Rapscallion (46 page)

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.

"Easy,
girl," he whispered, and stroked the mare's haunch, wondering where Esther
had got to. He placed the pistols in their holsters on his saddle. It was then
that he noticed his sabre was missing. The scabbard was there, hanging from the
saddle, but it lay empty. Curious, Jilks thought, trying to recall if he'd
taken it into the cottage with him.

"Esther?"
he called.

He
heard a footstep behind him, and turned.

The
sabre thrust took Jilks by surprise, piercing his waistcoat and entering his
belly with ease. At first, he felt nothing, but as the sword-point continued on
its path the pain took him, spreading through his body like liquid fire. Jilks
clasped his hands to his stomach, curving them around the blade in a desperate
effort to prevent the sword from penetrating further, but all he felt was
numbness in his fingers as the tempered steel bit into his flesh. Jilks stared
at his killer, an expression of stupefaction on his face, as the sabre blade
was withdrawn. His hands felt suddenly warm. He looked down and watched,
curious, as the dark stain spread across his waistcoat and the blood dripped on
to his boots. With a groan, he fell forward on to the straw. It was odd, he thought,
how his hands were still warm while the rest of him was so cold. He was still
thinking that when his eyes closed for the last time.

The
gatehouse picket stepped forward and lifted up McTurk's head. Gazing at the
shattered eye socket and the matted mess at the back of the skull, his face
clouded in grim recognition. Wordlessly, he let the head drop and moved aside.

Croker
led the horses through the archway in silence and in single file.

The
journey back to the Haunt had been accomplished without incident, save for the
one occasion when they thought they had heard hoofbeats coming up behind them
in the distance, not
long after
leaving the cottage. They had taken cover in a thicket, but after an anxious
ten-minute wait, with no evidence of pursuit, they had continued on their way.

The
lanterns were burning as they entered the yard. Light issued from the stable
doors. Hawkwood had no timepiece, but he knew it was late. He wondered if there
was a run on or perhaps there were difficulties with the new foal. There had
been no ghostly friars on the road.

Morgan
appeared through the stable doorway as they dismounted, wiping his hands with a
cloth. His eyes moved to McTurk's horse and the body across its back. He looked
to Croker.

"It
all went to shit," Croker said savagely. "That bastard, Jilks - he
did for Pat."

"What
happened?" Morgan sounded remarkably calm, Hawkwood thought.

Croker
nodded towards Hawkwood. "Ask him."

"I
was about to." Morgan regarded Hawkwood. "Well?"

"Your
man Jilks is what happened. He put up more of a fight than we were
expecting."

"Explain."

"What's
to explain? He heard us coming. He shot at us. We shot at him. McTurk's dead.
Jilks lives to fight another day. My guess is he's still running."

"We
thought it best to bring Pat back with us," Croker said, avoiding
Hawkwood's gaze.
"Didn't seem right to leave him
behind."

Morgan
turned abruptly. "Bring him inside."

Croker
took the bridle of McTurk's horse and led it into the stable, pulling his own
horse after him. Hawkwood and Lasseur followed.

The
groom, Thaddeus, was in the first stall, wiping down a bay mare. He looked up
as the men
entered,
saw McTurk's corpse and his hand
stilled.

Morgan
nodded towards the body. "Help Jack lift him down."

Hawkwood
and Lasseur tethered their mounts as Croker and the groom undid the ties and
laid the corpse on the straw.

In
the lantern light, the groom's lined face looked cracked and yellow.

"Looks
as if you had a lucky escape," Morgan said as Hawkwood and Lasseur stored their
saddles across the top rail of the stall.

"No
thanks to McTurk," Hawkwood said. "He made enough noise to wake the
dead."

"Really?"
Morgan said, stepping away. "That's not what I heard. I heard he went
quietly and the poor sod didn't even know what hit him.
When
you're ready, Cephus."

Pepper
emerged from the shadows, a pistol in his right hand. He was not alone. A
slight figure stepped out behind him and Hawkwood knew that his troubles were
only just beginning.

"You've
met Esther," Morgan said.

She
had forsaken the dress, swapping it for a short coat and breeches. Her hair was
tied in a ribbon at the back of her neck. Her eyes blazed with anger.
"He's the one," she said, pointing at Hawkwood. Her voice was cold.

Hawkwood
looked for an escape route. The only way out was through the main
doors,
and that wasn't an option because the two men who had
been concealed behind the doors walked into the light. Both carried cocked
pistols. Each had a cudgel in his belt. One of them was Del.

"Move
and you're dead," Morgan said.
"You, too, Captain
Lasseur."

Hawkwood
stood still. There wasn't much else he could do.

Lasseur
raised his hands and looked around. "What is happening here?"

Croker
rose to his feet, equally perplexed. "What the hell's going on?"

"We've
been deceived, Jack," Morgan said. "We've another fox in the
run." He looked at Lasseur.
"Maybe two."

"What?"

"Seems
our Captain Hooper's been a tad economical with the truth.
Turns out he's not an escaped prisoner after all. He's probably not even a
captain. He sure as hell isn't an American."

"What
are you talking about?"

"He's
the law, Jack; sent to spy on us. His name's not Hooper,
it's
Hawkwood. And according to Esther he's a special constable working out of -
where was it? - Bow Street? You know what that means? I reckon we've gone and
caught ourselves a bloody Runner!"

"Jesus!"
Croker, teeth bared, clapped a hand to the butt of his pistol.

"No!"
Morgan said sharply. "Not here. Take their weapons."

"He
killed Pat," the girl said, her thin face all angles and shadows in the
lantern light. "Shot him in cold blood, the murdering bastard!"

"That's
why we're
taking their weapons," Morgan said patiently. He gestured to the men by
the door. To Hawkwood and Lasseur, he said, "Take out your pistols.
Fingers and thumbs only.
Lay them on the ground. Step
away."

Hawkwood
and Lasseur did as they were told. Morgan's men retrieved the guns.

Lasseur
stared at the girl. "Who is this woman? What is she saying?"

Morgan
feigned surprise. "Of course, I forgot. Esther, this is Captain Lasseur.
Captain, allow me to present young Esther. She's family; daughter of a cousin
of mine. Grand girl, smart as a whip, takes after her mother, God rest her
soul. Esther's father was killed by the Revenue, five years back. Her brother,
Tom, was sent down two years ago; seven years' transportation. Coincidentally,
he was three months in the hulks before they shipped him off. Small world,
isn't it? Means she has no love for the Revenue or the law, so it's no use
trying to appeal to her better nature - she hasn't got one. That's why we
placed her in Officer Jilks's employ.
Got her a job as his
housekeeper so she could keep an eye on him for us.
What is it they say?
Keep your friends close but your enemies closer? Been a mine of information,
Esther has.

"Oh,
and by the way, Captain - Officer - Hawkwood, whatever the hell it is you call
yourself, just so you know: Jilks won't be delivering your message. He didn't
make it. Esther made sure of that. Don't feel bad, though. It wasn't your visit
that hastened his end. His days were already numbered."

Morgan
smiled. "Remember that conversation we had when you asked me about the
Warden affray and I told you we always have reinforcements standing by? Well,
that's our Esther. She was all set to deal with Jilks, but it seemed a good
idea to have you and Captain Lasseur save her the bother. Goes to show how hard
it is to find good help these days.

"I
have to say, Esther did the business. Even took his horse and rode here to warn
us. She was worried she'd run into you on the road, but we were lucky, she took
another track.
Managed to beat you to it.
That's
Jilks's mare over yonder, the one Thaddeus is rubbing down."

The
hoofbeats they had heard: Esther overtaking them in the darkness.

"The
Frenchie's in on it?" Croker grated, turning flint eyes towards Lasseur.

Morgan
gazed at Lasseur, a thin-lipped smile on his face. "Now that's a very good
question."

"Captain
Lasseur didn't know," Hawkwood said.

"Is
that right?" Morgan turned. "You really had no idea your Captain
Hooper was really a police officer?"

Lasseur
stared at Hawkwood.

"Oh,
I admit, he's a cut above the rest of them," Morgan said brightly.
"Posing as a Yankee and speaking French the way he does, but it doesn't
alter the fact he's a damned infiltrator. He'd have sold us all down the river
and not thought twice about it."

Hawkwood
shrugged.
"Nothing personal, Captain.
It was
business."