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 involvement has already been established, though I doubt he would confess it in so many words.
“And should you be wondering how this came to my attention, it was through deductive reasoning; in short, from the observance of Mr Twigg when I sent him to rendezvous with you at the Blind Fiddler. The alacrity with which he departed my office was a sight to behold, not to mention the gleam in his eye. The very fact that he was not present to show you into my office suggests to me that he did not accompany you here. I therefore suspect that when next I see him there will be the distinctive reek of brandy on his breath, the consequence of a celebratory rather than medicinal infusion.”
Hawkwood tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a grin.
“Ah,” Read said wryly, “I see I have struck a chord. Very well, I’ll say no more upon the matter, save that in future I’d be obliged if the two of you were a deal more circumspect. You take my meaning? As officers of the law, we are, after all, expected to set something of an example.”
“Yes, sir.” Hawkwood managed to keep his face straight. “Will that be all?”
The Chief Magistrate nodded. “For the time being. Keep me informed.”
James Read waited for Hawkwood to close the door before placing his pen on the desk and sitting back in his chair. He made a steeple of his fingers and placed them under his chin. His expression was pensive.
Read had not told Hawkwood the full facts of the case and, to his consternation, that bothered him more than he had expected. Hawkwood had only been at Bow Street for a short period. Nevertheless, in that time he had proved himself to be the best Runner in the team. The man was intelligent, resourceful and, when it proved necessary, quite ruthless. He probably deserved to be told more, but the assignment was a delicate one and, as such, Hawkwood’s involvement was on a strict need-to-know basis. Read himself was operating under specific instructions. Like a chess player, all he could do for the moment was place Hawkwood on the board and pray that he made the right moves.
Meanwhile, in the ante-room, Hawkwood was trying to hide his astonishment at being confronted by Ezra Twigg, seated at his desk, sober, and holding a list of the stolen items in his hands. Surprisingly, the clerk didn’t even appear to be out of breath, despite what must have been a very hasty return from the Blind Fiddler tavern. Hawkwood took a surreptitious sniff. The smell of brandy was barely noticeable. He stared at the clerk, but Twigg’s face, as he handed over the list, was a picture of innocence.
Ezra Twigg may have looked like some down-trodden scribe, with his rounded shoulders, ill-fitting hat and ink-stained cuffs, but those with an intimate knowledge knew that behind that mild-mannered façade there lurked a wily brain capable of shrewd cunning and tenacious investigation.
Twigg, clerk to Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate, had held his current position for a great many years. Chief Magistrates might come and go, but Ezra Twigg endured. He’d served James Read during his entire tenure and had been a loyal retainer to both of Read’s predecessors, Richard Ford and William Addington. It was hinted that Ezra Twigg’s contacts rivalled those of any intelligence service. The role of Chief Magistrate was a high-profile one, but it was the servants of the court, men like Twigg, who were the lynchpins of the police and judiciary. Without them, the edifice would crumble.
The list of stolen items was short and not particularly impressive. Three rings, a snuffbox, a bracelet and a silver cross. There was a brief description of each piece. James Read had placed their combined value at around fifty guineas. The highwaymen, in fencing the goods, would be lucky to make ten pounds between them. Not a huge profit, but quite respectable for one night’s work.
It was likely that an attempt had already been made to convert the valuables into cash. The city’s back streets were home to a multitude of receivers, willing to fence anything from silk handkerchiefs to lead from a church roof. A few preferred to specialize, like Ma Jennings of Red Lion Market who handled hats and gowns, or Joshua Roberts, a pigeon-fancier from Duck Lane, who dealt only in livestock. Others, like the ex-cracksman Edward Memmery, traded mainly in foodstuffs. For everything there was always a price and somebody willing to pay.
And deep within the more notorious rookeries there existed the half-dozen or so receivers who dealt only with goods of the very highest quality. Men like Jacob Low in Field Lane and Isaiah Trask of the Caribee, or Sarah Logan in Rosemary Lane, known to her associates as the Widow. Any one of them had the means to fence the items on the list. Hawkwood knew that James Read had set him a task equivalent to searching a very large beach for a particular grain of sand.
He was going to need assistance.
There were several informers he could call upon. Hawkwood employed a dozen or so to keep him informed of criminal activity. Tradesmen, whores, hawkers, street urchins, many of them criminals in their own right. Hawkwood used a good deal of subterfuge to keep their identities secret. Snouts with an intimate knowledge of the streets were invaluable. Without them, Hawkwood and his colleagues would not have been able to operate effectively. They functioned as the Runners’ eyes and ears to the underworld.
On this occasion, however, there was only one person he could approach. And to speak with that individual he would have to enter a dangerous place; a world into which no officer of the law would dare venture if he valued his life. But first, certain arrangements would have to be made.
Blind Billy Mipps was at his usual pitch: the pavement outside the Black Lion Chop House on Little Russell Street.
Blind Billy was as thin as a whip. His hair was long and matted with filth. His threadbare, lice-infested clothes hung loosely upon his weedy body. The tray from which he sold his tapers and tallow candles hung from his neck by a frayed cord. Also around his neck was suspended a card upon which was scrawled in barely legible script: Old soldier. Wife and three children to support. The description was at least two-thirds inaccurate. Blind Billy had never been a soldier, neither did he have a wife. As to the number of children he might have fathered, even Billy Mipps would have conceded that three was probably a mite conservative.
A yellowing, blood-encrusted strip of bandage was tied around Billy’s head, covering his eyes. A white stick hung from his wrist by a leather thong. Even among the other beggars and hawkers who plied their meagre wares on the capital’s crowded streets, the candle seller cut a pathetic figure.
Like every other mendicant of note, Blind Billy had established his own particular routine. Whenever he sensed the passing of a potential customer, Billy would tap his stick, rattle his tin mug and whine beseechingly, “Buy a candle, yer honour. Penny candles. Spare a copper