in repose, was a tall, sombre-looking man dressed in black.
“Officer Hawkwood?” The man straightened, unfolded his arms but did not extend his hand. “Henry Brooke. Welcome to the Alien Office.” He nodded towards Flint, hovering by the door. “Thank you, Stormont. You may leave us. I’ll ring if I have need of you. Oh, and perhaps you’d be kind enough to take Officer Hawkwood’s coat for him, there’s a good fellow.”
Hawkwood removed his coat and handed it over. Flint looked none too happy at being relegated to footman. He didn’t quite turn his nose up, but it was a close-run thing. He left the room with the coat held at arm’s length and the door closed softly behind him.
Brooke continued to regard the door, as though expecting it to spring back open. Eventually satisfied that wasn’t about to happen, he pushed himself away from the desk and regarded Hawkwood with calm appraisal.
“You’ve come direct from Magistrate Read? How is he? In sound health, I trust?”
“He asked me to convey his compliments,” Hawkwood said.
“How kind of him.” Unhurriedly, Brooke stalked around the desk and took his seat. The superintendent’s jacket and breeches were beautifully tailored. Hawkwood could see stripes of very fine gold thread running through them.
Hawkwood glanced towards the fireplace. The hearth was empty and despite the azure sky visible through the windows, the room was by no means warm. James Read’s office was a positive furnace in comparison. Perhaps Brooke had spent all his money on his wardrobe and had nothing left over for kindling. Hawkwood wondered if surrendering his coat had been a wise decision.
“So, Officer Hawkwood,” Brooke said, somewhat regally. “What has Magistrate Read told you? Anything?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “He told me he’d leave that to you, sir.”
There was no invitation to sit down, though there were two empty chairs in the room. Hawkwood had no doubt it was a deliberate ploy rather than an oversight. By keeping him standing, Brooke was effortlessly and effectively emphasizing his authority.
Brooke smiled indulgently. “Did he now? How convenient.” Leaning forward, he stared down at a sheaf of papers on his desk. His eyes roved across the page. “You were a soldier. The 95th Regiment of Foot, I see.”
Brooke looked up. The expression on his face was reassuringly benign. Interpreting the remark as a comment rather than a question, Hawkwood kept quiet. He assumed Brooke would continue, which he did.
“A fine regiment.” Brooke did not expand upon the statement but lowered his eyes and continued to read. Without looking up, he said, “From my conversations with him, I know that Magistrate Read holds you in extremely high regard. You should be flattered. He’s not one to award praise lightly.” There was a pause. “Though he also advises me you have what he calls an ambivalent attitude towards authority.” Casually, Brooke lifted his gaze. “I imagine that’s a polite way of saying you’ve a tendency to disregard it. I’d also hazard a guess it did not serve you well in your army career; would I be right in that?”
Hawkwood considered his response and decided it would probably be more prudent if he remained silent, though it didn’t prevent him wondering what was coming next.
“I suspect that rather answers my question,” the man at the desk said, looking and sounding mildly amused. “Though the Rifle Corps, from all I hear, does allow its men a degree more latitude than most.” The smile evaporated. “Tell me about Talavera and Major Delancey.”
Hawkwood felt his stomach muscles contract. What the hell was this?
Brooke moved the document aside as though it was no longer of consequence. He leant forward, steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the desk. The dark gaze was unwavering. “You may speak freely.”
It struck Hawkwood that Brooke had exceptionally long fingers. It was impossible not to compare them with Chen’s stubby digits. The silence stretched, while Brooke, seemingly content to prolong the moment, remained resolutely mute. He looked, Hawkwood thought, not unlike a praying mantis about to pounce upon a moth.
“Major Delancey was a Guards officer,” Hawkwood said, “with a misguided opinion of his own abilities. He wanted to make a name for himself. He gave a bad order and a lot of good men died because of it. I told him it would have been no great loss if he’d been counted among them. He took exception and called me out. That was his second mistake.” He stared down at the man behind the desk. “But you already knew that, sir. Didn’t you?”
The seated man raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think a man’s entitled to make a mistake?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “Not at all. The trouble with Delancey was that he abused the privilege. Most men have the capacity for regret. They learn from the errors they’ve committed. Delancey didn’t have the wits for that.”
Brooke’s face hardened. “It’s war. Men die. Isn’t that the way of it?”
“Yes, it is,” Hawkwood said. “But they shouldn’t have to die because some tomfool officer is hell-bent on glory.”
There was silence, then Brooke said sternly, “You were an officer. A captain, no less. How many men died under your command?”
“Too damned many,” Hawkwood responded coldly. “But unlike Delancey, I valued the lives of my men, I could name every bloody one of them. Would you care to tell me why I’m here . . . sir.”
A flash of irritation showed on the superintendent’s face but it disappeared in the blink of an eye, to be replaced by a thin smile. He lowered his hands on to the desk. “Well, Magistrate Read warned me you were direct; and I must say you don’t disappoint. As for the reason you’re here; we’ll come to that shortly. The Delancey affair cost you, though, didn’t it? You lost your commission.”
There didn’t seem much point in either denying the fact or elaborating upon it.
“Yes.”
“You were cashiered.” Brooke pulled his notes towards him and glanced down at them. “Which should have seen you reduced to the ranks or sent home. Yet, instead, you took to the mountains and joined the guerrilleros. Most intriguing. Of your own volition, or was it really with the blessing of your commander?”
Brooke was undoubtedly referring to Wellington. Hawkwood suspected that, once again, the superintendent already knew the answer to his question. Brooke clearly had his military record to hand and seemed keen on letting him know it. Hawkwood decided there and then not to grant the man any further concessions. If Brooke wanted additional information he’d have to bloody well work for it.
“Your time in the Peninsula served you well,” Brooke went on. “You speak Spanish, yes?”
He appeared undeterred by Hawkwood’s reluctance to respond to the previous enquiry.
This time, Hawkwood nodded. Brooke seemed intent on changing course every five minutes. Sooner rather than later, Hawkwood supposed, the superintendent would get to the point.
“In fact,” Brooke continued, “you’ve quite a flair for languages. You’re fluent in French, as well, I hear?”
“I’ve been fighting the bastards for twenty years. There was a general once; he said you should know your enemy.” Hawkwood shrugged. “Learning the language seemed as good a place to start as any.”
Brooke’s eyebrows lifted. He looked genuinely startled by Hawkwood’s reply. “You’re a student of Sun Tzu?”
“Sun what?” Hawkwood said. He had no idea what Brooke was talking about.
Brooke sat back in his chair. “Not what; it’s a name. Sun Tzu – T, Z, U. He’s your general. He was Chinese. He lived over two thousand years ago. He wrote a book on military strategy known as The Art of War. It’s been used by military leaders down through the ages. He wrote: ‘If you know the enemy