Hawkwood had remembered some of the elementary moves and indeed had used them on occasion. Watching Chen display the unexpected yet instantly familiar tactics against Billy Boyd had ignited the thought that maybe fate had presented him with an opportunity to widen his knowledge and improve upon those few basic skills hed acquired from his Portuguese comrade-in-arms. Anything that would give him an edge over the sort of men he hunted had to be an advantage.
As the lessons progressed so did Chens command of English. From what Hawkwood had been able to glean, Chen had no family. He came from the south of China; a province with a strange name that was almost impossible to pronounce. More intriguing was Chens disclosure that he had indeed been a monk, a member of a religious order that had fallen foul of the authorities. A number of sacred sites had been desecrated, including Chens own monastery. The monks had retaliated and a price had been placed on their heads. Many of them had fled the country. Chen had arrived in England on board a British merchant ship, one of hundreds of anonymous seamen recruited abroad as cheap labour by the East India Company. As a result hed found himself marooned, an orphan in a storm, unable to return home, for fear of imprisonment or death.
Hed managed to find a bed in one of the Lascar-run Shadwell boarding houses, using the last of his pitiful wages. When they ran out hed resorted to begging; a legacy from his time as a monk, when the only way to obtain food had been to wander the streets with a bowl and cup. But hed soon learned there was little sympathy shown to foreign beggars there were enough home-grown ones and his orange robe, which would have elicited charity in his own country, counted for nothing on the streets of London. Starvation looked a likely prospect, but hed persevered. Hed known that the best pickings were to be found wherever crowds gathered, so he had followed the fair-goers to Bow Common. There hed seen the illustrations on the outside of the boxing booth. He had sufficient English to understand what was required in order for him to walk away with enough money to cover three months lodgings. Hed watched Boyd through a gap in the back of the tent and even though hed not used his fighting skills in many months, he knew he would beat him and that it would not take long.
And so it had proved.
In their training they would alternate roles and Hawkwood would take on the role of the aggressor, wielding his tipstaff or the knife in his boot or on occasion one of the tools hanging on the wall; the threshing flail, the hammer, the hand scythe or the axe. Invariably, Chen would disarm him with ease, no matter how quickly Hawkwood attacked or what weapon he favoured. Gradually, however, Hawkwood came to understand the principles Chen employed, how it was possible to defuse an attack using gravity, speed and leverage to unbalance his opponent and effect a counter strike and every now and then he found himself piercing Chens formidable defences. But not very often.
Chen transferred his weight to his left foot and thrust the knife towards Hawkwoods throat. This time, Hawkwood was unarmed. He brought up his right hand, found Chens wrist, rotated it and, stepping to the left, brought the heel of his left hand against Chens braced elbow. Chen went down and Hawkwood released his grip.
Chen came off the mattress and nodded. Better. You still slow, but better.
Better, Hawkwood had learned, was the closest Chen ever got to awarding high praise.
Theyd been in the cellar for two hours. Hawkwoods shirt was soaked. Perspiration coated his skin and his arms and legs ached. He felt a perverse pleasure, however, at seeing for the first time the thin line of perspiration that beaded Chens temple. It meant he was probably doing something right.
In the lull, his ears picked up the faint sound of a tolling bell, signalling the change of shift at the timber yard over on Narrow Street. Chens ears had caught it, too. He straightened, faced Hawkwood and inclined his head. Some might have looked upon it as a bow of deference but Hawkwood knew it was Chens way of announcing that training was over for the day.
We finish now, Chen said.
Hawkwood hoped the relief wasnt showing on his face; or the pain, for that matter. It had occurred to him during the sessions in the cellar that over the years hed suffered enough hurt in the service of king and country and latterly as a police officer, without it seeming necessary to risk further injury to life and limb trying to master some obscure fighting technique. But then, it had also struck him that, had he mastered the techniques before hed taken up soldiering and policing he might well have avoided some of the injuries in the first place. Life, he thought, as he wiped his face and neck with a drying cloth, probably wasnt meant to be that complicated.
Though he couldnt deny the exhilaration he felt every time he staunched one of Chens attacks, which more than made up for any discomfort suffered in the acquisition of bruised bones, scraped knuckles and the occasional bloody nose.
His thoughts were jolted by a hesitant knock on the cellar door; an unusual occurrence. Tully, true to his agreement with Jago, had rarely encroached upon his and Chens privacy before. Even Chen, a master of stoicism, turned his head at the interruption. He looked at Hawkwood for direction. Hawkwood nodded and reached for his coat. Chen opened the door.
Tully Robinson stood on the threshold. He was a heavily built man, with thinning hair and a hangdog look.
Beggin your pardon, Captain. Told to give you this. He threw Chen a wary glance and held out a folded note.
Hawkwood took the paper, broke the seal and read the contents.
Who delivered it?
Didnt catch the name. Small fella; bow legs and spectacles; wore a wig, dressed like a pox doctors clerk.
Hawkwood didnt react. How long ago?
Bout alf an hour. I knows you likes your privacy, so I waited. Then I got to figuring it might be important after all. You know im?
Hawkwood nodded. For my sins.
Tully regarded Hawkwoods tall frame with some apprehension, taking in the dark hair tied off at the nape of the neck, the scarred features and the blue-grey eyes. Tully had worked on the river most of his life and had known hard men, but this one, even if he hadnt been a friend of Jagos, was a man he knew he wouldnt want to cross. Hed called him Captain because thats how Jago had addressed him, but as to Hawkwoods profession, he wasnt prepared to hazard a guess. The small, bespectacled messenger had provided no clue. Hed simply described Hawkwood and asked that the message be passed on.
Tully stared at the Chinaman. He still couldnt put his finger on what the two of them got up to in the cellar. The walls and door were thick enough to deaden most of the noise from within. All hed ever heard in passing were dull thumps and grunts and clunks that might have been wood striking metal. Hed never plucked up the nerve to ask either Jago or his friend the captain what they used the room for; indeed, that was part of the arrangement. It hadnt stopped him wondering, though. And as for the presence of a Chinaman, God alone knew what he was doing there. Tully didnt like to think. Message delivered, he departed, no wiser than hed been before he knocked on the door.
Hawkwood considered the note, imagining the look on Twiggs face had he heard Tullys description of him. He did not wonder how Ezra Twigg had tracked him down but accepted the fact with weary resignation. Twiggs resources were both extensive and bordering on the mystical. Speculation would have been a waste of time.
Hawkwood considered the note, imagining the look on Twiggs face had he heard Tullys description of him. He did not wonder how Ezra Twigg had tracked him down but accepted the fact with weary resignation. Twiggs resources were both extensive and bordering on the mystical. Speculation would have been a waste of time.
Chen collected a hessian sack from a hook on the wall and slipped it over his shoulder. He did so in silence, his movements controlled and precise. Hawkwood suspected that Chen had very few possessions; a leftover, he assumed, from Chens former vocation as a monk, where a vow of poverty would have been a prerequisite. He had a feeling Chen also travelled without baggage for another reason; a man on the run, even so far from home, would not want to be weighed down by unnecessary encumbrances.
They let themselves out of the cellar. At the end of the alley, Chen bowed again and without pausing turned and walked away; a small, slight and innocuous figure among the grime of his surroundings. Hawkwood watched him go. Chen did not look back. He never did. Hawkwood guessed hed be heading for the East India Company mission on Fore Street, which catered for Lascar and Chinese seafarers who found themselves in extremis. In exchange for a roof and a bed, Chen carried out odd jobs, most of them menial, such as cleaning and preparing meals. In all likelihood, given his history, he probably provided spiritual guidance as well. As foreigners on a foreign shore, the Asian seamen had learned early on that there was safety in numbers. Hawkwood wondered if Chen taught them how to defend themselves, as well. Still wondering, he turned. Leaving Queen Street behind, he strode west, towards Sun Tavern Fields and on to the city. If Tully Robinsons laconic observation was accurate, he had an appointment with a pox doctor.
And it wouldnt do to be late.
Arriving at Bow Street, Hawkwood made his way to the first floor. Halfway up the stairs, his ears picked up the harsh scratch of nib on paper. In the ante-room, Ezra Twigg was bent low over his desk, his small mouth pursed in concentration. A tatty grey wig hung on a stand behind him. From a distance it looked like some kind of dead animal. It wasnt often the wig was discarded. Hawkwood could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times hed seen the clerk without it. Hanging alongside the wig was a black tricorne hat that had also seen better days.
Why, Mr Twigg! Hawkwood said breezily. And how are we this fine morning? Enjoy your constitutional?
Ezra Twigg did not look up, though the pen in his hand may have paused momentarily. Most efficacious, Officer Hawkwood. Thank you for asking. Light from the window behind the desk reflected off Twiggs spectacles. He looked like a diminutive, slightly disgruntled owl awoken upon his nest.
The pen resumed its pedantic scroll across the document. The little mans flaking scalp showed palely through his receding hair. The hunched shoulders of his coat were liberally sprinkled with flecks of fine grey powder. As well as the wig, the clerk had also forsaken his ink guards. The cuffs of his shirt were edged with dark, uneven stains.
Should have waited for me, Ezra, Hawkwood continued cheerfully. Its a nice day. We could have strolled back together.
The clerk muttered under his breath.
Hawkwood cupped an ear. Sorry, Ezra; didnt catch that. Did you say something?
Twigg sniffed. Only that some of us have work to do. Again, the clerk did not bother to look up, but added dolefully, He said you were to go straight in.
Hawkwood grinned and crossed the room. He took off his riding coat, draped it over a chair back and tapped on the door. Behind him, Twigg gave the coat a pained look and shook his head in resignation.
Enter. The order came crisply from within.
Hawkwood pushed the door open.
Chief Magistrate James Read looked up from his desk.
Ah, there you are. Read put down his pen. His eyes moved towards the longcase clock that stood like a sentinel in the corner of the dark-panelled room. If he was irritated by the time it had taken Hawkwood to respond to the summons, he chose not to show it, but got up from his desk and made his way to the fireplace where bright flames danced behind a large mesh guard. Standing with his back to the hearth, he raised his coat-tails. Dressed in coordinating shades of grey, he was a slim, fastidious-looking man, with silver hair combed neatly back from a strong, aquiline face.
Hawkwood stepped into the room and closed the door. And immediately found himself perused.
So, Hawkwood, how are you? I keep meaning to enquire. On the mend after the Morgan affair?
Every breath is a victory, sir, Hawkwood said.
Read accepted Hawkwoods response with a flinty stare. Wounds no longer troubling you?
Im well, sir, thank you. Hawkwood tried to keep the wariness from his voice. The Chief Magistrate wasnt usually this concerned for his health; at least not to his face.
Splendid. Plenty of exercise, I trust? My physician tells me that a diet of regular physical activity can be a great aid to recovery, providing one doesnt indulge in over exertion, of course.
The Chief Magistrate fixed Hawkwood with another penetrating look. If hed been wearing spectacles like his clerk, he would have been regarding Hawkwood over the rims, as if daring him to contradict.
An excellent idea, sir. Ill bear that in mind the next time Im stabbed or shot.
The corner of Reads mouth lifted. Lowering his coat-tails, the Chief Magistrate gazed towards the window to where the sounds of the city rose stridently from the street below, as a bewildering variety of vendors and costermongers attempted, without much success, to drown out the incessant cacophony of cart wheels and clattering hooves.
Hawkwood waited expectantly.
James Read turned back. Ive a job for you. The Chief Magistrate paused and then said, Im placing you on secondment.
Not something Hawkwood was expecting. The word carried a distinct sense of foreboding, though he wasnt sure why.
Secondment? He tried to keep his voice calm. With whom?
Superintendent Brooke.
Hawkwood wondered if the name was supposed to mean something. It didnt.
Never heard of him. Who is he?
Reads eyebrows rose momentarily at the less than reverential tone in Hawkwoods voice and then he sighed.
Id be surprised if you had heard of him, frankly. Superintendent Brooke prefers to keep to the how shall I put it? less well-lit side of the street. In fact, I doubt theres a dozen people who have heard of him. Even within his own department, Read added cryptically.
Which sounds even more bloody ominous, Hawkwood thought.
Warmed through, Read stepped away from the hearth and walked to the window. The superintendents responsibilities fall within the remit of the Home Office.
Was that supposed to mean something? Hawkwood wondered.
So, what are my duties to be . . . sir?
Read hesitated, looked thoughtful, and then said, Its best if I leave it to Superintendent Brooke to brief you. The magistrate glanced towards the clock dial. Talking of whom; you are to present yourself without delay. Number 20 Crown Street.
Read stepped across to his desk and retook his seat. Calebs waiting downstairs. He has instruction to convey you to the address. Read picked up his pen and reached for some papers. That is all. You may relay my respects to Superintendent Brooke.