After all, it wasn’t as if a missing tunic was the end of the world. The quartermaster would undoubtedly moan about the difficulty of finding a replacement, but that was the way of quartermasters. The loss would be rectified and the militia would survive.

Like me, Curtiss reflected thankfully as he continued on his way.

Ten yards further on, though, it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing his hat.

The thieving bastard had stolen that, too.

Hawkwood cursed under his breath. The captain’s uniform chafed like the devil. It didn’t help that the tunic was tighter than he’d expected around the chest and underneath the arms, and that the sleeves were on the short side. The hat fitted well enough, though, for which Hawkwood was grateful. Since leaving the army he’d abandoned headwear, unless it was part of some disguise he’d had to adopt in the course of his duties as a peace officer. Thus even though the damned thing was relatively secure on its perch it still felt decidedly unnatural.

He had, however, drawn the line at purloining the captain’s breeches. He’d no intention of going back on the self-imposed rule that had stood him in good stead through the years: never wear another man’s trousers.

The tunic had been a different proposition. Hawkwood knew he needed it to give him authority. So while the thing might be bloody uncomfortable, it was ideal for his purposes. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to bear the discomfort for too long.

He’d been waiting in the shadows opposite the gaming club entrance for almost an hour when he spotted a suitable candidate: someone of his own height and build, in officer’s garb.

He hadn’t expected it to go so well. There had been a moment when his intended victim had turned round, but Hawkwood had planned for that eventuality by collecting an empty bottle from the window sill of a nearby tavern to use as a prop. Pretending to be tipsy had given him something to do with his hands, and as most law-abiding citizens were repelled by drunkards the ruse had proved a sound one. The final approach had been tricky, but matching his own footsteps with those of his target had enabled him to get up close. Before his victim had time to react, Hawkwood had launched a blow to the carotid that cut off the blood supply as effectively as a tourniquet.