He glanced down at his boots. Ned, the hotel porter, had
cleaned and polished them only that morning, but they were already covered in
the dust and grime of the city’s streets. Picking his way through the horse
droppings, he reached the far pavement and disappeared down the narrow alley
just as the wall-mounted streetlamp flickered and died. The dying embers of one
cheroot lit the next. A rat scampered away into the shadows as he strode on,
the package heavy in the pocket of his thick overcoat.
He’d been in Bristol for a month, had got to like the
waterfront, the steep hills and the Downs, but never forgotten for a moment
that he had a job to do.
The road beyond the alley was lined with the grand villas
of men with money, carriages lined up on the cobbles awaiting instruction. A
lighted match illuminated the dial of his pocket watch and he quickened his
pace towards the bridge. The moon emerged suddenly from behind dark clouds, its
pale light picking out the massive iron hawsers.
The conversation with Tolan had delayed him. It hadn’t
gone well and he knew it would be difficult to keep the deal on track. But, despite
the delay he’d managed to reach the bridge at the appointed time. Walking under
the Clifton tower, he headed towards the southern side of the bridge, picking
out, far below, the boat moored upstream. A man on horseback rode by at a brisk
trot. Leaning against the railings, Hawksby drew on his cheroot and kept his
eyes on the boat as he waited for the sound of hooves to fade away. The boatman
had spotted him. Oars dipped into the murky waters, the boat slid away from the
cover of the over-hanging riverside willows and moved slowly towards the bridge.
Hawksby reached into his pocket, removed the
oilskin-wrapped package and dropped it over the side. Oars temporarily shipped,
the boatman netted his catch, before pulling away strongly downstream.
A train whistled in the distance and dark clouds moved to
obscure the moon once again. Perfect timing he thought as he walked under the
second tower, away from the city, towards Leigh Woods. He imagined the ship
waiting at the river mouth and the exchange between the boatman and the ship’s
captain.
+ +
+
In the Old Porter House, the air was thick with tobacco
smoke, the language unrestrained and the flagged floor sticky with spilled
drink. A mangy dog moved under the tables, sniffed out stray food and tried to
avoid the swinging boots of annoyed drinkers. Hawksby alternated between his beer
glass and his pipe. The previous day, the boatman had delivered the payment
from the ship’s captain and the money was safely inside the buttoned inner pocket
of his jacket. As a precaution, his right hand grasped the sheathed blade
concealed in an outer pocket. The public house wasn’t one he’d frequented
before and he ignored the suspicious glances of the men lining the bar. After
all, he wasn’t a man to pick a fight with.
An hour passed without any sign of Tolan. There was no
point in waiting any longer and the throng at the bar parted as he pushed his
way through to the door. Out in Narrow Wine Street, he relaxed his grip on the
knife and made his way to Tolan’s office. Perhaps there’d been a
misunderstanding or, more likely, the lawyer had been working on a less risky
deal for another client. The snow that had threatened all day finally began to
fall. A drunk veered towards him, took one look at his face and lurched away.
The office was on the first floor. The clerk claimed that his master was away
on business, but Hawksby knew from his tone that he was lying and continued
walking towards the inner sanctum. Tolan, who must have heard his voice, was
suddenly there in the doorway, smiling broadly, holding out a hand in greeting.
Inside the office, despite the heat from the blazing
fire, Hawskby kept his coat on. The offer of a brandy was refused. He was
annoyed and wanted to get the inevitable confrontation over and done with, but Tolan
was at his ingratiating worst, apologising for the missed appointment and
imploring his client to take a drink. Hawksby stood his ground and gradually
the lawyer reverted to type.
The proposed deal would not be legal and therefore,
regrettably, he’d be unable to act in his usual capacity. Hawksby knew what
this really meant – a prolonged haggling over fees. Whatever principles Tolan
might have had when he’d first started out as a lawyer, they’d been replaced by
cold financial calculations.
It took a while but agreement was eventually reached to Hawksby’s
satisfaction.
Traffic was dense through the snowy centre of the city, but
the driver of the hansom cab deftly manoeuvred the small vehicle around the bigger,
slower carriages. It was dusk by the
time they reached the hotel in Hotwells. As he paid the fare, Hawksby noticed
the man leaning against the hotel’s stone gate post. Although his hat was
pulled down low and a muffler obscured the lower part of his face, Hawksby
recognised him instantly.
It was time to change hotels again.
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