“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 workshop 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