Rapscallion (52 page)

"Ezekiel,"
Pepper said, closing the door behind him.

Morgan
glowered at his lieutenant. "Well?"

The
severe expression on Pepper's face told him all he needed to know.

Morgan
slammed his pen down on to the table. His features darkened. "God damn it
to hell! Somebody must know something!" He shook his head in anger and
exasperation. "That bastard Runner can't have made it home. There's been
no sign that an alarm's gone out. Deal's quiet. There's no extra troop
activity. The place would be crawling if the Admiralty or the army had been
alerted."

"We're
still on, then?" Pepper said. He stood as if awaiting orders.

Morgan
glanced towards the unlit hearth, where the two mastiffs were stretched out,
hogging most of the carpet. Useless bloody animals, he thought, and felt more
anger building. The dogs did not look up. It was as if they were trying to
avoid eye contact, knowing they were the objects of Morgan's displeasure.

"I
haven't decided." He tried to keep his voice steady.

"We're
cutting it fine," Pepper said.

"I
bloody know that, Cephus!" Frustrated, Morgan pushed the books to one
side.
So much for keeping calm.
He knew he was running
out of time; the decision could not be put off for much longer. As a result he
could feel the tension welling up inside him like a dam threatening to burst.
He chewed his lip. "What's happening with our guests?"

"Restless.
They want it over and done with."

"Don't
we
all."

"They
keep asking if we've news of Lasseur."

"They
miss him?"

"No,"
Pepper said. "I think they want to kill him."

"Then
they'll have to join the bloody queue," Morgan snarled. He sat back.
"I suppose we should be thankful
their
loyalty
isn't in question."

"It
won't be, not as long as they think they're going to make money," Pepper
said.

"Just
so long as they keep thinking that," Morgan said, rising from his desk.

Walking
across to the side table, Morgan reached for the bottle of brandy and poured a
measure into a small, ornate
glass. He downed
the brandy in one swallow. He did not offer a drink to Pepper.

Pepper
said nothing. He waited.

Without
warning, Morgan picked up the bottle and hurled it at the wall above the
fireplace. He followed it with the tumbler. As the bottle shattered and the
glass and spirit rained down upon them, the dogs shot to their feet and fled
towards the shelter of the desk. "God damned bastard sons of
bitches!" Morgan roared. Globules of spittle flecked his beard. He picked
up another bottle and threw it at the brindle mastiff, catching it across its
rear end. The dog yelped and tried to hide behind one of the chairs.

"Ezekiel?"
Pepper said, moving towards him, halting abruptly when he saw that Morgan had
retrieved one of the loaded pistols from the table.

Morgan
cocked the pistol, aimed at the fawn dog, and fired. The dog howled and fell away,
paws scrabbling impotently on the carpet. Suddenly, it began to shake, its back
legs kicking uselessly. The howls became whimpers. The dog's flanks stopped
moving. Blood pooled on the floor beneath it.

"For
the love of God, Ezekiel!"
Pepper cried as
the brindle mastiff padded cautiously out of hiding and started to lick the
blood off its companion's hindquarters.

Morgan
lowered the gun. He stared down at the dog, then walked purposefully across the
room and laid the pistol on the desk.

He
turned to Pepper. His face suddenly composed. "Get someone in to clear
that mess up." Morgan pointed to the dead mastiff.

Pepper
hesitated then nodded silently. He could hear footsteps and muted voices
outside; people wondering what was happening.

Morgan
stepped around the corpse. Absently he stroked the brindle mastiff's ears
before sitting back down at his desk. He felt, he realized, remarkably at peace
now.

"And,
Cephus?"

Pepper
halted by the door.

"The
Runner and the Frenchman - I want them found; I want their balls served up on a
plate."

"We're
looking," Pepper said.

"Look
harder. Lasseur will be making for the coast. He'll be trying to get home. I
want every fisherman, every skipper, anyone with a bloody rowboat between Rye
and Rochester to keep his eyes peeled."

"And
the Runner?"

"He's
the dangerous one. He'll want to tell everyone what he's heard here, whereas
the Frog'll want to keep his head down." Morgan hesitated. "You can't
deny they're damned effective as a pair. It could be the two of them will stick
together at first, so they can watch each other's backs. Increase the reward. I
want people on their toes, so start pulling in markers. Everyone who owes us -
and that's
everyone
from shit
shovellers to magistrates. Any bugger kicks up a fuss, do what you have to do.
Billy Hollis reckons the Frenchman might have been nicked before they went over
the wall, and
it's
possible Del did some damage before
they killed him. Get Rackham to have a word with some of his cronies. They
might have received a couple of visitors looking for medical assistance."

"I'll
do that," Pepper said. Rackham was Morgan's pet surgeon. His surgical
skills wouldn't win him any kudos at Barts or St Thomas's, but he was discreet,
and that was what counted.

"All
right," Morgan said.

Pepper
let himself out.

Morgan
returned to his books but found it impossible to concentrate. Restless, he
stood up and moved to the window.

The
door opened behind him.

"Ezekiel."

It
was Pepper again. There was something in his voice. Morgan turned.

Pepper
wasn't alone. He stepped aside to allow the figure behind him to enter.

Morgan
stared at his visitor's face.

The
brindle lifted its muzzle and growled threateningly.

Pepper
closed the door. "I think you should hear this."

"Hello,
Mr Morgan," Seth Tyler said. His eyes widened when he saw the dead dog and
the blood around the brindle's massive jaws. The scratch marks from the besom
showed livid across Tyler's face. Some of them still looked raw. He swallowed
nervously.
"Heard you were looking for information.
Reckon I've got something that might interest you ..."

"At
last you see sense," Lasseur sighed. "I was beginning to think I was
talking to myself."

Hawkwood
pulled on his jacket. A thought struck him. "Do Jess and Tom Gadd know I'm
a police officer?"

Lasseur
hesitated. "They did not hear it from me, but Thomas knew."

"Morgan
put the word out."

"Undoubtedly."

"And
they still took me in?"

"It
seems, my friend, that they trust us more than they trust Morgan."

"God
Almighty," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur
smiled. "It must be my Gallic charm."

They
made their way downstairs; Hawkwood less energetically than Lasseur, though it
felt good to be back on his feet, no matter how precariously. Jess Flynn was at
the kitchen table cutting up vegetables and placing them in a cooking pot. A
familiar shape was sprawled half in and half out of the back door. The dog
looked round, its eyes hidden by its fringe, and wagged its tail at the new
arrivals before turning back to protect the herb garden.

Jess
Flynn regarded Hawkwood with a critical eye. "You should in bed."

"It's
thanks to you I'm not," Hawkwood said.

A
small smile touched her face, though it might have been a little forced. She
still had problems with that errant strand of hair, Hawkwood saw. "You've
nothing to fear from me," he said.

There
was a pause. The tension seemed to leave her and she nodded. "I
know." She glanced at Lasseur. Her face softened and then she turned back
and frowned. "Should I still call you Captain? Please, sit down before you
fall down. You need some food inside you. There's some broth on the hob and a
fresh loaf and butter on that platter beside you. Help yourself." She
gestured to a chair, brushing the hair off her face, and busied herself at the
fire.

"I
was
a captain
once," Hawkwood said, taking a seat.
"In another
life."

"You
really were in the army?" Lasseur asked. He looked genuinely surprised as
he sat down opposite Hawkwood.

"The
Rifle Brigade.
The British
regiment, not the American one."

Hawkwood
leant back as Jess Flynn returned to the table and placed a bowl of broth and a
spoon before him.

"Eat,"
she ordered.

The
smell rising from the bowl was wonderful. Hawkwood broke off a piece of bread.

"And
you fought in Spain?" Lasseur asked.

"Yes."

"At
Ciudad Rodrigo?"

Hawkwood
dipped the spoon into the bowl and raised it to his lips. Chicken, potatoes,
carrots and herbs; flavours exploded across his tongue.

"No,
that was after my time."

He
ate some bread and took another spoonful, savouring the taste. He could feel
the torpor slipping away with each mouthful.

"And
now you're a police officer. What was it Morgan called you? A Runner - I do not
know what that means."

At
the mention of the word, Jess Flynn's eyes widened. Presumably Gadd hadn't
revealed that little snippet of information.

Hawkwood
broke off some more bread and dipped it in the bowl. "It means I'm a
special kind of police officer."

"You
hunt smugglers?"

"Not
just smugglers."

"Ah,"
Lasseur nodded. "You mean you hunt people like me: escaped prisoners. That's
why you were on the ship."

"Not
entirely. I was investigating the disappearance of two naval officers."

Lasseur's
brow furrowed. "The men Morgan mentioned? I forget their names."

"Sark
and Masterson."

"Morgan
had them killed?"

"Sark's
body was never found, so we didn't know for sure. But after what Morgan told us
in the stables, I'm prepared to take his word for it."

"And
you plan to bring him to justice."

"If
it's the last thing I do," Hawkwood said. He took another piece of bread
and used it to soak up the broth. It tasted as good as the first mouthful. He
rested his spoon, looked down and was surprised to find he'd emptied the bowl.
He felt remarkably fortified. Perhaps he could make it to the telegraph
station after all.

Suddenly,
the dog stood up. A low grumble began at the back of its throat.

"Into
the pantry," Jess Flynn said quickly, wiping her hands on her apron.
"The trap's open."

The
dog's tail began to wag.

"Wait,"
Jess Flynn said, relief filling her voice. "It's only Tom."

A
minute later, Gadd limped in through the door, followed by the dog. Its nose
was twitching. When the seaman saw Hawkwood and Lasseur he paused. The scar
running through his cheek and eye socket looked like a slug trail crossing a
paving stone. He had a muslin sack over his shoulder and a fowling piece in his
hand.

"Tom,"
Hawkwood said.

Gadd
nodded in solemn and cautious recognition. He regarded Hawkwood's unshaven
features for what seemed like an inordinately long time. There was no malice in
the seaman's gaze.
Nor did there appear to be disapproval.
It was almost as if he couldn't make his mind up what to think. Eventually, he
nodded and said neutrally, "You're on your feet, Cap'n. That's good. Not
sure the beard suits you."