Hawksby – Part 1: by Dave Rigby

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.