James McGee - Rapscallion

Hawkwood placed the spent pistol in McTurk's bandolier. "Quickly — give me a hand to lift him up."

Jilks hesitated and then moved to help. Hawkwood got his arm under McTurk's armpit and together they lifted the corpse up so that it appeared as if it was resting across Hawkwood for support after a heavy night out.

"Grab a pistol." Hawkwood nodded towards the sideboard. "When I say fire, you fire."

Jilks moved to obey. "What am I shooting at?"

"As long as it's not me, I don't give a damn," Hawkwood said. "Ready?"

Jilks nodded.

"Now," Hawkwood said.

Jilks aimed his pistol into the hearth and pulled the trigger. The pistol jerked in his hand.

The woman flinched.

Hawkwood aimed his remaining pistol at the window and fired. A ragged hole appeared in the glass, which did not shatter.

"Don't delay," Hawkwood said. Tucking the pistol in his belt and taking the dead weight on to his shoulder, he hefted McTurk's body towards the open door.

Back in the trees, Croker grinned at the sound of the first pistol shot. "That's the bastard done for!"

Lasseur did not respond. He felt the knot tighten in his belly.

When the second shot cracked out of the night, the horses shied and Croker turned towards the cottage. Moonlight illuminated the look of disquiet on his face. The third shot, coming in quick succession, caused him to curse violently and draw his pistol from his belt. His eyes tried to pierce the darkness. "Something's up."

The dog barked again, but it was the only sign of life beyond the cottage, implying that none of the hamlet's human inhabitants had either the desire or the nerve to venture out and investigate the disturbance.

Lasseur followed Croker's line of sight and looked towards the house. A dim light was still visible through the curtained window but the glow from the open doorway was interrupted as two figures, bound together, stumbled into the open.

"Shite!" Croker spat fiercely. He took a hard grip on the horses' reins and pulled them round.

Fifty paces from the cover of the trees, Hawkwood adjusted his hold around McTurk's shoulders and tried quickening his pace. It was never easy, hauling dead weight. That was the trouble with corpses; they had no sense of coordination. He heard a snuffle in the darkness and saw Croker and Lasseur guiding the horses towards them.

"What the bloody hell happened?" Croker snarled. "Aw, Jesus!" he gasped.

"The bastard fought back." Hawkwood feigned shortness of breath. "I thought this was supposed to be easy? McTurk's hit. I don't know how badly." Hawkwood pretended to lose his grip and cursed as McTurk's body slid from his grasp.

Croker bent down and hurriedly drew the hood off McTurk's face. He stared at the ruin that had been the back of McTurk's skull. "Christ Almighty! He's dead!" He looked at Hawkwood, his expression hard. "Jilks did this?"

Hawkwood nodded. "He had a pistol. Took Pat by surprise. We both got a shot at him, but he made a run for it. With Pat down, I thought it best to get out before the neighbours started creating. What should we do?"

Croker stood up. "We get the hell out of here, that's what."

Lasseur stared down at the body. "What about him?"

Croker, beset by indecision, chewed his lip.

"He's your mate," Hawkwood said, turning the screw.

"Christ's sake!" Croker spat angrily. "Bloody Christ's sake!" Then he said, "All right, get him on to his horse. See if there's a tie in the saddlebag. We 'll take him with us. Anyone comes after us we'll have to leave him. Make it quick!" Croker tossed the hood aside.

They lifted McTurk across his horse and secured his arms and legs together by passing a cord beneath the animal's belly. They left, leading McTurk's mount behind them. As he mounted his own horse, in the darkness over his shoulder, Hawkwood thought he heard the sound of a latch dropping into place.

It might have been the sound of a stable door closing.

Henry Jilks reloaded his discharged pistol and felt the sweat break from his armpits as he recalled the moment the two men had stepped through his door. His gaze moved to the floor and the dark stain that showed where McTurk's brains had leaked through the hood and on to the tiles. Jilks thought about the dark-haired man and the lack of emotion he'd displayed when he'd pulled the trigger, dispatching McTurk into whichever afterlife he'd been assigned. Jilks assumed it was Hell. Either way, he knew he would shed no tears, even though McTurk's death had not been a merciful one.

He thought about the man who'd sent Hawkwood and McTurk to his home and his pulse quickened. Jilks had been under no illusions about the dangers when he'd taken the post of Riding Officer. The life was hard and poorly paid. Intimidation was commonplace, as were the opportunities for despair and corruption. For every officer who had been forced to flee his post because of threats to his family, there were half a dozen who had succumbed either to drink or bribery.

Jilks's last but one predecessor had been a former cavalryman called Haggard. Haggard had left the area with his wife and daughter after they had returned to their house one day to find their daughter's pet kitten hanging from one of the rafters in the kitchen. In contrast, Haggard's successor, a sexagenarian drunkard by the name of Rigsby, had spent more time in his cups than on his horse, and had expired in a drunken haze in a local drinking den after a night carousing with a group of men known to be tub carriers and scouts for one Ezekiel Morgan.

It hadn't taken Henry Jilks long to discover the degree of influence Morgan exerted over the local Trade. Knowledge, however, was not proof. Aware that the chances of finding Morgan's hand in the jar were remote, Jilks had concentrated on keeping his head down but his eyes and ears open. His perseverance had begun to pay off. In the time he had been patrolling his district — an area extending six miles inland from and including the stretch of coast between Shellness Point and South Foreland — his successes had been few in number though incrementally significant, as had been confirmed by the amount of contraband seized and the fact that Ezekiel Morgan considered him enough of a liability to have dispatched men to kill him.

Jilks wasn't sure whether he should feel aggrieved or flattered.

He did know, however, that the wisest option was to follow Special Constable Hawkwood's directive and make himself scarce. He thought about the information that Hawkwood had asked him to deliver. It sounded too fantastical to be true, but the look in Hawkwood's blue-grey eyes had been too persuasive to ignore, as was the realization that, if it was true, then he had been granted a unique opportunity to bring Ezekiel Morgan's reign to an end once and for all.

Jilks buttoned his waistcoat, pulled on his jacket and gathered both pistols. It was time to go. Esther was in the stable, having slipped out earlier to saddle his horse. He thought about Esther, who had become more than a housekeeper. He thought about asking her to go with him and wondered what her answer would be. He could send for her later, when he was safe.

Which brought him to the matter of which direction to take. Riding Officers were required to conduct regular patrols by day and by night, and Jilks had come to know the back roads well. The Wingham Road was the best route, he decided, and then on to Boughton. With luck he'd be at the dockyard gates by morning, if he didn't push the mare too hard.

He paused before letting himself out of the cottage. It had been a good ten minutes since Hawkwood had left with McTurk's body. He wanted to be sure the coast was clear. It sounded quiet. Jilks took a deep breath, opened the door and headed for the stable.

The mare was in her stall and fully saddled. She snorted softly when Jilks entered.