younger sister, Alice, who had persuaded her brother to sponsor Warbeck’s entry into the police force; an act of charity about which he was beginning to have severe misgivings. Not least, regarding the said constable’s apparent inability to look the other way at opportune moments. Clearly, the man had much to learn. Still, Rafferty concluded, it was early days.
Moving to the table, Rafferty eyed the small array of pocketbooks and jewellery with increasing interest. Looking over his shoulder to ensure he was not being observed, he investigated the contents of the pocketbooks. Several of them, to his delight, held banknotes. He extracted one crisp note from each and replaced the pocketbooks on the table. Then his eyes alighted on the watch.
It was a very fine watch; gold-cased, with matching chain. Undoubtedly the property of a gentleman. Rafferty held the timepiece up to his ear. The ticking was like a tiny heartbeat. He inserted the end of a blunt fingernail under the clasp and was about to flick open the cover when his ears detected footsteps and a curious scraping sound. Quickly, Rafferty dropped the watch into the deep pocket of his coat. Just in time. He grinned expansively as Hawkwood emerged from behind the curtain, dragging the body of Mother Gant into the room.
“Well now, Captain, there I was wondering where you’d got to. Thought we might have to send out a search party, so I did.” Rafferty’s glance dropped to the body of the Widow Gant, who had regained consciousness and was staring up at Hawkwood with a degree of malevolence that was chilling in its intensity.
“See you caught the old crone, then?” Rafferty studied the rent in Hawkwood’s sleeve and frowned. “Gave you a bit of trouble, did she?”
Hawkwood hauled the old woman across the floor and dropped her next to her son. When he looked up his eyes were as dark as the grave.
“How many?”
Rafferty sighed. “Four. The rest scarpered. My lads’ve got ‘em outside.” Rafferty found himself wavering under the other man’s gaze. There was something in that hard stare that made Constable Rafferty’s blood run cold. To his relief, Hawkwood merely nodded in acceptance.
“Probably as many as we deserved. All right, you know what to do. Take them away.”
Rafferty nodded. “Right you are.” The constable aimed a kick at Eli Gant’s shin. “On your feet! You, too, Mother, else you’ll get my boot up your skinny arse!”
Hawkwood turned away as Rafferty bundled his charges out of the house.
“Wait!”
The command cut through the air. Rafferty paused on the doorstep. A cold wind touched his spine. When he turned around he found that Hawkwood was looking at him, and his breath caught in his throat.
The bastard knew!
Hawkwood held out his hand. “I’ll take the watch, Rafferty.”
“Eh?” Instinctively, in voicing that one word of feigned innocence, Rafferty knew he’d betrayed his guilt. Conceit and fear, however, dictated that he make at least a half-hearted attempt to extricate himself from the mire.
“Watch? And what watch would that be, then? Sure, and I don’t know what you mean.”
Hawkwood’s expression was as hard as stone. “I’ll ask you once more, Constable. You’ve already made one mistake. Don’t compound the error. Hand it over.”
Even as he blustered, Rafferty knew the game had been played to its conclusion. His only recourse was to try and retire with as much bravado as he could muster. He frowned, as if searching his memory, and then allowed a broad smile to steal across his face.
“Och, sweet Mary! Why, of course! What was I thinking? Sure and didn’t I just slip it into my pocket for safekeeping and then forget all about it? Memory’ll be the death of me, so it will. Here it is, now! I’m glad you reminded me, for it’s likely I’d have walked off with it, so I would.”
And with a grin that would have charmed Medusa, Constable Rafferty reached into the pocket of his coat and brought forth the watch with the dexterity of an illusionist producing a rabbit from a hat.
“There you go, Captain.” Rafferty handed the watch over. “And a very fine timepiece it is, too, even if I does say so myself. Cost a pretty penny, I shouldn’t wonder.” A mischievous wink caused the right side of the constable’s face to droop alarmingly. “Take a bit of a liking to it yourself, did you? And who’d blame you, is what I’d say. Why, I –”
Hawkwood turned the watch over in his hands and looked up. His expression was enough to erase the grin from the constable’s face.
“You can dispense with the bejesus and the blarney, Rafferty. It might fool the ladies and the scum you drink with, but it doesn’t impress me.”
Rafferty’s skin reddened even further and he shifted uncomfortably, but Hawkwood hadn’t finished.
“A warning, Rafferty. You ever work with me again, you’d best keep your thieving hands to yourself. Otherwise, I’ll cut them off. Is that clear?”
The constable opened his mouth as if to protest, but the words failed him. He nodded miserably.
“Good, then we understand each other. The watch stays with me. Take the rest of the loot to Bow Street. It can be stored there as evidence. And mark this, Rafferty. I’m holding you responsible for its safe arrival. You never know, the owners may actually turn up to claim it. Now, get the hell out of my sight.”
Hawkwood waited until Rafferty and his constables had left with their prisoners, before flicking open the watch cover and reading the inscription etched into the casing. Then, closing the watch, he dropped it into his pocket and let himself out of the house.
In the stable yard behind the Blind Fiddler, the fight was nearing the end. It was the forty-seventh round. By the standards of the day, and by common consent, it had been an enjoyable contest.
Both fighters had taken severe punishment. Benbow, his face a mask of blood and nursing two broken ribs, waited for his opponent to come within range.
Figg, rendered almost deaf and blind by the injuries he had received, his wrists and hands swollen to twice normal size, wits scrambled by a barrage of punches to the face and leaking sweat from every pore, spat out a gobbet of blood, and circled unsteadily.
Both men could barely stand.
The end, when it came, proved to be something of an anti-climax. Benbow, swaying precariously, hooked a punch towards his opponent’s belly. The blow landed hard. Figg collapsed. Blood gushed from his mouth, and the crowd groaned. It was a certain indication that Figg’s lungs had been damaged. The sight was sufficient cause for the referee, in a rare display of compassion, to end the contest and award the bout to the Cornishman.
So suddenly was the decision announced that a hush fell over the spectators. But then, like ripples spreading across a pond, an excited chatter began to spread through the assembled gathering. Benbow sat down on a low stool, probed his mouth with a finger, spat out a tooth, took a swig from a proffered brandy bottle, and looked on without pity as the defeated Figg was helped away by his seconds.
Beneath the stable arch, the red-haired major clapped his companion on the back and shook his head in admiration. “By God, Fitz, that was as fine a contest as I’ve witnessed, and I’m ten guineas better off than I was before the bout, thanks to the Cornishman. Damn me, if winning hasn’t given me a raging thirst. What say we wet our whistles before we meet the ladies? I do believe we’ve an hour or two to kill before we’re expected.”
The major reached into his sash and his face froze with concern. “Hell’s teeth, Fitz! My watch and chain! Gone! I’ve been robbed!”
The two men looked about them. A futile gesture, as both were fully aware. Whoever the thief was, he or she was long gone, swallowed up by the rapidly dispersing crowd.
“Damn and blast the thieving buggers!” The major swore vehemently and gritted his teeth in anger and frustration.