Believe me, I did you a favour.”
“He’s only one man,” Scully grated.
Jago stiffened. “That he is, but let me tell you about that one man, Spiker. That man was a soldier, an officer in the 95th Rifles. You’ve heard of them, I take it? Hardest regiment in the bloody army. He’s killed more men than you’ve supped pints of ale, and he’s the best officer I ever served under. You saw that scar below his eye? He got that pullin’ me out of the way of a Frog Hussar. Took a cut from a sabre that was meant for me. That makes him more of a man than you’ll ever be, Spiker. So while he’s under this roof, he’s under my protection. You got that? And anyone here who thinks different’ll ‘ave me to answer to.” Jago’s right hand curled around the blackthorn staff. “Is that clear?”
The men around the table shifted uneasily. All except Scully, whose eyes grew as black and as hard as stone. Scully stood up. His bald head and pockmarked face gave him a forbidding appearance. The chair on which he had been sitting fell backwards with a clatter. The sudden movement and noise brought the brindle dog to its feet. Scully unfastened the leather strap that anchored the dog to the table. The beast growled in anticipation, a low rumble at the back of its throat.
“One day, Jago, you and me are going to have a serious talk, and then we’ll really see who’s king o’ the castle.” Scully jerked hard on the leash and turned away.
Jago watched Scully lead the animal towards the pit on the ground floor. “Any time, Spiker,” he murmured quietly to himself. “Any bloody time.”
“I’m sending you, Hawkwood, because there’s no one else available. Besides,” James Read said wearily, looking up from his desk, “I’d have thought you would welcome the diversion.”
Hawkwood gazed disconsolately down at the Chief Magistrate, knowing from the latter’s expression that this was an argument he was unlikely to win.
The diversion, as Read had called it, was a grand ball. It was often the case that Runners were assigned to attend such entertainments to guard against thieves and other miscreants who might view the event as an opportunity to indulge themselves in both petty and grand larceny.
On this occasion, the ball was being held at the London home of Lord Mandrake. Lord Mandrake, who held estates in Cheshire and the Americas, had made his fortune through trade and banking and was a well-entrenched member of the establishment. He was a confidant of several members of parliament, including the Foreign Secretary. There was a rumour, Read told Hawkwood, that the Prince Regent might well put in an appearance.
On hearing this, Hawkwood groaned inwardly. He had attended similar functions and detested them with a vengeance. He would rather have faced a frontal assault from a detachment of French lancers.
“What about Redfern?”
This time Read did not bother to look up. “Redfern’s in Manchester. A forgery case. He’s unlikely to return in the immediate future.”
“Lightfoot, then?”
“Protection duty at the Bank of England, overseeing the transportation of a bullion consignment.”
With studied deliberation, James Read laid down his pen and sighed audibly. “Hawkwood, you are perfectly aware how many special constables I have at my disposal. Precious few. Seven, to be precise, including yourself. Now, whilst I’m not obliged to furnish you with details of their individual assignments, I will do so, if it will help to ease your troubled mind.
“Redfern and Lightfoot, we’ve already mentioned. George Ruthven is in Dublin, attempting to serve a warrant on the embezzler, Patrick Doherty. McNiece is investigating a double murder in York. Lacey is recovering from wounds sustained in the arrest of the Taplin brothers –”
“And Warlock?” Hawkwood enquired desperately, sensing as he did so that it was a futile exercise.
“Also unavailable. The Woodburn case.”
“Woodburn?” Hawkwood queried, mystified; though there was no reason why the name should have meant anything. Given the demands of the job, each Runner was usually too concerned with his own workload to take note of a fellow officer’s assignments.
“The missing clockmaker.”
Hawkwood feared he had misheard. “You’ve sent Warlock off to look for a clockmaker?”
“Not just any clockmaker,” Read responded sharply, with just a hint of rebuke. “Josiah Woodburn is a master craftsman. A clockmaker to the nobility. Examples of his work grace half the salons in London, not to mention the grandest houses in the country.”
“And he’s disappeared?” Hawkwood said hollowly.
“It would appear he failed to return home from his workshop last evening.”
“Probably spent the night tumbling some Haymarket doxy and lost track of the time.”
There was a pause. A small nerve tremor dimpled the flesh on the magistrate’s left cheek.
“Hardly,” Read said. “The man is sixty-eight years old and a strict Presbyterian.”
The Chief Magistrate frowned suddenly, drew a watch from his pocket and compared the hour with that shown by the tall clock in the corner of the room. “Though perhaps it’s Officer Warlock’s timekeeping that has gone astray. He was supposed to call in and make his report but he has not yet done so. Most curious. It’s not like him to be tardy.” The frown disappeared, to be replaced by a beatific smile. “So, as you can see, Hawkwood, there’s no choice in the matter. You shall go to the ball.”
The expression on Hawkwood’s face spoke volumes.
“Frankly,” Read said, putting his watch away, “I would have thought you’d be flattered.”
“I should? Why?”
“You were requested by name. Upon the recommendation, I understand, of Sir John Belvedere. It seems Sir John was most impressed by the way you conducted yourself at his wife’s recent birthday celebrations.”
Hawkwood recalled the evening a month previously: a well-attended but dull affair in Chelsea, enlivened only by an ill-fated attempt to remove, by stealth, Sir John’s birthday gift to his wife; an ornate and expensive necklace, reputedly once owned by the wife of the first Duke of Marlborough.
Hawkwood had run the thief to ground, ruining a good pair of breeches in the process. In retrospect, though, he had to admit that the night had not been without its reward. Sir John had been effusive with his thanks and generous in his compensation, to the extent that it had almost restored Hawkwood’s faith in human nature. But he still loathed the pomp and ceremony.
“What about the coach robbery?” Hawkwood said, grasping at one final straw.
“I think it most unlikely that a breakthrough will be forthcoming between now and breakfast,” Read said. “Don’t you?”
The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips and sat back. “Your lack of enthusiasm confounds me, Hawkwood. Had any of the others been available for duty, they would probably be fighting to attend.”
Read was pointing out, none too subtly, a long accepted understanding. A Runner’s salary verged on the pitiful; just over a guinea a week, supplemented by equally meagre expenses should the assignment entail travel to a distant part of the country. A Runner also received a share of the parliamentary awards given for the seizure and conviction of criminals, but by the time the awards were split among the arresting officers the final sum usually amounted to little more than small change. Most Runners made their money through private enterprise; as bodyguards to royalty and politicians, or by hiring themselves out to institutions and wealthy private citizens for investigative and security work.
“Now,”