“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 sorrowfully.
“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.”
