Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion

“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 (#ulink_e2265955-ed88-59af-abfa-4f91328c8a24)

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 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 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.