James McGee - Ratcatcher

As Hawkwood continued to stare in astonishment, the clockmaker reached under the bed. His hand emerged holding a bent iron nail. “You see?”

Hawkwood looked at the nail then at the old man. “Why didn’t you go with him?”

The old man twisted the nail in his hand and sighed. “Because I couldn’t risk my granddaughter’s life. She’s everything to me, my dear, darling Elizabeth. When my daughter Catherine died, I almost lost my faith. But now, when I look at my granddaughter, I know Catherine’s still with me. She lives in her, you see?” The old man clenched his fists. In a voice that was close to breaking, he added, “They threatened to kill Elizabeth if I didn’t do what they asked. They said she would be taken from me and I’d never see her again. She’s only a child, an innocent child! I couldn’t bear the thought of what they might do to her, so I didn’t dare try to escape. You do see that? I had no choice. That is why I did what he asked of me.”

“William Lee?”

The old man nodded and laid a hand on Hawkwood’s arm. “A duplicitous rogue. He is plotting something terrible.”

“We know about the undersea boat,” Hawkwood said.

Josiah Woodburn nodded again. “His submersible; ah, yes, a remarkable device.” Gathering himself, the old man said, “I knew of Fulton’s invention, of course. In fact, I actually met the fellow once. We’ve a mutual acquaintance, Sir Joseph Banks. Sir Joseph was on the committee convened by Prime Minister Pitt to evaluate the submersible’s potential six years ago, just before Trafalgar.”

Hawkwood recalled his conversation with Colonel Congreve. This would have been the same committee that had deemed the submersible technically feasible, but likely to be impracticable in combat.

“Tell me about Lord Mandrake,” Hawkwood said.

The old man sighed. “He told me he had a close friend who wanted to commission a timepiece. Said his friend was confined to his bed and unable to call personally. He offered me the use of his carriage to take me to the client. Alas, it was but a ruse to deliver me into the hands of our captor.” Josiah Woodburn looked up. “Has his lordship been detained?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Not yet, but he will be. And then he’ll hang.”

Josiah Woodburn gave a dry smile. “I suspect Lord Mandrake will be made to answer to a much higher authority for his brand of treachery.”

“But why you?” Hawkwood asked. “What did Lee need you for?”

“They were sailing the submersible here when they were hit by a storm in mid Channel. The timing device was damaged. It’s clockwork, you see, and very delicate. They needed someone with special skills to repair it; a clockmaker such as myself.”

“A timing device for what?” Hawkwood cut in.

Josiah Woodburn looked puzzled, as if the question had been superfluous. “Why, for his submarine bomb, of course. His torpedo.”

So the madman really was going to go through with it, Hawkwood thought.

“I discovered copies of Lee’s drawings of the submersible,” Josiah Woodburn said, “and gave them to Officer Warlock so that he could pass them to the authorities.” The old man shook his head. “But, given what you’ve told me, I don’t suppose he was successful.”

“We found them,” Hawkwood said. “The Admiralty has them.”

So the Chief Magistrate had been correct in his surmise. They were indeed the drawings taken from Lieutenant Ramillies’ corpse during the coach robbery. Serendipity had delivered them into the hands of the clockmaker and the unfortunate Warlock.

The old man let go a long breath. “We had so little time. I had but a moment to write the name of the ship. All I could do was hope that the authorities would make sense of it.”

Which explained the hurried calligraphy, Hawkwood thought.

“We know about Thetis.”

A light flared in the clockmaker’s eyes. “Thank God!”

Suddenly, Hawkwood felt his arm gripped. The clockmaker placed his mouth next to Hawkwood’s ear. “There’s something else, Officer Hawkwood, another reason why I didn’t go with Officer Warlock. I must tell you. I-”

But before the clockmaker could elaborate, there came the rattle of a key in the lock and the door swung open. Hastily, the clockmaker thrust the nail back in its hiding place. Hawkwood had a moment to notice that the hinges had been oiled, like those of the outside door, which had been opened so quietly he hadn’t heard the approach of the person who had knocked him out.

William Lee, grinning broadly, stepped into the room. He held a lantern aloft. “Well, now, I see you two gentlemen have gotten acquainted. I trust you slept well, Master Woodburn?” Lee stared at Hawkwood. “Sparrow tells me Scully’s dead. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from him.” The American clicked his tongue in mock annoyance. “I do declare, Officer Hawkwood, you are one persistent son of a bitch! With the devil’s own luck, too.”

Hawkwood said nothing.

The American frowned. “Was it you that killed him?”

“No,” Hawkwood said. He saw no point in embellishment.

Lee held Hawkwood’s gaze for what seemed like several minutes before he shrugged and said, “No matter. He was a liability and no loss as far as brains are concerned. It means I’m a man short, though, and that’s an irritation I could do without. I swear, Officer Hawkwood, you try a man’s patience, you really do.”

“You can’t win, Lee,” Hawkwood said. “I have men outside.”

Lee shook his head and laughed. “No you don’t. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. They’d have come running when we carried you in here. We’d be kneedeep in constables. No, sir, you’re on your own. Which means you’re all mine.”

I have one man, Hawkwood thought. I have Jago. Maybe.

A movement behind Lee caught Hawkwood’s eye. Sparrow, he assumed, but then the figure stepped into view-a slim figure, dressed in a dark, tight-fitting coat, matchingbreeches, and black, calf-length leather riding boots. And suddenly it all began to make perfect sense.

“Good morning, Matthew,” Catherine de Varesne said. The pistol in her right hand was cocked and pointing directly at his heart.

Hawkwood smiled. “Hello, Catherine.”

She frowned. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Hawkwood touched the wound on his head. “It was your perfume. It’s very distinctive.”

Catherine de Varesne’s dark eyes shone with amusement. The pistol barrel did not waver.

Lee grinned. “Well, now, isn’t this something?”

Hawkwood looked at him.

“She’s Bonaparte’s best agent, my friend, and she’s been playing you like a trout on a line.”

Friends in high places, Hawkwood thought.

He closed his eyes and wondered how he could have been so bloody stupid and why it had taken him so long. When he opened his eyes, he saw that she was still smiling.

“We knew you’d been assigned to the coach murders,” Catherine said. “We knew of your reputation, Matthew, your tenacity. What we didn’t know was how to deal with you, how to get you out of the way. The ball presented us with our opportunity.”

Hawkwood recalled his briefing with James Read. It was now clear why Lord Mandrake had asked for him specifically. It had been a heaven-sent opportunity for Mandrake and Lee to observe and take the measure of the man who had been put on their trail.

It was also now clear why Lord Mandrake hadn’t been home when he’d called. It had been Catherine who had alerted him, sending word, probably via her maid, that Hawkwood had begun asking awkward questions.

A thought struck him. “Was Rutherford part of it, too?”

Catherine snorted scornfully. Her eyes flashed. “Rutherford’s an arrogant fool. I merely made use of him.”