Rapscallion (45 page)

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."

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.