James McGee - Rapscallion

In contrast, Croker was stocky with large hands and a hard face that would not have looked out of place on the neck and body of a pugilist.

Hawkwood spoke to Lasseur in French. "Keep an eye out and watch your back."

"You, too," Lasseur said, his face grim.

Hawkwood jerked his head at McTurk and switched to English. "Let's go."

Hawkwood took the lead. Using the spinney as cover, they moved in a line towards the trees at the back of the cottage. There was a small outbuilding, which Hawkwood assumed was a stable. He could smell wood smoke and for a second he was reminded of his first sighting of Jess Flynn's farm. A twig cracked behind him and he stopped and stood still. When he looked around he found that McTurk had drawn his pistol.

The light was coming from a side window. It guttered as Hawkwood and McTurk moved forward and Hawkwood had a vague image of a shadow passing between the flame and the glass, and then the light dimmed further as a curtain was drawn across, obscuring the view within.

As they drew closer to the back door, McTurk reached inside his waistcoat. When his hand emerged it was holding two cloth hoods. He held one out to Hawkwood and pulled the other one over his head. Even close to, the painted skull was frightening enough to make the heart lurch. Hawkwood steeled himself and put the hood on. The sense of claustrophobia as he lowered it over his head was immediate, as was the familiar tightening of his throat muscles. Then his eyes found the holes denoting the skull's eye sockets and, as his vision was restored, the moment of discomfort passed. He adjusted the material over his face and heard the brittle ratchet sound as McTurk cocked the hammer of his pistol.

Hawkwood stood aside as McTurk placed his hand on the door latch. McTurk looked at him and Hawkwood nodded. McTurk raised his boot, lifted the latch and kicked.

The door flew back with a crash. Hawkwood and McTurk, pistols held high, stepped through together, McTurk to Hawkwood's right.

The kitchen was not large. There was a hearth and a cooking range, with pots and pans and cooking utensils hanging from hooks. A table occupied the centre of the floor. A man was seated at the table in shirt and breeches, his waistcoat unbuttoned. A fork was poised halfway to his lips. A uniform jacket hung over the back of his chair. He stared at his hooded visitors, his jaw dropping in shock and the blood draining from his face at the sight of the guns. His eyes moved briefly to the top of a sideboard upon which lay two pistols.

"No," McTurk warned, his pistol pointing unerringly at the seated man's head. "Don't."

McTurk nodded at Hawkwood and released the hammer of his pistol. "He's all yours."

McTurk realized his mistake in the quarter second it took for Hawkwood to slam his pistol barrel against the front of McTurk's skull; by which time it was far too late. McTurk went down as if pole-axed, the unfired pistol slipping from his fingers. The seated man was out of his chair; the fork dropping with a clatter, as Hawkwood swept his pistol round, pulling back the hammer as he did so. "Sit down."

Shaking, with the muzzle of Hawkwood's pistol pointed at his forehead, the man at the table retook his seat.

"Sit on your hands," Hawkwood said. "Palms down."

The man did as he was told. His eyes remained wide open. He had a long, lined face, with close-cut fair hair and well- tended sideburns that reached almost to his jawline. Hawkwood estimated he'd probably aged ten years in the last three seconds.

Hawkwood reached up and removed his hood. He knew there wasn't much time.

The seated man's eyes widened further.

"You are Riding Officer Henry Jilks?" Hawkwood said.

The seated man nodded mutely. His eyes moved from Hawkwood to the body on the floor. He looked utterly bewildered. Keeping his pistol trained on Jilks's chest, Hawkwood stuffed the hood inside his jacket, then retrieved McTurk's weapon.

"Don't look at him," Hawkwood said. "Look at me. Don't speak; just listen."

Jilks's head lifted.

"I mean you no harm. My name is Matthew Hawkwood. I'm a special constable. I work for Chief Magistrate James Read of the Bow Street Public Office in London."

Hawkwood watched the astonishment blossom across Jilks's face.

"There was a plot to kill you tonight. Ezekiel Morgan is the man behind it. He doesn't like the way you've been interfering in his business. The one on the floor is Patrick McTurk. He's one of Morgan's lieutenants. There's another man close by, so we don't have much time."

At the mention of McTurk and Morgan, Jilks's face lost more colour.

"Pay attention," Hawkwood snapped. "I need you to convey a message for me."

"Message?" Jilks found his voice and frowned, and then his jaw sagged. "To London?"

"Chatham," Hawkwood said. "To the dockyard; the Transport Board office, for the attention of Captain Elias Ludd."

"Chatham? Why Chatham? I don't understand." Jilks shook his head in confusion.

"You don't need to understand," Hawkwood said curtly. "I told you; all you have to do is listen. I don't care how you do it, but you're to contact Captain Ludd. You tell him that Morgan and his men are planning to steal a consignment of bullion from the Admiral's residency in Deal in three days' time. He is to take all necessary precautions. Tell him the message came from me. He's the one who will understand."

The man at the table stared at Hawkwood aghast.

Hawkwood said to Jilks, "You've a horse in the stable outside?"

Jilks nodded.

"Warn Ludd. It's imperative. Have you got that?"

"Yes," Jilks said, though indecision still showed clearly in his face.

"What?" Hawkwood said sharply.

Jilks flushed. "Forgive me, but how do I know you are who you say you are?"

"You're still alive," Hawkwood said. "That's the only proof I can give you."

At that moment a sound came from the shadows beyond an open doorway in the corner of the room.

Hawkwood turned.

"In here, now!"

There was no response.

"I said now, damn it!"

The woman who stepped into the room was wearing work clothes and an apron. She was several years younger than Jilks. Her hair hung loose about her face. She moved to the table and stood behind the seated man's shoulder, staring at the pistols in Hawkwood's hands as if held in some kind of thrall.

"What's your name?" Hawkwood demanded.

"Esther." Her voice was a whisper as she stared at the body on the floor; hand moving to her mouth when she saw the painted skull where McTurk's face should have been.

The woman Morgan had told him about. Housekeeper? Wife? Lover? There was no time for an interrogation.

A groan sounded from the floor. The woman jerked back. McTurk was stirring.

Hawkwood addressed Jilks. "You know what you have to do?"

Jilks released his hands. His expression grew quizzical. "What about you?"

Hawkwood grimaced. The scars on his cheek burned white. "I'm making it up as I go along."

Another groan sounded from the floor.

Hawkwood turned, aimed his pistol at the body on the floor and fired. The ball tore through the soft hood, entered McTurk's right eye socket, and burst from the back of his skull with a spray of blood, bone and tatters of black cloth. McTurk's corpse jerked with the impact before settling into the floor in an ungainly heap.

Jilks jumped, releasing his hands, and the woman let out a cry. They stared down at the body, the horror on their faces as much a reaction to the speed of events as to the violence they had just witnessed.

"Why?" Jilks asked hoarsely.

"I couldn't leave him alive. I have to report back to Morgan."

"What will you tell Morgan?"

"That you fought back and got away."

The woman stared at him in disbelief.

"It's the best I can come up with," Hawkwood said. "Wait until we're gone, then you ride. Travel light; you'll make better time." He turned to the woman. "You'd best make yourself scarce, too. If you know what's good for you, you'll forget what you've seen here."