silver-haired man sighed, placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself upright. His movements were unhurried and precise.
James Read had held the office of Chief Magistrate for five years. He was of late middle age, with an aquiline face, accentuated by the swept-back hair. A conservative dresser, as befitted his station, his fastidious appearance was deceptive, for there were often occasions when he displayed a quite dry, if not mordant, sense of humour. Read was the latest in a long line of dedicated men. One factor, however, set him apart from those who had gone before. Unlike his illustrious predecessors, and whether as a measure of his indifference or as a throwback to a lowly Methodist upbringing, James Read had refused the knighthood which the post of Chief Magistrate traditionally carried.
Read walked across the room, stood in front of the fire, his back to the flames, and lifted his coat-tails. “This damned house is like a barn. Nearly midsummer and I’m frozen to the bone.”
He studied Hawkwood without speaking, taking in the unfashionable long hair, and the strong, almost arrogant features. Shadows thrown by the flickering firelight moved across Hawkwood’s scarred face. A cruel face, Read thought, with those dark, brooding eyes, and yet one which women probably found compellingly attractive.
“I have another assignment for you,” Read said, his face suddenly serious. He adjusted his dress and stepped away from the fire. “Last evening there was an attack on a coach. Two people were killed: the guard and one of the passengers.”
“Where?”
“North of Camberwell. The Kent Road.”
Hawkwood knew the area. Wooded heath and meadowland, and a well-known haunt of highwaymen. Of late, attacks had been few and far between; a result of the reintroduced horse patrols, bands of heavily armed riders, mostly ex-cavalry men, who guarded the major routes in and out of the capital.
“What was the haul?”
“Money and valuables; perhaps fifty guineas’ worth. They were very thorough.”
Hawkwood looked up. “They?”
“A man and a boy, judging from the accounts of the witnesses.” Read gave a short, bitter laugh. “Master and apprentice.”
The magistrate reached into his pocket and extracted a small, oval snuffbox. With practised dexterity, he flicked open the mother-of-pearl lid and placed a pinch of snuff on the juncture between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He inhaled the fine powder through his left nostril. Repeating the procedure with his right, he closed the box and tucked it away.
“Any descriptions?” Hawkwood knew the answer to that question. A shake of the Chief Magistrate’s head confirmed his suspicion.
The Magistrate wrinkled his nose. As he did so, he removed a silk handkerchief from his sleeve.
“Both were masked. It was the older man who did all the talking. It’s possible the boy was a mute. They are, however, both murderers. ‘Twas the older man who killed the courier. The –”
“Courier?” Hawkwood interjected.
“An admiralty courier. He joined the coach at Dover. The guard was shot by the accomplice. This is a pair of callous rogues, Hawkwood, make no mistake.”
“Anything else?”
Hawkwood winced as the Chief Magistrate let go a loud sneeze. It took a moment for Read to recover. Pausing to wipe his nose with the handkerchief, the Chief Magistrate shook his head once more. “Nothing substantial. Though there was one rather curious observation. The surviving passengers had got the impression that the older man was not much of a horseman.”
“How’s that?”
“In the course of the robbery, they were surprised by a mounted patrol. In his haste to make an escape, the fellow very nearly took a tumble. Managed to hang on to his nag more by luck than judgement, apparently.”
“A highwayman with no horse sense,” Hawkwood mused. “There’s an interesting combination.”
“Quite so,” Read sniffed. “Though I don’t suppose it means anything. Still, it was a pity. Had Officer Lomax and his patrol arrived a few minutes earlier they might well have caught them. As it was, the villains got clean away. It was a foul night. The rain covered their tracks.”
“A man and boy,” Hawkwood reflected. “Not much to go on.”
Read stuffed the handkerchief back up his sleeve. “I agree. Which is why I’ve sent for you. We’ll leave Lomax to deal with the passengers. I suggest you concentrate on the items that were stolen. Tracing their whereabouts could be the only way to find the culprits. You have unique contacts. Put them to good use. Murder and mutilation on the king’s highway – I’ll not have it! Especially when it involves an official messenger! And I understand the coachman, poor fellow, leaves a widow and four children. By God, I want these men caught, Hawkwood. I want them apprehended and punished. I –” The Chief Magistrate caught the look on Hawkwood’s face.
“Mutilation?” Hawkwood said.
The Chief Magistrate looked down at his shoes. Hawkwood followed his gaze. James Read, he noticed, not for the first time, had very small feet; delicate, dancer’s feet.
“The courier’s arm was severed.”
A knot formed itself slowly in Hawkwood’s stomach.
“They cut off his arm?”
“He was carrying a dispatch pouch. The robbers were obviously of the opinion that it held something of value. When the courier refused to give it up, he was shot and the pouch was taken. The other passengers said he refused to hand over the key. The horse patrol was almost upon them. The robbers panicked.”
“And did the pouch contain anything of value?”
The Chief Magistrate waved his hand dismissively. “Certainly nothing that would interest a pair of common thieves. They probably tossed it away at their first halt. It was the money and jewels they were after. Easily disposable, and the means by which we may precipitate their downfall.”
“I’ll need a description of the stolen goods.”
“See Mr Twigg, he has the details.” The Chief Magistrate returned to his desk and sat down. His expression was severe. “I want these people found, Hawkwood. I want them run to ground!”
Hawkwood frowned. The Chief Magistrate’s vehemence was uncharacteristic. If he hadn’t known any better, he might have suspected that James Read had been one of the passengers held up and robbed. It was unusual for the magistrate to take what sounded like a personal interest in such matters.
Read reached for his pen. “That is all. You may go.”
Hawkwood was on the point of letting himself out of the room when Read’s voice halted him in his tracks. “There is one more thing.”
Hawkwood turned.
The Chief Magistrate was perusing a document. He appeared to be deep in thought and did not bother to look up. “I am not unaware, Hawkwood, that in the pursuit of the criminal element it is sometimes necessary to turn a blind eye to certain other … lesser transgressions. Let the minnow go free in order to catch the pike, and so forth. In this case, I am referring to this afternoon’s bare-knuckle contest at the Blind Fiddler public house, where it was deemed prudent to allow the fight to continue in order to lull the Widow Gant and her brood into a false sense of security.
“However, this does not give leave for my staff to profit from such leniency. Suffice it to say that I deem it singularly inappropriate for a member of these chambers to wager a proportion of his salary on the outcome of what is still, may I remind you, an unlawful activity.”
For the first time, the Chief Magistrate lifted his eyes. He regarded Hawkwood with a mild, almost weary expression. “And spare me the innocent look, Hawkwood. While you may profess your ignorance of such matters, my clerk’s