“What the hell do you mean, there’s no record?” Hawkwood stared at Ezra Twigg in disbelief.
The little clerk blinked behind his spectacles and shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Mr Hawkwood, but Officer Warlock never had a chance to make his preliminary report. He never came back, you see.” Twigg shrugged helplessly.
“Well, do you have
“His manservant.”
Hawkwood waited while Twigg, anxious to give the impression that all might not be lost, rifled through a stack of documents at his elbow. With a grunt of satisfaction, the clerk extricated a single sheet of paper and held it to the light. “Yes, here we are…Luther Hobb, manservant. It seems the staff became concerned when Master Woodburn failed to return home for his supper. The servant came to alert us. Officer Warlock was then dispatched to investigate.”
“And that’s the last time anyone from this office saw him alive?”
Ezra Twigg nodded unhappily.
The fact that Warlock had not been missed for a couple of days may have seemed incongruous to an outsider, but in reality it was not that unusual. Being few in number, Runners tended to spread themselves thinly, so it was not uncommon for an officer to delay his reporting back to Bow Street in order to pursue urgent and specific lines of enquiry. Thus Warlock’s absence might have been frowned upon, but it had not given immediate grounds for concern; unlike the disappearance of clockmaster Josiah Woodburn.
Which didn’t leave a vast amount to go on, Hawkwood reflected ruefully.
“All right, so what do we know about this clockmaker? Any skeletons in the cupboard, besides his being a strict Presbyterian?”
There was nothing. At least nothing that Ezra Twigg had been able to find. London clockmakers enjoyed a reputation second to none. And within that august fraternity the Woodburn name was held in the highest regard. The family had been making clocks for almost two hundred years. They had designed and crafted timepieces for kings and princes, merchants and maharajas. The Woodburn name was synonymous with the finest quality. Of Josiah Woodburn himself, there was little to relate. Sixty-eight years of age and a widower for ten years. The only item of note was the fact that he shared his house with his granddaughter, the child having been orphaned when her parents—Woodburn’s daughter and son-in-law—had perished in a fire. Adversity being no barrier to good character, the man was looked upon by all as a veritable pillar of society.
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
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 excavalry 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.”
10
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 casemakers plied their craft. The clockmaker’s main residence, however, nestled behind a discreet facade 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.
