The sun was dying but clung to the sky as if unwilling to be laid to rest. Golden fingers reached out across the heath to gild the outlines of the gorse and the trees, stretching their shadows across grassland rippling under the breath of a soft breeze that came up from the river beyond Greenwich. The air here was sweet, even if the gentleman swinging gently behind Jonas Flynt was not. He had been a highwayman by the name of Bartram Allan, but though Flynt knew of him they had never met and he was unsure if being in close proximity to a lifeless body hanging in chains could be termed a formal introduction. A life on the road required many skills: a steady hand with a horse and pistol; the wisdom to know which coaches to stop and which to let pass; a keen focus on the task at hand, for a moment’s thoughtlessness could provide someone with the opportunity to let off a shot. Flynt was most skilled indeed in the art of the high toby, and his mount, Horse not only in species but in name, had served him well on those dark nights. However, the life also called for a plentiful supply of luck and Bartram’s ran out with a short drop into eternity. Flynt shivered against the warmth of the summer’s eve. He was uncomfortable being this close to the rotting remains of the finishing of the law. That he had left his own days, or rather nights, of land piracy behind mattered nought, for there was no limitation on statute regarding past crimes and the man he was here to meet knew that all too well.
‘Does being back on the heath make you long for your old ways, Serjeant?’
Flynt was startled but he covered it by quieting Horse, who had reared at the unexpected sound of Colonel Nathaniel Charters’ voice. That the man could move with considerable stealth he was already well aware, that he could make a steed tread on the baked earth as though its hooves were muffled was nothing short of miraculous, but he didn’t wish his former commanding officer to know that he had bested him in any way.
Flynt recovered quickly. ‘I have given up such pursuits, Colonel.’
Charters eased alongside him and gave the corpse above them a study. ‘Very wise, for in the end there be only two ends for such gentlemen of the road, either thus…’ He jerked a thumb to the gibbet, ‘…or accosting a fellow who would rather part with a barrel-load of lead shot than his purse.’
As ever, Flynt understood that this meeting place had been chosen to remind him that Colonel Charters held his life in his hands.
‘It is a most bleak location,’ Charters observed as he gazed around. ‘I can see why you and your fellow brigands would choose it for your work, although it be exceeding pleasant on a summer’s eve, is it not?’
Flynt did not comment.
‘It has seen much history, did you know that, Serjeant? Or were your sojourns here merely professional in nature?’
Flynt was aware of Blackheath’s place in history, but he still made no effort to reply.
‘They say it takes its name from being a plague pit for victims of the Black Death, but I’m unsure if that be true. The old Roman road of Watling Street ran through here and even now we may walk in the steps of kings and rebels. The second Richard, the eighth Henry, the second Charles upon his restoration all passed through. Those mutinous rascals Wat Tyler and Jack Cade pitched their tents on this very earth before losing their heads for rising against their respective betters. Death to all traitors, eh, Serjeant?’
Flynt had heard enough. ‘You did not call me to this place for a lesson in history. You have a task for me, I take it.’
Charters laughed. ‘So direct, Serjeant. Have we lost the art of conversation between us? Are we not old comrades? Perhaps even friends?’
‘Friends?’ Flynt queried. ‘That is an odd view of our relationship, wouldn’t you say, Colonel?’
Charters’ lips twitched and his eyes sparkled with humour, but he said nothing.
‘There is a term used in the borderlands of the north,’ Flynt continued. ‘The robber barons of Scotland and England demand tribute from those weaker than they as payment against the thieving of cattle and such. They call it blackmail, and that is the basis of our relationship. You have a charge of armed robbery and assault that you dangle above my head like a noose. You use it to force me to do your bidding and it is immaterial that I am innocent.’
‘You are far from innocent, my dear Serjeant Flynt – or should I call you Captain, as we are currently upon the very ground that brought you such a field promotion, albeit honorary?’
Flynt had been termed Captain by denizens of the flash life – the rogues, the vagabonds, the procurers, the doxies, the crimpers, coiners, dippers and sharpers. It was a measure of respect, even though many highwaymen were as mean and vicious as the basest of footpads.
‘I require no rank, as you well know, though you insist on applying them,’ he said. ‘I have done many things that bear little scrutiny, much of them at your bidding, but I did not rob that coach nor less beat the gentleman.’
‘I have witnesses who will identify you. And you are well paid for the tasks you perform for your country.’
Flynt exhaled. They had been over this many times and it never changed. The simple truth was that Charters could have him jailed and executed and there was nothing Flynt could do about it. It was also true that he was paid well and that allowed him to walk the path of an honest man, albeit at an oblique angle.
‘To the point, Colonel, if you please.’
Charters heeled his horse into motion along the track and Flynt followed, feeling no need to scan the vicinity for sign of the watchful, armed men who always trailed in the colonel’s wake. Few people knew that Charters was more than he seemed. Publicly, he was a retired army officer, a hero of Flanders where he left behind an arm, but privately he commanded a small army of agents known as the Company of Rogues, drawn from the streets and the underworld to be used either as informants or as agents in defence of king and country. Flynt often considered how many of those who formed the Company, though he knew not who they were, were also coerced into the work. As spymaster Charters had enemies, and so those watchful, if unseen, armed men would be close enough to act if Flynt took it into his head to move against their employer. He had no intention of doing any such thing. He did not save the man from the blood and mud of battle in order to later kill him.
‘It is such an evening that makes one feel grateful to be alive, does it not, Serjeant?’ Charters said after breathing in a deep lungful of air. Flynt waited, well acquainted with the colonel’s manner. He liked to skirt around each new mission, as if playing with it in his mind. ‘How fare your wounds?’
Mention of them made the scars tingle. A bullet wound and various knife slashes, all received during an encounter on the frozen Thames just a few months before. ‘I am fully healed, thank you.’
‘God was watching over you that night, was He not? Sinner you are, but you are still one of His children.’
Flynt did not reply. It was not a deity who had dragged him from the frozen water but a man who would cheerfully kill him when the time came. That Flynt now owed that man a debt sat uneasily upon him. As for mention of God, Charters knew he followed no faith and was goading him in the hope of a reaction, for provoking Flynt into a debate, whether it be about politics, the monarchy or the existence of God, was great sport. Flynt resolutely refused to provide him with such entertainment.
‘I permitted you these many months to heal, I hope you realise that,’ Charters said eventually. ‘But I am gratified to know that you are back to your fighting strength, as it were, for – as you have rightly surmised – I have work for you.’
At last they reached the point of the meeting, Flynt thought, but maintained his silence. They allowed their steeds to amble for a few moments.
‘Do you not wish to know what that work is, Serjeant?’
‘I have learned that you will tell me in your own good time, Colonel. Prompting you would be like trying to extinguish the Great Fire by blowing upon it. In the end a waste of breath and all I’d succeed in doing is fanning the flames.’
Charters’ lips twitched in amusement. ‘Your travails have not wounded your tongue, Serjeant. The tender ministrations of Miss St Clair have sharpened your wit.’
‘Belle is a fine woman.’
‘So I understand, although I have not had the pleasure myself.’
Once again, Charters was telling Flynt that even though there had been no contact for some time, he had kept a close watch on him. Belle St Clair had indeed spent a great deal of time with him as he healed, or at least as much as her owner Mother Grady would allow.
‘The work, Colonel,’ Flynt nudged, having no further desire to discuss his wounds or the nature of his relationship with Belle, which was complex to say the least.
‘Ah, yes, the work. To business, quite right, Serjeant. The affairs of this great nation wait for no man, am I right? And this particular affair has waited far too long, I fear.’
‘What do you wish me to do? Rob someone, cheat someone, kill someone?’
Flynt had done all three in Charters’ service.
‘Find someone,’ Charters replied.
‘Who?’
‘A Mr Christopher Templeton.’
‘And what interest do you have in this Mr Christopher Templeton?’
‘A great deal of interest, Serjeant, a very great deal.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He is a lawyer.’
‘And for whom does he practise?’
‘He has one client and one client only.’ Charters let that rest for a moment, as if waiting for Flynt to ask the name of the client. When the query was not forthcoming, he smiled. ‘Really, Flynt, this lack of curiosity of yours does cause me to question whether you have the mettle to be an investigator.’
‘You are free at any time to dispense with my services, Colonel.’
Charters’ smile thinned. ‘Perhaps not a day for which you should wish, my friend.’
Flynt sighed, weary of the threat being hung like a Damoclean blade.
‘As to Templeton’s client,’ Charters said, ‘I should think you would be very interested, for he worked for the Fellowship.’
Flynt was interested enough to bring Horse to a halt. ‘Templeton is Jacobite?’
Charters allowed his mount to walk on a few paces before he wheeled it round. ‘No, he is not, and neither is the Fellowship. I have learned much since you first encountered them, even though that encounter was at a distance, through Lord James Moncrieff, who, as you recall, went to his reward at Sheriffmuir.’
Flynt did recall, for he was the one who had sent the Scottish nobleman to hell on a ridge above the Scottish battlefield. Good and decent men had died that day, but Lord Moncrieff was not of their number. ‘He denied being part of the Fellowship.’
Charters wiggled his head in a seesaw manner. ‘Perhaps he was, perhaps he wasn’t, but thanks to your pistol ball we shall never know. However, I have reason to suspect that his son is entrenched most deeply with the organisation, the current Lord James Moncrieff – dear God, I do wish these people would stop naming their offspring after themselves, it can become so very confusing.’
‘Coming from Nathaniel Charters, the third of his name, that seems ironic, don’t you think?’
Humour shone in the colonel’s eyes. ‘Touché, Flynt. There’s that tongue of yours again. I do believe you are indeed ready to get back to work.’
‘So if the Fellowship is not Jacobite, what is it?’
‘Their true purpose remains unclear, but what I know is that they are a decidedly shadowy group of men who wish to garner power and riches by any means necessary. If that entails destabilising a country by supporting sedition, then so be it. If it means murder, assassination, manipulation of events, providing financial support and patronage to politicians, then they will do it. I do believe there may also be criminality involved. Christopher Templeton knows many of their secrets and I would have them.’
Flynt considered pointing out that the Company of Rogues was guilty of many of the acts Charters had outlined but held his tongue. Instead he said, ‘I take it you have lost this lawyer.’
Charters affected a crestfallen expression. ‘Alas, it be true. I was having him watched but not everyone in the Company is as capable as you. He has vanished from his lodgings to a destination unknown.’
‘What makes you believe he wishes to talk to you about the Fellowship?’
‘He communicated with me some months back, anonymously, and hinted that he wished to cleanse his conscience. However, he has been slow in making such reparations, although he made contact three times, each time telling me little but enough to maintain my interest.’
‘How was the contact made?’
‘By letter, unsigned and hand-delivered to my home, which suggests some level of knowledge, don’t you think? As you are aware, the existence of the Company is known only to very few, and my role in it to even fewer. For this lawyer to have such intelligence of my true function, not to mention where I live, was at once interesting and alarming.’
‘If contact was made anonymously, how did you discover his identity?’
‘I have means of investigation at my disposal other than your good self, Serjeant. My work does not rely solely on your particular abilities.’
‘And yet, you lost him.’
An explosive laugh burst from Charters’ lips. ‘Quite so. I had a man set up surveillance over five nights, watching for another hand-delivered note. It duly came and the deliverer was followed, intercepted and the name of the person who had employed him gleaned. Templeton had been canny enough to use a further two intermediaries and the chain was followed until his identity was revealed. Our quarry remains unaware that I know of his identity, of that I am sure.’
‘Then why would he vanish?’
‘That’s what I wish you to discover. And also to trace him, then use your considerable powers of persuasion to bring him to my embrace.’ Charters reached into the cuff of his empty sleeve to produce a slip of paper, which he held out towards Flynt. ‘You’ll find his last known address there. I suggest that is where you begin.’
Flynt took the paper and glanced at the address. Templeton lived in Crane Court, off Fleet Street. Flynt folded the paper and would have placed it in his pocket, but Charters held out his hand for its return. He was a very careful man. Flynt passed it back and it vanished into the man’s sleeve once more. He had no doubt it would later be burned.
‘Why not have this other agent of yours continue?’
‘Because I wish you to do it. You have encountered the Fellowship, at arm’s length to be sure, and given Lord Moncrieff’s involvement you have a personal stake in the game, thanks to your despatch of Moncrieff the elder.’
Lord James Moncrieff, the younger. Flynt’s personal stake, as Charters put it, ran far deeper than killing the man’s father. ‘You are certain Moncrieff is of the Fellowship?’
‘I am certain of nothing, but I harbour deep and abiding suspicions. More importantly, however, you possess a particular brand of ferocity that it may be necessary to employ before this game has run its course.’ Charters pulled on the reins to guide his horse along the track again, then said over his shoulder, ‘Welcome back, Serjeant. You have been missed…’