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

Hawkwood asked Mr Knibbs if there had been anything in Master Woodburn’s mood that might have explained his disappearance. The journeyman greeted the question with something approaching horror.

“Surely you’re not suggesting the master might have … done away with himself?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Knibbs. I’m merely exploring every avenue.”

The journeyman blinked and Hawkwood sighed. “Mr Knibbs, it’s been my experience that people disappear for a variety of reasons: of their own free will, by misadventure, or foul play. As far as Master Woodburn is concerned, from what I’ve learned from the servants and yourself, I’m inclined to eliminate the first alternative. Nothing I’ve heard so far suggests that your master has disappeared voluntarily. On that basis, I doubt we’ll find him dead by his own hand. No, don’t look so shocked, Mr Knibbs, it’s been known to happen. There’s many a fine gentleman who’s hung himself over a ten-pound debt or a two-guinea whore.”

Isadore Knibbs looked like a man who’d just swallowed a gourd of sour milk.

“Which leaves us, Mr Knibbs, with a rather unpleasant prospect.”

“But someone must have seen something!” the journeyman blurted. “The master can’t have vanished into thin air!”

Hawkwood was on the verge of telling Isadore Knibbs that people vanished all the time, usually to reappear with a knife in the back in some dark alley or bludgeoned to death, face down in the mud on the river bank, but a nervous, stuttering voice at his shoulder gave him no chance.

“I s-seen the master.”

Hawkwood and Isadore Knibbs turned together. The journeyman gave a sigh of exasperation. “Now then, Jacob, this is nothing that concerns you. Officer Hawkwood and I have business to discuss.” The old man smiled apologetically. “He’s my sister’s boy. He means no harm.” Mr Knibbs clapped his hands. “Come on now, lad, off with you! There’s work to be done.”

Hawkwood’s guess had been proved correct. Up close, Quigley, with his angular body, unruly hair, misshapen face and deformed foot, resembled a stick insect. His bottom teeth were the reason for his uneven jawline. They protruded from his gums like crooked, yellowing tombstones. It was difficult to gauge Quigley’s age. It could have been anything from fifteen to twenty. Either way, it indicated that Isadore Knibbs must have been at least a generation older than his sister.

Isadore Knibbs wagged a warning finger. “Come on, Jacob, I won’t tell you again. Back to your sweeping, there’s a good lad.”

“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.