Ratcatcher

by James McGee

  Following his visit to the workshop, the concerned manservant had retraced his steps, hoping his master had returned home in his absence. Finding that was not the case, Hobb had swiftly made his way to Bow Street where he had voiced his fears to Officer Warlock. The Runner had accompanied the manservant back to the Strand. By this time, two hours had passed since the Hobbs had felt the first flutters of apprehension and the household, understandably, was in some disarray.

  Hawkwood eyed the servants speculatively. “And when Officer Warlock left you, did he reveal his intentions?”

  “He told us he would be making his own enquiries at the workshop.”

  “But it was late. The place would have been closed by then, would it not?”

  “I assumed it was his intention to go there the next morning.”

  “So that was the last you saw of him?”

  The manservant nodded.

  “Didn’t you think it curious that you hadn’t heard from Officer Warlock since then?”

  The manservant looked embarrassed. “Well, to tell you the truth, Mr Hawkwood, we did wonder.”

  “But you didn’t do anything?”

  “We didn’t think it was our place.”

  Hawkwood swore inwardly. But their reservations, he knew, were understandable. As servants, it was not the Hobbs’ responsibility to question police procedure. It was their function to go about their duties, unburdened by conscience or responsibility. Convention dictated that domestic staff were a breed that was seen, not heard.

  Hawkwood gnawed his inner lip. The trail was growing colder by the minute. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost half past four. He remembered he still had to meet Lomax at the Four Swans.

  Clerkenwell and Red Lion Street, however, were not far. It was just possible that he could kill two birds with one stone.

  Hawkwood wondered how old Isadore Knibbs was. The old man had a face like parchment and yet, despite his age, his eyes were as bright as a jackdaw’s. He was also very small. His hands were like the hands of a child, tiny and delicately formed. Only the web of veins visible under the semi-translucent skin betrayed their age. They also appeared remarkably supple for a person of his advancing years. Apart from failing eyesight, arthritis for a clockmaker, Hawkwood mused, must be the worst kind of infirmity.

  Josiah Woodburn employed five journeymen, Isadore Knibbs being the most senior. He also employed two apprentices, the maximum allowed under the articles of the Clockmaker’s Company. There were ways to bend the rules, Mr Knibbs whispered, as he led Hawkwood through the workshop, a five-roomed gallery overlooking a courtyard at the corner of Red Lion Street and George Court, but Josiah Woodburn, a master clockmaker of impeccable repute, was, in that regard, totally beyond reproach.

  “Forty years I’ve worked for Master Woodburn,” the journeyman volunteered proudly, “and a finer man I’ve yet to meet. Why, he even lets me sign my own work, and there’s not many would allow that.”

  A rare honour indeed. Journeymen were generally not permitted to trade in their own right. Nor were they allowed to put their signatures on any kind of work, clocks or otherwise, even if their employer had never laid a hand on the finished instrument. Everything produced in a workshop was the property of the master. Which indicated Josiah Woodburn as an exceptional employer, albeit an absent one; a state of affairs for which Mr Knibbs could offer no rational explanation. The journeyman was as much in the dark as the Hobbs, and just as concerned. He confirmed that Master Woodburn had left the workshop at the usual time. No one had seen him since. But Mr Knibbs was perfectly willing for Hawkwood to look around the premises and talk to the other workers.

  The premises were divided into separate workshops according to task, Mr Knibbs explained as he led Hawkwood through the cluttered carpentry shop. He gestured towards a row of hollow clock cases which lay against one wall like a line of upended coffins. Only the very best wood was used: pine and Honduran mahogany for the casing, oak for doors and bases, English walnut for the veneer. A solitary worker was bent over a saw-horse, ankle-deep in sawdust and wood shavings. The air was heavy with the smell of glue and freshly planed timber.

  They walked through an archway and entered an adjoining work space containing several benches, each one strewn with clock innards, as if something mechanical had died and been disembowelled. The walls were hung with a bewildering array of charts and drawings showing cogs, wheels, rings, ratchets and pendulums in anatomical detail.

  Not all the working parts were manufactured on the premises, Mr Knibbs confided. Some items were supplied ready-made. Springs, for example, along with spandrels, wheels and clock-plates. Although they possessed the knowledge, Mr Knibbs told Hawkwood, very few clockmakers cast their own brass. It was more convenient to obtain supplies from a brass founder. It was also possible, the journeyman muttered scornfully, to buy in ready-made movements but, thankfully, Master Woodburn belonged to the old school. Generally, he preferred the working parts to be assembled in his own workshops. This made it easier to control the quality of the finished product.

  With the exception of the carpenter, the rest of the workforce laboured in silence, heads bowed, lips pursed in studious concentration. A couple of men looked up briefly at Hawkwood’s entrance before returning to their work. The two apprentices were easy to identify by their age, probably no more than thirteen or fourteen and no more than a few months into their term of indenture.

  In the far corner of the gallery a pimply-faced youth was sweeping metal filings into a wooden tray. The boy was painfully thin, with a tar-coloured bonnet of hair that looked as if it had been attacked by a pair of blunt pruning shears. Hawkwood noticed that the boy dragged his left foot as he walked. The boy looked up, as if conscious that he was being observed. He gazed vacantly in Hawkwood’s direction before bowing his head to continue sweeping. Hawkwood saw that the lower part of the boy’s face was lopsided, as if the jaw had been dislocated and incorrectly reset. Hawkwood presumed this was the nephew, Quigley.

  A thought occurred to Hawkwood as he surveyed the row of hunched shoulders and he asked Isadore Knibbs if anyone had been dismissed recently. There was always the possibility that Woodburn’s disappearance had to do with a disgruntled employee seeking revenge, but Isadore Knibbs discounted that idea without a second’s thought. Every worker, with the exception of the apprentices, had been with the Woodburn firm for at least ten years. Their loyalty was beyond question.

  As was their total inability to account for their employer’s whereabouts.

  Hawkwood asked Mr Knibbs if there had been anything in Master Woodburn’s mood that might have explained his disappearance. The journeyman greeted the question with something approaching horror.

  “Surely you’re not suggesting the master might have…done away with himself?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Knibbs. I’m merely exploring every avenue.”

  The journeyman blinked and Hawkwood sighed. “Mr Knibbs, it’s been my experience that people disappear for a variety of reasons: of their own free will, by misadventure, or foul play. As far as Master Woodburn is concerned, from what I’ve learned from the servants and yourself, I’m inclined to eliminate the first alternative. Nothing I’ve heard so far suggests that your master has disappeared voluntarily. On that basis, I doubt we’ll find him dead by his own hand. No, don’t look so shocked, Mr Knibbs, it’s been known to happen. There’s many a fine gentleman who’s hung himself over a ten-pound debt or a two-guinea whore.”

  Isadore Knibbs looked like a man who’d just swallowed a gourd of sour milk.

  “Which leaves us, Mr Knibbs, with a rather unpleasant prospect.”

  “But someone must have seen something!” the journeyman blurted. “The master can’t have vanished into thin air!”

  Hawkwood was on the verge of telling Isadore Knibbs that people vanished all the time, usually to reappear with a knife in the back in some dark alley or bludgeoned to death, face down in the mud on the river bank,
but a nervous, stuttering voice at his shoulder gave him no chance.

  “I s-seen the master.”

  Hawkwood and Isadore Knibbs turned together. The journeyman gave a sigh of exasperation. “Now then, Jacob, this is nothing that concerns you. Officer Hawkwood and I have business to discuss.” The old man smiled apologetically. “He’s my sister’s boy. He means no harm.” Mr Knibbs clapped his hands. “Come on now, lad, off with you! There’s work to be done.”

  Hawkwood’s guess had been proved correct. Up close, Quigley, with his angular body, unruly hair, misshapen face and deformed foot, resembled a stick insect. His bottom teeth were the reason for his uneven jawline. They protruded from his gums like crooked, yellowing tombstones. It was difficult to gauge Quigley’s age. It could have been anything from fifteen to twenty. Either way, it indicated that Isadore Knibbs must have been at least a generation older than his sister.

  Isadore Knibbs wagged a warning finger. “Come on, Jacob, I won’t tell you again. Back to your sweeping, there’s a good lad.”

  “But I s-seen him, Uncle Izzi. I s-seen Master Woodburn.” The boy was gripping the broom tightly. His nails were bitten down to the quick.

  Isadore Knibbs patted his nephew’s arm. “That’s right, Jacob. You saw the master. But there’s no need to go bothering Mr Hawkwood now. Sorry, Mr Hawkwood, don’t you pay him no heed. He’s a good boy, but he gets confused. My sister had him late, you see,” Knibbs added in an aside, as if the admission was sufficient explanation.

  “I t-told the other gentleman and he gave me a p-penny!” For a moment, the dullness in the boy’s eyes was replaced by a bright gleam of excitement.

  It was Isadore Knibbs’ turn to be confused. He stared at his nephew. “What other gentleman, Jacob?”

  And Hawkwood felt the first faint glimmer of hope.

  “Asked me if I’d seen Master Woodburn, he did. And I said I ’ad and he gave me a penny.”

  Hawkwood and Isadore Knibbs looked on as Jacob Quigley, tongue protruding, reached into his pocket. His hand emerged accompanied by a triumphant grin. He held the coin out. “S-see! I ain’t even spent it yet. I’ve been saving it,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Hawkwood reached into his own pocket. “Tell you what, Jacob. I’ll give you another penny if you can tell me who the gentleman was.”

  The boy eyed the coin with greedy speculation.

  “Who was it, Jacob?” Hawkwood coaxed. “Who gave you the penny?”

  Suddenly, the boy’s expression changed again. His eyes lost their focus. He stared down at the ground, refusing to meet Hawkwood’s gaze.

  Isadore Knibbs spoke softly. “What is it, Jacob. What’s the matter?”

  Quigley shook his head, as if a fierce struggle was going on in his mind. “Ain’t supposed to let no one inside.”

  He meant the workshop, Hawkwood realized. “When was this, Jacob?” he asked.

  The boy shrank back.

  “It’s all right, lad,” Isadore Knibbs said gently. “No one’s going to punish you.”

  Jacob Quigley’s lower lip trembled. “It were dark.”

  “When, Jacob? When was this?” Hawkwood tried to keep the urgency from his voice. The last thing he wanted was the boy clamming up with fear.

  “It were when M-Mr Hobb came to see Uncle Izzi.”

  Hawkwood’s pulse quickened. He looked at Isadore Knibbs. “What time did you leave here that night?”

  Knibbs was staring at his nephew. He dragged his attention back to the question. “Quarter to nine. I remember it exactly because I recall comparing my pocket watch with a clock I had been repairing for a client. An arched dial lantern, it was, due for collection the next morning. I wanted to check it was keeping good time.”

  Hawkwood turned back to the boy. “This gentleman, Jacob. What did he look like?”

  No immediate response. Hawkwood tried again. “Was he a tall man? A short man. Thin or stout?”

  The boy chewed the inside of his cheek. “ ’E wanted me to let ’im in. I t-told ’im I wasn’t to open up for anyone. M-Master Woodburn and Uncle Izzi’s orders. Told ’im to go away, I did. But he said I ’ad to let him in, on account of ’e was a p-police officer.”

  A surge of excitement moved through Hawkwood.

  “He showed me his stick.” The boy’s voice faltered. He stared haplessly at his uncle.

  “Stick?” Isadore Knibbs echoed, obviously bewildered.

  Hawkwood reached into his coat and pulled out his ebony tipstaff. “Is this what he showed you, Jacob?”

  The boy’s eyes widened in recognition. He nodded vigorously.

  So, Warlock hadn’t waited until the next morning. He’d left the Hobbs and gone to the workshops that same night.

  “It’s all right, Jacob,” Isadore Knibbs said. “You did the right thing.”

  Plainly relieved that he wasn’t going to be punished, the boy suddenly seemed eager to talk. “Wanted to know if I’d seen the master. Told me the master hadn’t come home and that everyone was worried ’bout him. I s-said to him that I had seen the master and that they wasn’t to worry none.”

  “Well, of course you saw him, Jacob. He was here with us, all day.”

  “I knows that, Uncle Izzi, but I s-seen him afterwards, as well.”

  Isadore Knibbs sighed. “I don’t think he understands, Mr Hawkwood. It’s as I told you. He gets confused.”

  Hawkwood stared hard at the boy. “Where did you see him, Jacob?” Hawkwood held up a hand to stop Knibbs from interrupting.

  “Riding in a carriage, he was, like a real swell.”

  “A carriage?” Hawkwood frowned. The manservant, Hobb, had told him that the clockmaker did not generally travel by carriage, preferring to walk, unless the weather was bad. The weather on the evening in question had been dry and mild.

  “Was the master on his own, Jacob, or was there someone with him?”

  “Didn’t see no one.”

  Which didn’t necessarily mean the old man had been alone, just that the boy hadn’t seen anybody else. “Tell me about the carriage, Jacob. What was it like?”

  The boy’s eyes lit up. “A fine carriage, it was. Pulled by two big black horses. Beautiful they were, with their coats all s-shiny an’ all.”

  Not a hell of a lot of use, Hawkwood thought despairingly. The description would have fitted most of the chaises in London.

  “There was a dragon, too,” Jacob Quigley added, in a hushed, almost reverential tone.

  Hawkwood thought he must have misheard. “Dragon?” He glanced at Isadore Knibbs, hoping for assistance, but it was clear from the blank response that the old man was equally in the dark.

  “What dragon, Jacob?”

  “It was like I showed the other gentleman.”

  Presumably he meant Warlock. “Showed him what, Jacob?”

  “The dragon.”

  “What dragon, Jacob?” Repeating the question, Hawkwood tried to keep his voice calm while suppressing a growing urge to grab the boy by the shoulders and shake him violently.

  “ ’T’were same as the other one.”

  “Other one?”

  “The other dragon, o’ course!”

  Hawkwood bit back a scream of frustration. This was like pulling teeth.

  He was unprepared for what happened next. Jacob Quigley threw his broom aside, lunged forward and grabbed Hawkwood’s wrist.

  “Jacob!” The alarm in the old man’s voice caused several heads to lift. Around the workshop, mouths gaped at the spectacle.

  Normally, Hawkwood’s reaction to an unprovoked attack would have been to retaliate swiftly, but a sixth sense, allied to the obvious lack of malice in the boy’s expression, told him that Jacob Quigley’s intention was not to do him harm but to gain his attention. The boy, Hawkwood realized, had acted out of similar frustration to his own. Clearly, Jacob Quigley was trying to tell him something he thought was important, but what?

  Hawkwood was astonished at the strength of the boy’s grip. It would
have taken no small effort for him to break free. Mystified, and with an agitated Isadore Knibbs following close behind, he allowed himself to be pulled across the room.

  The boy was breathing hard, dragging his deformed foot across the floorboards. They passed through another archway and entered a storage area. Timepieces of every description lined the walls: lantern clocks, long-case clocks, tavern clocks, water clocks, bracket clocks and barometers occupied every inch of shelf and floor space.

  Jacob Quigley halted suddenly, turned to Hawkwood, and pointed excitedly towards the wall. Hawkwood followed the end of the boy’s gnawed fingernail and found himself confronted by a row of long-case clocks.

  “I don’t understand, Jacob,” Hawkwood said. “What are you trying to tell me?” He stared at Isadore Knibbs in mute appeal, but the journeyman shook his head and spread his hands helplessly.

  Jacob Quigley lurched towards the row of clocks, pulling Hawkwood with him. He pointed again.

  The clock was tall, nearly eight feet in height. Cased in oak, with mahogany and shell inlays. A twelve-inch white dial, circled by Arabic numerals and bisected by a pair of ornate brass hands. It was a magnificent specimen.

  “The time, Jacob? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  The clock’s hands were set at fifteen minutes to six.

  “You saw Master Woodburn at a quarter to six?”

  The boy shook his head and jabbed his finger once more. Hawkwood stared at the clock.

  Jacob Quigley let go of Hawkwood’s arm and limped forward. He reached up and jabbed urgently at the clock face. “Dragon! See the dragon!”

  Hawkwood stared.

  And then, at last, he saw it, and, cursing his stupidity, wondered why it had taken him so long. It wasn’t the time the boy was attempting to draw his attention to, it was the engraving on the clock’s cabinet. A shield, flanked on one side by a bear, on the other by what was, unmistakably, a dragon. Hawkwood stared at the design. A coat of arms. He looked closer. There was a ship, a pair of crossed swords and what looked like some kind of elaborate leaf motif. He continued to stare. It occurred to him that the design seemed familiar.