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 ex-cavalry 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.”
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 case-makers plied their craft. The clockmaker’s main residence, however, nestled behind a discreet façade 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