Dismissed, Hawkwood headed for the door. He was on the threshold and about to close it behind him when he thought he heard Reads voice. He paused and looked round. Sir?
The Chief Magistrate, he saw, had his head down and was engrossed in a document. There was no outward sign that hed spoken. He did not look up.
Must have been my imagination, Hawkwood thought, though he could have sworn hed heard the Chief Magistrate whisper the words, Bon chance.
As he let himself out, he wondered why he found that idea disquieting.
Chapter 3
Whitehall was as busy as Smithfield on market day.
But then Whitehall was always busy. Every time hed travelled down it, whether by carriage or on foot, Hawkwood had never known an occasion when it wasnt. Though that was to be expected, he supposed, given the nature of the business conducted in the grand buildings sited along its broad expanse. That and the fact that the nation was at war; for a nation at war was always on the move. The decisions reached in the offices of state concealed behind the impressive façades affected the lives of every man, woman and child in the land. As a soldier in the service of the king, Hawkwood had been subject to the whims and vain posturings of statesmen more than most. As a police officer, too. It was a depressing fact that there didnt seem to be any escape from officialdom, no matter who, where, or what you were. And this place was at the centre of it all; the heartbeat.
The road was thronged with carriages; most of them in motion, though a good few were parked, either awaiting the return of their passengers or else competing for fares. Pedestrians hugged the verges in a vain bid to avoid the mud, dust and dung that coated the road. Those who were bold enough to attempt a crossing did so at their peril for the oncoming traffic invariably showed no inclination to cede its right of way.
Carriages werent the only means of transport in view. There were plenty of people on horseback, too, a great many of them in uniform, including a phalanx of cavalry heading for the exercise ground. The troopers drew applause as they trotted past.
In the wide forecourt of the Admiralty building, anxious blue-coated naval officers scurried around the high porticoed entrance like ants. It was the same with the Horse Guards. The only difference lay in the cut and the colour of the uniforms. From this imposing building had been issued the orders dispatching Hawkwood and thousands like him to Spain, Portugal and South America and a score of other outposts scattered across the furthest reaches of the globe. He gazed up past the sentry boxes and wondered what new strategies were being hatched on the other side of the high windows.
The cab skirted the front of the Treasury and the defile that was the entrance to Downing Street. Crown Street lay a few yards further on, between Fludyer Street and Charles Street, tucked away from the noise and bustle of the main avenues. Here, the low-hanging sun was partially obscured by inconvenient rooftops, so corners of the narrow street still lay in chilly shadow, giving it a disquieting air of gloom. There were a few strollers about, but Calebs was the only carriage. The horses hooves echoed on the road like stones in a hollow log.
The cab halted. Hawkwood alighted and told Caleb there was no need to wait. Caleb touched two fingers to his cap and drove off.
From the outside, Number 20 looked to be as unremarkable as its neighbours, save for the small, unobtrusive brass plate that was positioned to the right of the door. On it were inscribed the words: alien office.
Hawkwood stared down at the plate.
So that was why Magistrate Read had been so evasive.
A middle-aged, lank-haired clerk with pockmarked skin and a lugubrious cast to his features answered Hawkwoods summons on the bell and, after fixing him with a baleful stare and taking his name, instructed him to wait. When the clerk returned he was accompanied by a formally dressed and much younger man, who looked Hawkwood up and down with ill-disguised condescension. Unlike his colleague, his hair looked freshly barbered. Hawkwoods nostrils detected the faint whiff of pomade.
Officer Hawkwood? My name is Flint. This way, if you please. He crooked a finger. Hawkwood resisted the urge to snap it off.
Moving primly, Flint led the way upstairs. Apart from the sound of their footsteps, the building seemed eerily quiet. If it hadnt been for the nameless functionary on the ground floor, they might well have been the only two in the place. Leading Hawkwood to a door at the top of the stairs, Flint knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside.
Hawkwood found himself in a spacious, high-ceilinged room that resembled a library more than it did an office. Books were displayed on every wall. The areas of panelling that did not contain bookshelves supported an impressive gallery of maps; the majority of which appeared to cover Europe France and the Peninsula mostly though India and Egypt, Hawkwood noticed, were also represented. The autumn sunlight was admitted into the room through a pair of large windows, in front of which sat a hefty mahogany desk, containing more books and piles of documents secured in red and black ribbons. Leaning back against the desk, arms folded in repose, was a tall, sombre-looking man dressed in black.
Officer Hawkwood? The man straightened, unfolded his arms but did not extend his hand. Henry Brooke. Welcome to the Alien Office. He nodded towards Flint, hovering by the door. Thank you, Stormont. You may leave us. Ill ring if I have need of you. Oh, and perhaps youd be kind enough to take Officer Hawkwoods coat for him, theres a good fellow.
Hawkwood removed his coat and handed it over. Flint looked none too happy at being relegated to footman. He didnt quite turn his nose up, but it was a close-run thing. He left the room with the coat held at arms length and the door closed softly behind him.
Brooke continued to regard the door, as though expecting it to spring back open. Eventually satisfied that wasnt about to happen, he pushed himself away from the desk and regarded Hawkwood with calm appraisal.
Youve come direct from Magistrate Read? How is he? In sound health, I trust?
He asked me to convey his compliments, Hawkwood said.
How kind of him. Unhurriedly, Brooke stalked around the desk and took his seat. The superintendents jacket and breeches were beautifully tailored. Hawkwood could see stripes of very fine gold thread running through them.
Hawkwood glanced towards the fireplace. The hearth was empty and despite the azure sky visible through the windows, the room was by no means warm. James Reads office was a positive furnace in comparison. Perhaps Brooke had spent all his money on his wardrobe and had nothing left over for kindling. Hawkwood wondered if surrendering his coat had been a wise decision.
So, Officer Hawkwood, Brooke said, somewhat regally. What has Magistrate Read told you? Anything?
Hawkwood shook his head. He told me hed leave that to you, sir.
There was no invitation to sit down, though there were two empty chairs in the room. Hawkwood had no doubt it was a deliberate ploy rather than an oversight. By keeping him standing, Brooke was effortlessly and effectively emphasizing his authority.
Brooke smiled indulgently. Did he now? How convenient. Leaning forward, he stared down at a sheaf of papers on his desk. His eyes roved across the page. You were a soldier. The 95th Regiment of Foot, I see.
Brooke smiled indulgently. Did he now? How convenient. Leaning forward, he stared down at a sheaf of papers on his desk. His eyes roved across the page. You were a soldier. The 95th Regiment of Foot, I see.
Brooke looked up. The expression on his face was reassuringly benign. Interpreting the remark as a comment rather than a question, Hawkwood kept quiet. He assumed Brooke would continue, which he did.
A fine regiment. Brooke did not expand upon the statement but lowered his eyes and continued to read. Without looking up, he said, From my conversations with him, I know that Magistrate Read holds you in extremely high regard. You should be flattered. Hes not one to award praise lightly. There was a pause. Though he also advises me you have what he calls an ambivalent attitude towards authority. Casually, Brooke lifted his gaze. I imagine thats a polite way of saying youve a tendency to disregard it. Id also hazard a guess it did not serve you well in your army career; would I be right in that?
Hawkwood considered his response and decided it would probably be more prudent if he remained silent, though it didnt prevent him wondering what was coming next.
I suspect that rather answers my question, the man at the desk said, looking and sounding mildly amused. Though the Rifle Corps, from all I hear, does allow its men a degree more latitude than most. The smile evaporated. Tell me about Talavera and Major Delancey.
Hawkwood felt his stomach muscles contract. What the hell was this?
Brooke moved the document aside as though it was no longer of consequence. He leant forward, steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the desk. The dark gaze was unwavering. You may speak freely.
It struck Hawkwood that Brooke had exceptionally long fingers. It was impossible not to compare them with Chens stubby digits. The silence stretched, while Brooke, seemingly content to prolong the moment, remained resolutely mute. He looked, Hawkwood thought, not unlike a praying mantis about to pounce upon a moth.
Major Delancey was a Guards officer, Hawkwood said, with a misguided opinion of his own abilities. He wanted to make a name for himself. He gave a bad order and a lot of good men died because of it. I told him it would have been no great loss if hed been counted among them. He took exception and called me out. That was his second mistake. He stared down at the man behind the desk. But you already knew that, sir. Didnt you?
The seated man raised his eyebrows. You dont think a mans entitled to make a mistake?
Hawkwood shook his head. Not at all. The trouble with Delancey was that he abused the privilege. Most men have the capacity for regret. They learn from the errors theyve committed. Delancey didnt have the wits for that.
Brookes face hardened. Its war. Men die. Isnt that the way of it?
Yes, it is, Hawkwood said. But they shouldnt have to die because some tomfool officer is hell-bent on glory.
There was silence, then Brooke said sternly, You were an officer. A captain, no less. How many men died under your command?
Too damned many, Hawkwood responded coldly. But unlike Delancey, I valued the lives of my men, I could name every bloody one of them. Would you care to tell me why Im here . . . sir.
A flash of irritation showed on the superintendents face but it disappeared in the blink of an eye, to be replaced by a thin smile. He lowered his hands on to the desk. Well, Magistrate Read warned me you were direct; and I must say you dont disappoint. As for the reason youre here; well come to that shortly. The Delancey affair cost you, though, didnt it? You lost your commission.
There didnt seem much point in either denying the fact or elaborating upon it.
Yes.
You were cashiered. Brooke pulled his notes towards him and glanced down at them. Which should have seen you reduced to the ranks or sent home. Yet, instead, you took to the mountains and joined the guerrilleros. Most intriguing. Of your own volition, or was it really with the blessing of your commander?
Brooke was undoubtedly referring to Wellington. Hawkwood suspected that, once again, the superintendent already knew the answer to his question. Brooke clearly had his military record to hand and seemed keen on letting him know it. Hawkwood decided there and then not to grant the man any further concessions. If Brooke wanted additional information hed have to bloody well work for it.
Your time in the Peninsula served you well, Brooke went on. You speak Spanish, yes?
He appeared undeterred by Hawkwoods reluctance to respond to the previous enquiry.
This time, Hawkwood nodded. Brooke seemed intent on changing course every five minutes. Sooner rather than later, Hawkwood supposed, the superintendent would get to the point.
In fact, Brooke continued, youve quite a flair for languages. Youre fluent in French, as well, I hear?
Ive been fighting the bastards for twenty years. There was a general once; he said you should know your enemy. Hawkwood shrugged. Learning the language seemed as good a place to start as any.
Brookes eyebrows lifted. He looked genuinely startled by Hawkwoods reply. Youre a student of Sun Tzu?
Sun what? Hawkwood said. He had no idea what Brooke was talking about.
Brooke sat back in his chair. Not what; its a name. Sun Tzu T, Z, U. Hes your general. He was Chinese. He lived over two thousand years ago. He wrote a book on military strategy known as The Art of War. Its been used by military leaders down through the ages. He wrote: If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. They do say Bonapartes a devotee, Brooke added, with what might have been a hint of admiration. Then, intrigued by the expression on Hawkwoods face, his brow furrowed. What is it?
Hawkwood was thinking of Chen, recalling how the Chinaman had scrutinized Bruiser Billy Boyd disporting himself with his previous opponents, then swiftly defeated him. Hawkwood wondered if Chen had heard of this Sun Tzu. Hed have to ask him. He had the strong feeling that the answer would be in the affirmative. He shook his head. I wasnt aware of his name.
Then it appears weve both learnt something today, Brooke said serenely. He studied his notes. I see you fought alongside Colquhoun Grant.
Another name; this one known, however. Although it was from the more recent past, it was not one that Hawkwood had been expecting to hear.
Not exactly.
What? Something approaching alarm showed in the super-intendents eyes. Are you saying Ive been misinformed?
I was in the mountains when Captain Grant joined Wellingtons staff. I reported to him when I delivered information back to the generals headquarters. It was after I left Spain that the captain became Lord Wellingtons chief exploring officer. He inherited my informers and he was able to make use of the guerrilleros Id been working with.
Ah, in other words, he was your successor, Brooke said, sounding relieved.
Hawkwood nodded. That would be a more accurate description, yes.
Well, you clearly made a favourable impression, whichever way it was. He provided the references that enabled you to join Bow Street, no? Brooke threw Hawkwood another questioning stare.