Lee stepped forward. “All in order, Mr Sparrow?”
The seaman nodded.
“Capital! In that case, please be so kind as to see to the doors and prepare the vessel for departure.”
Hawkwood stared at the woman, at her slim figure, her mannish dress, at her hair held in a tight chignon, at the pistol in her hand and her smile. And in a moment of startling clarity it came to him. Scully’s taunting when he’d been asked if another mutineer or Lee had been his partner in the coach hold up.
It were neither, squire. An’ if I told you, you’d never believe me. If you only knew…
Not a mute boy and certainly not Jago, as he had ludicrously supposed, but a woman whose accent would have betrayed her the moment she’d opened her mouth. She had shot the guard in cold blood and, judging by her present disposition, Hawkwood suspected that she hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep since.
Lee’s voice cut into his tumbling thoughts. “What’s the matter, Officer Hawkwood? Cat got your tongue?”
Before he could answer, the rattle of a chain sounded from the end of the dock. Sparrow was opening the doors.
As the gap between the doors slowly widened, light began to infiltrate the interior of the warehouse. Beyond the low archway, Hawkwood could see out to where the channel joined the river, flowing broad and smooth past the end of the outer quay. He wondered if Jago was still out there, still waiting.
Sparrow, his task complete, rejoined them. The seaman took the pistol from his belt and cocked it.
“Well, Captain Hawkwood, it’s time to go. What can I say? It’s been a pleasure. Truly.” The American grinned roguishly and stepped nimbly on to the submersible’s deck.
“Make it quick, Mr Sparrow. We haven’t got all morning.”
Sparrow grinned. He lifted the pistol and motioned Hawkwood to the edge of the dock.
“Kneel down.”
Hawkwood didn’t move.
He felt the muzzle of the pistol pressing against the nape of his neck. Heard the hiss of Sparrow’s voice in his ear.
“On your knees, you bastard! Do it!”
Hawkwood heard a groan of anguish. The clockmaker, about to witness his death. The pressure of the gun barrel prevented him from turning his head.
Hawkwood knelt.
The muzzle moved upwards, against the back of his skull, forcing his head down. Hawkwood found himself staring into the dark water.
“Dear God, no!” The clockmaker cried, beseechingly.
Sparrow chuckled. The sound was like small bones rattling in a tin cup.
“Good bye, Captain,” Sparrow said.
“Piss and damnation!”
Nathaniel Jago swore violently and checked his pocket watch for what felt like the hundredth time. Where the hell was Hawkwood? The hour had come and gone, but Jago had continued to wait, stubbornly pacing to and fro on the dockside like a caged bear, trying to ignore the crawling feeling in the pit of his stomach that was telling him something had gone badly wrong.
Jago was angry. He was angry with Hawkwood, he was angry with the world, but mostly he was angry with himself for letting Hawkwood go off on his own. Experience had taught him that if trouble were to be found then, sure as sunrise, Hawkwood would find it—as illustrated by the incident aboard the Rat’s Nest. It had been sheer good fortune that had seen Jago arrive in the nick of time on that occasion. Jago had not pulled Hawkwood out of the fire, almost literally as it happened, in order for him to go wandering off again, sticking his nose into places it wasn’t wanted. All right, so the man was a police officer, but for Christ’s sake, didn’t he ever bloody learn?
“Bugger it!” Jago knew he couldn’t wait any longer. What had Hawkwood told him to do in the event of his nonappearance? Contact Magistrate Read? Jago shook his head in exasperation. Well, if the captain was expecting him to go running off to Magistrate Read, then the captain had another bloody think coming. Bending down, Jago secured the dinghy’s painter to the ring by the side of the jetty steps. Then, with another muttered curse, he set off along the busy waterfront.
“No! Wait!”
Sparrow’s finger whitened on the trigger.
“I said hold your fire, damn it!”
The pressure on Hawkwood’s skull eased fractionally, enough that he was able to lift his head. He heard Lee’s voice.
“Y’know, Sparrow, we’ve only Officer Hawkwood’s word that the authorities suspect Lord Mandrake’s involvement in our little enterprise, but they’ve no positive proof. It could be sheer coincidence that his lordship’s headed north. Likewise, we could be using his warehouse without his knowledge. Lord Mandrake’s a valuable ally with powerful friends at the heart of the government. Be a damned shame if we couldn’t continue to make use of him. If we leave Hawkwood’s body here, there’s a connection. But if Officer Hawkwood disappears, what then? They’d have nothing. If his Bow Street brothers come looking for him, they’ll find themselves up a blind alley with no trail to follow, and his lordship will live to serve another day. No, I say we dispose of Officer Hawkwood’s body somewhere else.”
“And how the hell do we do that?” Sparrow said. Light dawned in the seaman’s eyes. “Christ, you mean we take him with us? You can’t be serious?”
Lee shrugged. “Can’t say I like it any more than you do, but it makes more sense. We’ll transport him downriver, drop his corpse off later.”
Sparrow thought about it. “So I shoot him now and we take his body on board? All right, I can live with that.” Sparrow aimed the pistol.
Lee sighed. “I’ve no desire to try and lift his dead weight through the damned hatchway. It’s constricted enough as it is. Besides, I don’t want his blood all over my breeches. No, he can climb below by himself. And don’t look like that, Sparrow. My decision, and there’s an end to it. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance later. Now, tie his wrists. The mademoiselle there’ll keep her eye on him.”
With a look that could have flayed skin from bone, Sparrow did as he was instructed.
“And Master Woodburn?” Hawkwood asked, when Sparrow had performed his task and retrieved his pistol.
Lee smiled. “Don’t worry, he’s in safe hands—providing you do as you’re told. Bring him aboard, Mr Sparrow. Lively now.”
With Sparrow’s pistol at his back, Hawkwood stepped off the dock on to the submersible’s deck. The vessel moved gently beneath him.
Lee turned towards the woman. “You know what to do?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Then we’ll rendezvous later, as arranged.”
Lee brandished his own pistol and nodded towards the mooring lines. “I have him, Mr Sparrow. Cast off, if you please.”
Hawkwood looked back in the direction of the dockside and the old man. There was a strange, almost haunted look on the clockmaker’s face. Hawkwood suddenly felt as if he was missing something. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Was the old man trying to pass him a message? If that was so, Hawkwood was unable to decipher it, though he had the uncomfortable feeling that the expression on Josiah Woodburn’s face would remain etched in his memory for ever. He glanced at the woman.
Catherine de Varesne smiled. “Goodbye, Matthew.”
“I’ll see you in hell,” Hawkwood said.
A tiny inclination of her head, as if acknowledging the possibility. “I’ll look forward to it.”
She turned away. Sparrow used an oar to push the vessel off from the landing stage. With smooth precision, the submersible slipped through the doors and out into the river.