by James McGee
Hawkwood felt a wave of relief wash over him. Reprieve, of a kind, had been granted. “Yes, sir.”
The magistrate threw him a long, piercing stare, followed finally by a sharp nod of acknowledgement. “So be it. We shall discuss the matter further when this case is concluded. You may go. Mr Twigg will furnish you with details of Runner Warlock’s most recent assignments.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Officer Hawkwood…”
Hawkwood glanced back. “Sir?”
The expression on the Chief Magistrate’s face was one of wry cynicism.
“You look fatigued. In future, I suggest you keep your nocturnal exertions to a minimum.”
“What the hell do you mean, there’s no record?” Hawkwood stared at Ezra Twigg in disbelief.
The little clerk blinked behind his spectacles and shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Mr Hawkwood, but Officer Warlock never had a chance to make his preliminary report. He never came back, you see.” Twigg shrugged helplessly.
“Well, do you have any information? Who reported this damned clockmaker missing in the first place?”
“His manservant.”
Hawkwood waited while Twigg, anxious to give the impression that all might not be lost, rifled through a stack of documents at his elbow. With a grunt of satisfaction, the clerk extricated a single sheet of paper and held it to the light. “Yes, here we are…Luther Hobb, manservant. It seems the staff became concerned when Master Woodburn failed to return home for his supper. The servant came to alert us. Officer Warlock was then dispatched to investigate.”
“And that’s the last time anyone from this office saw him alive?”
Ezra Twigg nodded unhappily.
The fact that Warlock had not been missed for a couple of days may have seemed incongruous to an outsider, but in reality it was not that unusual. Being few in number, Runners tended to spread themselves thinly, so it was not uncommon for an officer to delay his reporting back to Bow Street in order to pursue urgent and specific lines of enquiry. Thus Warlock’s absence might have been frowned upon, but it had not given immediate grounds for concern; unlike the disappearance of clockmaster Josiah Woodburn.
Which didn’t leave a vast amount to go on, Hawkwood reflected ruefully.
“All right, so what do we know about this clockmaker? Any skeletons in the cupboard, besides his being a strict Presbyterian?”
There was nothing. At least nothing that Ezra Twigg had been able to find. London clockmakers enjoyed a reputation second to none. And within that august fraternity the Woodburn name was held in the highest regard. The family had been making clocks for almost two hundred years. They had designed and crafted timepieces for kings and princes, merchants and maharajas. The Woodburn name was synonymous with the finest quality. Of Josiah Woodburn himself, there was little to relate. Sixty-eight years of age and a widower for ten years. The only item of note was the fact that he shared his house with his granddaughter, the child having been orphaned when her parents-Woodburn’s daughter and son-in-law-had perished in a fire. Adversity being no barrier to good character, the man was looked upon by all as a veritable pillar of society.
All of which, though of moderate interest, added little to Hawkwood’s store of knowledge. Which left only one option. To start from the beginning and retrace Warlock’s steps; a time-consuming but necessary exercise.
“I assume we do have an address?” Hawkwood said. “Or is that too much to hope for?”
Ezra Twigg, feigning indignation, sighed resignedly. “They do say, Mr Hawkwood, that sarcasm is quite the lowest form of wit.”
“Do they indeed?” Hawkwood said, unmoved by the clerk’s put-upon expression. He waited in silence as Twigg scribbled.
The clerk passed the information across. “Oh, and there was a message left for you.”
“A message?” He assumed it was from Jago. And about bloody time, too. But his relief was short-lived for the message was not from Jago. It was from Lomax, the excavalry captain in charge of the horse patrol, who wanted Hawkwood to meet him at the Four Swans in Bishopsgate between five and six that evening. Hawkwood frowned. He supposed it had something to do with the coach hold-up. Twigg, however, was unable to elaborate.
Hawkwood tucked the clockmaker’s address into his waistcoat pocket and reached for his coat. A sound made him turn.
“You said something, Mr Twigg?”
The clerk’s head was bowed. It was only as Hawkwood headed for the door, that Twigg deigned to look up. “I only said, Mr Hawkwood, that you should be careful how you go.”
Hawkwood paused in the open doorway, and grinned. “Why, Ezra, you’re concerned for my welfare. I’m touched.”
Twigg dropped his chin and peered at Hawkwood over the rim of his spectacles. “In that case, Mr Hawkwood, might I offer a word of advice?”
“By all means, Mr Twigg.”
There was a significant pause. The corners of Twigg’s mouth twitched.
“Well, if I were you, Mr Hawkwood, I wouldn’t go speaking to any strange women.”
10
Josiah Woodburn’s workshop was in Clerkenwell, which, along with St Luke’s parish, housed a substantial proportion of the capital’s clockmaking trade. It was there, within a cramped honeycomb of low-roofed attics and gloomy cellars, that the majority of jewellers, engravers, enamellers and casemakers plied their craft. The clockmaker’s main residence, however, nestled behind a discreet facade at the eastern end of the Strand. The small, unobtrusive brass plate on the wall next to the front door bore the simple inscription: JOSIAH WOODBURN, CLOCKSMITH. Incorporated into the engraved plaque was the coat of arms of the Worshipful Company of Clockmakers. To this unassuming yet prestigious location were drawn Josiah Woodburn’s most discerning and wealthiest clients.
The marked lack of ostentation was confirmation of Woodburn’s standing. A master craftsman at the pinnacle of his profession had no use for elaborate shop frontage or tawdry advertisements. The Woodburn name and reputation were all that was required to attract custom. The plain, unadorned entrance indicated that Josiah Woodburn’s commissions, unlike those of his neighbours, were obtained strictly by appointment only.
Which no doubt accounted for the maid’s hesitant look when she answered Hawkwood’s summons on the door bell. Showing his warrant, which identified him as a police officer and thus not one of Master Woodburn’s influential patrons, Hawkwood could tell the girl was debating whether or not to direct him to the tradesman’s entrance. Hawkwood solved her dilemma by suggesting that she fetch Mr Woodburn’s manservant. After another moment of indecision, she finally showed Hawkwood into the drawing room before making a grateful escape in search of reinforcements.
The manservant, Hobb, was trim and middle-aged with sparse salt-and-pepper hair above a square, honest face. Dressed in smart black livery, there was something about Hobb’s bearing, the strong shoulders and upright posture, that suggested he had probably seen military service.
The thin woman by his side-Hobb had introduced her as his wife, the housekeeper-was of a similar age. She wore a plain grey dress, white mob-cap, matching apron and an apprehensive expression.
“I don’t understand,” the manservant said. “We told Officer Warlock all we know.”
Hawkwood’s response was blunt. “Officer Warlock’s dead-murdered. His body was discovered this morning. I’ve taken over the investigation.”
“God preserve us!” Hobb gripped his wife’s shoulder tightly. The housekeeper gasped, whether from the news or the strength of her husband’s hand, it was impossible to tell.
The gravity of the moment was suddenly interrupted by a peal of laughter from the hallway. The door was flung open and a diminutive figure in a yellow cotton dress ran headlong into the room. Following close behind, ears flapping, bounded a tiny black-and-white dog of indeterminate breed.
“Grandpapa-” The child stopped in mid stride and stared around the room. Her gaze finally alighted on Hawkwood and he found himself
looking into a pair of the widest blue eyes he had ever seen. The girl was about seven or eight years old and achingly pretty. A doll hung in the crook of her arm; a miniature version of herself, down to the identical coloured dress, lace petticoat and tiny white shoes. Hawkwood watched as the uncertainty stole across her face.
“Did I hear Grandpapa? Is he here?”
Mrs Hobb’s anxiety at Hawkwood’s news was momentarily eclipsed as she turned to address the look of disappointment in the child’s eyes. The housekeeper stood and held out her arms and the little girl ran towards her. The dog, oblivious to the sombre mood in the room, lolloped around the furniture, nose to floor, tail wagging.
The maid appeared in the open doorway, flustered and out of breath. “Sorry, Mrs H. She was off before I could stop her.”
Cocooned in Mrs Hobb’s protective embrace, the child favoured Hawkwood with another penetrating stare before burying her face in the housekeeper’s starched white apron, the doll crushed between them. The dog, spying a stranger, bounded across the carpet and began sniffing the heel of Hawkwood’s boot.
Mrs Hobb petted the girl’s hair. “Now then, my dear, no need to be shy. This gentleman’s Mr Hawkwood, come to visit.”
Slowly, the child turned. In a small voice that was full of expectation and renewed hope, she said, “When’s Grandpapa coming home?”
The expression on the child’s face transfixed Hawkwood. He had a brief vision of Pen, one of the urchins who had discovered Warlock’s body. The two girls were near enough the same age, he supposed. Orphans both, yet living lives that were worlds apart. One born into privilege, the other into poverty. Ironic, then, that the expression on their faces, upon seeing him for the first time, had been disturbingly similar: suspicion tinged with fear.
Mrs Hobb squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “Hush now, child. Your grandpapa will be home soon, just you wait and see. Isn’t that right, Mr Hobb?”
“Certainly it is!” The manservant feigned cheerful agreement. “Just you wait and see!”
Hawkwood was aware that the couple were sending him an urgent message with their eyes, while at his feet the dog rolled submissively, legs splayed, waiting for its belly to be rubbed.
The little girl, as if sensing the unspoken signals, regarded Hawkwood unwaveringly. So intense was her study of him that Hawkwood felt as if her eyes were burning into his soul. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, her gaze broke and she looked questioningly up at the housekeeper.
Mrs Hobb smiled. “Now then, Elizabeth, off you go, there’s a good girl. Jessie will take you to the kitchen for a glass of milk, and I do believe Mrs Willow’s baked a cake.”
The housekeeper shooed the dog which, having despaired of attracting Hawkwood’s attention, was indulging in an energetic scratch. “And take Toby with you. Look at him-he’s dropping hairs all over the carpet. Hetty will have a fit when she comes to clean.”
Hearing its name, the dog emitted a shrill bark. The child’s eyes brightened. Still clutching the doll, she tripped out of the room. Stopping on the threshold, she called the dog to her. As the animal scampered past her legs, she looked back at Hawkwood, as if about to speak. Then, evidently changing her mind, she was gone. The maid closed the door quietly behind her. Deprived of the child’s presence, the room seemed a much duller place, as if a bright light had been extinguished.
“Bless her wee soul,” Mrs Hobb said softly. She glanced towards Hawkwood. “Lost both her parents in a fire, poor mite. And now this.” She gave a sorrowful shake of her head.
“When did it happen?” Hawkwood asked.
The housekeeper thought back. “Easter before last. Asleep in their beds, they were. It was the dog that sounded the alarm. Wasn’t much more than a pup then, but if it hadn’t been for Toby, the wee girl wouldn’t be alive today. Inseparable they are now, as you can see.”
“Why didn’t her parents escape?”
“The father did,” Luther Hobb said. “Carried Elizabeth right out of the house, but he went back for his wife and son. They were found in the ashes. All three of them together, the baby in its mother’s arms. It wasn’t the flames that killed them, you see. It was the smoke.” The manservant shook his head sorrowfully.
“And she’s lived here ever since?”
“Aye.” The manservant’s face softened further. “The master became her appointed guardian. Dotes on her, so he does. She has her mother’s likeness. Everyone says so.”
“How much does she know about her grandfather’s disappearance?” Hawkwood asked.
The housekeeper shook her head. “We told her that he was called away on business. It seemed the best thing to do.”
“And if he doesn’t return home? What will you tell her then?”
The housekeeper took a handkerchief from her apron pocket and crumpled it in her hands. “I don’t know, I truly don’t.” The housekeeper wiped her nose. “He’s a good man, a gentle man. Never a harsh word in all the years we’ve worked for him. Mr Hobb and I can’t bear to think of him not coming home. We’ve prayed for him every night, haven’t we, Mr Hobb?”
“There, there, my dear.” Hobb patted his wife’s shoulder. “Officer Hawkwood will do his best to find him, never fear.” The manservant frowned. “You think that Officer Warlock’s murder had something to do with the master’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know,” Hawkwood said. “But I intend to find out.”
There was a pause, as if each of them was waiting for one of the others to speak. Eventually, Hawkwood said, “Tell me about Master Woodburn. You were concerned when he failed to return home for supper. Is that right?”
The housekeeper shifted in her seat and nodded. “It was about half past six when Mr Hobb and I began to realize something might be wrong. The master’s hardly ever late, you see. Almost always in the house by six, so’s he can spend time with Elizabeth before she goes to bed. Regular as clockwork, he used to say. That was his little jest, on account of his working with clocks and the like.” The housekeeper’s face crumpled as she fought back the tears.
“If he was going to be late, he’d always send a message,” Luther Hobb broke in.
“But not this time?” Hawkwood prompted.
The manservant shook his head. “Not a word. We waited. We thought he might only be delayed a short while, but by seven we began to fear the worst. I suggested to Mrs Hobb that perhaps I should go to his workshop to see if he was still there. I’d hoped I might meet him on the way but…” The manservant’s voice trailed off.
“His workshop-where’s that?”
“On Red Lion Street.”
If Clerkenwell was the heart of the clockmaking trade, Red Lion Street was the main artery. Many of the premises, Hawkwood knew, had adjoining shops. Clerkenwell for the lower classes, the Strand for the swells.
“And you arrived there when?”
“I’m not certain of the exact time; perhaps half an hour later, or thereabouts.”
“Was anyone there?”
“Only Mr Knibbs. Oh, and young Quigley.”
“Who are they?”
“Mr Knibbs is journeyman to Master Woodburn. He’s in charge when the master’s absent. Work sometimes goes on after the master’s left. When the work’s over for the day, Mr Knibbs sees that everyone leaves before the workshop is locked up.”
“And this Quigley? What does he do?”
“Odd jobs, mostly; running messages, sweeping up, that sort of thing. He also watches over the workshop at night. He has a mattress in a corner of one of the storerooms.”
“He’s an apprentice?
Hobb looked surprised at the question. “Lord, no, sir. He’s Mr Knibbs’ nephew.”
Hawkwood was wondering why one qualification should preclude the other when the manservant gave an apologetic smile. “What I mean is that…well, the truth of it is the lad’s a wee bit slow. ’Tis only due to the master’s charity that he isn’t out roaming the streets. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Mr Hawkwood,” Hobb amended hastily. “I
t’s not that he’s given to mischief or anything. In fact he’s a gentle soul as a rule, but apprentice? Sadly, no.”
Hawkwood digested the information. “I presume you asked Mr Knibbs if he knew of Master Woodburn’s whereabouts?”
“Indeed I did, but he told me the master had left the workshop at his usual time. A little after half past five that would be.”
“Alone?”
“I did enquire if he’d left with anyone, but Mr Knibbs assured me he had not.”
“And how did Master Woodburn usually travel? By carriage?”
“No, it was his custom to walk, unless the weather was inclement. The master was-is-very fit for his age.” The manservant coloured.
Hawkwood ignored the slip. “When he left here that morning, did Master Woodburn say anything to you about meeting anyone?”
The manservant stiffened. “The master’s not in the habit of discussing his appointments with members of the household.”
It was the first sign of irritation that Hawkwood had witnessed. It was a reminder that, for all their concern at their employer’s absence and the obvious affection they held for his granddaughter, the Hobbs were, when all was said and done, not family but servants. And servants, more than anyone, knew their place.
“Nevertheless, it’s possible you may have overheard something.”
The look on the manservant’s face told Hawkwood he had committed another unpardonable error. It was as if he’d asked a priest to reveal the secrets of the confessional. But servants, Hawkwood knew, were privy to all manner of conversation and gossip, and thus a prime source of information. On this occasion, however, no revelations were forthcoming. The Hobbs were, it seemed, genuinely bewildered by their employer’s disappearance.
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.
