow blinked fearfully. Then his eyes moved and Hawkwood heard the faint hiss of breath. Sparrow wasn’t looking at him, he realized. He was looking at something behind him, in the doorway. Hawkwood started to turn, but he was about a thousand years too late. He sensed the shadow above him, heard the soft footfall, followed by a massive explosion of pain as he was struck hard behind the right ear.

The thought that passed through his mind as he went down was, curiously, not how much the blow had hurt, but that this was the second time he’d been taken by surprise in nearly as many hours. It was getting to be a nasty habit. Or maybe it was a sign that he was growing too old for this sort of game. The second thing that struck him as he began to slip away was that the attack had clearly affected his sense of smell. He could have sworn that the impact upon his skull had been accompanied by the faint yet unmistakable scent of lemons.

Hawkwood saw the rat as soon as he opened his eyes. It was impossible to miss. It was huge, at least a foot and a half long from nose to tail. There were rich pickings to be had along the waterfront and the rodent looked well fed and healthy, its pelt as shiny as velvet. Unafraid, the rat sat back on its hind legs, front paws raised, and sniffed the air, whiskers twitching. Finally, curiosity overcoming caution, it dropped back to all fours and scampered fluidly across the floor. Six feet away, it paused and stared at Hawkwood with bright, beady-eyed expectation.

Hawkwood raised his head. A big mistake. Pain lanced through his skull. He groaned and closed his eyes, willing the hurt to subside. He opened his eyes again, cautiously, his cheek against the cold stone. The view hadn’t changed. The rat was still there, watching him.

Something touched his shoulder. Instinctively, Hawkwood jerked away and regretted it instantly as another bolt of lightning seared along his optic nerve.

“Easy, my boy, easy.” The voice was gentle and soothing. “Here, let me help you up.”

Hawkwood felt guiding arms around his shoulders as he was assisted into a seated position against the wall. He put a hand to the back of his skull and winced as his fingers explored broken skin and what felt like dried blood. Slowly, he raised his aching head.

“Master Woodburn, I presume?”

The elderly man who was looking down at him with anxious eyes frowned then smiled. “You’ve the advantage of me, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“My name’s Hawkwood.”

“So, Mr Hawkwood, what brings you to my humble abode?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Hawkwood said.

The old man’s eyebrows lifted. “Have you, indeed?”

“I’m a special constable. A Runner.”

What might have been a flicker of hope flared briefly in the old man’s eyes, to be replaced almost immediately by a weary resignation. The clockmaker regarded Hawkwood’s unshaven face, lank hair and smoke-blackened clothing and nodded sagely. “Well, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, my boy. I only wish it could have been in more propitious circumstances.” The old man waved a hand expansively, then beckoned. “Come, let’s get you on the bed so that I can examine your wound. I assume, from the manner of your arrival, that you were set upon by the same ruffians who are holding me here?”

As the old man helped him up, Hawkwood took note of their surroundings. A low trestle bed sat in the corner. The only other items of furniture were a table and chair. On the table sat a bowl and jug, a tin cup, and a plate containing bread and cheese; the groceries collected by Sparrow. High on the opposite wall, a small, square, barred window admitted a solitary shaft of sunlight. Had Hawkwood not known otherwise, he might well have thought himself inside one of the cells at Newgate.

Josiah Woodburn patted the bed. “Sit, my boy, sit.”

As his scalp was examined, Hawkwood made his own diagnosis. He could see that the clockmaker’s face was pale and that his clothing, dark coat and breeches, which at first glance had appeared without blemish, was in places soiled and stained. Hawkwood was no physician but, even to his untrained eye, Josiah Woodburn looked like a man who, faced with unaccustomed adversity, was trying bravely to hold on to both his dignity and his sanity.

The old man clicked his tongue in sympathy. “ ’Pon my word, you look as though you’ve been in the wars. You’ll live, though, have no fear. The skin’s broken, nothing more.” He patted Hawkwood’s knee paternally. “So, how did you find me?”

Hawkwood was about to answer, when the old man held up a hand. “Let me attend to Archimedes first. If he doesn’t get his breakfast, he’ll only make a nuisance of himself.”

Archimedes? It took Hawkwood a second to realize the old man was talking about the rat. Intriguingly, the animal was still there, staring up at them, whiskers twitching, still without a trace of fear. Hawkwood watched as the old man took a small wedge of cheese from the plate on the table and tossed it on to the floor. As soon as the morsel had stopped rolling, the rat darted forward, picked up the cheese in its mouth and scampered back the way it had come, disappearing through a dark crevice in the corner of the room.

“There,” the clockmaker said with affection. “He won’t bother us again. So, tell me, what clue guided you here? Was it Officer Warlock? Did he manage to evade their clutches?”

Hawkwood felt as if he had just been struck by one of Reuben Benbow’s uppercuts. He stared at the old man in amazement. “Warlock was here? ”

To Hawkwood’s consternation, the clockmaker appeared to find the question surprising.

“But, of course, before his escape, we-”

The old man broke off, struck by the expression on Hawkwood’s face.

Hawkwood found his voice. “What do you mean ’ before his escape ’?”

Josiah Woodburn gasped. Hawkwood looked down and found he was gripping the clockmaker so tightly that the old man’s wrist had turned white. He let go quickly.

The clockmaker looked at Hawkwood in confusion. “But I thought that was how you came to be here. Did Officer Warlock not get word to the authorities?”

“Officer Warlock’s dead,” Hawkwood said. “They killed him.”

The clockmaker’s face fell. “Then how…?”

“I think it should be me asking you that question,” Hawkwood said, and waited expectantly.

It took some time before the clockmaker had composed himself sufficiently to explain, but once started, the tale did not take long in the telling. It transpired that Warlock had followed the old man’s trail by the simple expedient of questioning Lord Mandrake’s coachman. This had been as a consequence of his visiting Josiah Woodburn’s home and workshop and his meeting with the boy Quigley, who had told him, as he had told Hawkwood, that he’d seen Master Woodburn in Lord Mandrake’s carriage. Warlock had subsequently made his way to Limehouse, where he’d managed to gain entry to the warehouse, only to fall into the clutches of Lee and his fellow conspirators. Which answered a number of questions; all but the most important ones. How had Warlock managed to effect an escape and why hadn’t he taken the clockmaker with him?

“Effecting your colleague’s escape was no problem, Officer Hawkwood,” Josiah Woodburn said matter-of-factly. “I simply opened the door for him.”

Hawkwood thought he must have misheard. Either that or the blow to his head had done more damage than had first been supposed.

“You forget, my boy, I’m a clockmaker. I’ve been crafting delicate timepieces for more than fifty years.” The old man smiled and held up his hands. “These are my tools. Simple locks hold no secrets from me.”