“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 regretfully.
“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. “It’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.
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.”