James McGee - Ratcatcher

The boy was waiting for her under the mast lantern. He watched her, thinking to himself that she was a looker all right.

“You have a message?” she said, drawing the shawl around her.

The boy held up the note, but did not move. “Told ter give you this-”

She stepped forward, held out her hand and the boy placed the note in it and moved away.

She unfolded the paper and held it up to the lantern glass. There was a single sentence.

Welcome to hell.

The rifle ball took Gabrielle Marceau through the right eye, snapping her head back and exiting her skull in a spray of blood and brain matter. As her body collapsed, the note slid from her hand and fluttered like a butterfly to the deck.

Lightfoot and the boy stood over her and watched as she died. Bending down, Lightfoot retrieved the note and placed it unhurriedly in his pocket. He turned to the boy. “Leave now. Forget what you have seen.”

Wordlessly, Tooler turned and hurried back down the gangplank to the dock. Lightfoot stared dispassionately at the woman. The blood was spreading out beneath her, staining the planking. In the lantern light it looked as black as tar.

Lightfoot straightened and ran towards the foredeck. The watchman was still slumbering, undisturbed by the crack of the gunshot which was already fading into the night.

Lightfoot took a deep breath, went forward, shook the man awake, and began to yell.

“Murder! Murder!”

The cry rose over the moon-flecked quayside.

Two hundred yards away, on the second floor of a disused warehouse, Nathaniel Jago, kneeling in front of an open window, the Baker rifle barrel resting on his shoulder, clicked his tongue in admiration. Smoke from the rifle’s discharge drifted around his head like dissipating tobacco fumes.

“Nice shot.”

Hawkwood lowered the rifle. His shoulder was still tender. The muscles had not recovered their full strength so he had used Jago as a rest. He laid the rifle on the oilcloth and began to wrap it up.

“The boy did well,” Jago murmured.

“So did Jeremiah,” Hawkwood said.

The rifle concealed inside the oilcloth bundle, the two men made their way downstairs and out of the building. The sound of running feet could be heard. Backing into the shadows, they watched as a figure ran past: the crewman, off to fetch the constables. Only when he had disappeared did they step out on to the dockside.

“They’ll know it was you,” Jago said, as they fell into step.

“They’ll suspect it was me,” Hawkwood said. “But it won’t matter. The bitch is dead, that’s the main thing. Besides, I’ll have an alibi.”

“That’s right: you were with me, enjoyin’ a wet over at the Dog and Goat. You think they’ll believe it, me being a notorious villain an’ all?”

“What do you mean, villain? Magistrate Read’s spoken with his contacts at Horse Guards. You’ve been granted a full pardon. You’re no longer a deserter, you’re a pillar of society. It’s official.”

“Right,” Jago said, grinning. “And you’re the Emperor of China.”

Hawkwood smiled at his friend. “It’s true, Nathaniel, No more worrying about the provost, no more hiding.”

“Sounds boring,” Jago said. “Not sure I could ’andle that.”

“You could always join me,” Hawkwood said. “With Henry Warlock’s death, there’s an opening for a special constable.”

Jago stopped in his tracks. “Bloody hell! Me a Runner? You ain’t serious? Is this ’is honour’s idea?”

“He suggested I ask you.”

“Did ’e indeed? Suffered a crack on the ’ead recently, has ’e? Been struck by lightning, maybe?”

“It’s a genuine offer.”

Jago shook his head in disbelief, then looked up. “What’s it pay?”

Hawkwood told him, and Jago started to laugh. Hawkwood grinned and began to laugh too.

They were still laughing as they reached the end of the quayside. The sound carried in the darkness as the night closed over them like a cloak.