“ ’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 across the room.
The boy was breathing hard, dragging his deformed foot across the floorboards. They passed through another archway and entered a storage area. Timepieces of every description lined the walls: lantern clocks, long-case clocks, tavern clocks, water clocks, bracket clocks and barometers occupied every inch of shelf and floor space.
Jacob Quigley halted suddenly, turned to Hawkwood, and pointed excitedly towards the wall. Hawkwood followed the end of the boy’s gnawed fingernail and found himself confronted by a row of long-case clocks.
“I don’t understand, Jacob,” Hawkwood said. “What are you trying to tell me?” He stared at Isadore Knibbs in mute appeal, but the journeyman shook his head and spread his hands helplessly.
Jacob Quigley lurched towards the row of clocks, pulling Hawkwood with him. He pointed again.
The clock was tall, nearly eight feet in height. Cased in oak, with mahogany and shell inlays. A twelve-inch white dial, circled by Arabic numerals and bisected by a pair of ornate brass hands. It was a magnificent specimen.
“The time, Jacob? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
The clock’s hands were set at fifteen minutes to six.
“You saw Master Woodburn at a quarter to six?”
The boy shook his head and jabbed his finger once more. Hawkwood stared at the clock.
Jacob Quigley let go of Hawkwood’s arm and limped forward. He reached up and jabbed urgently at the clock face. “Dragon! See the dragon!”
Hawkwood stared.
And then, at last, he saw it, and, cursing his stupidity, wondered why it had taken him so long. It wasn’t the time the boy was attempting to draw his attention to, it was the engraving on the clock’s cabinet. A shield, flanked on one side by a bear, on the other by what was, unmistakably, a dragon. Hawkwood stared at the design. A coat of arms. He looked closer. There was a ship, a pair of crossed swords and what looked like some kind of elaborate leaf motif. He continued to stare. It occurred to him that the design seemed familiar.
Jacob Quigley was grinning slackly, rocking himself from side to side as he watched the understanding dawn across Hawkwood’s scarred face.
“All right, Jacob, I see it.” Hawkwood traced his hand over the enamel. “And this is what you showed the other gentleman?”
The boy nodded. “ ’T’were on the door.”
“The door of the carriage?” Hawkwood prompted.
Another vigorous nod of confirmation.
Alleluia! Hawkwood thought. “All right, Jacob, you’ve earned your penny.” Hawkwood pressed the coin into the boy’s hand. “Mr Knibbs, tell me about this clock.”
“That one? Er…it’s an eight-day—”
“I’m not interested in its damned workings! I want to know who it’s for. It’s a commissioned piece, is it not?”
“Why, yes.”
“For whom?”
Isadore Knibbs blinked at the aggressive tone.
“Come on, man, hurry!”
But before the old man could respond, it came to him.
It had been the night of the ball. He’d seen the coat of arms on the doors, on the panelling, and on the uniforms of the footmen. How could he have forgotten?
It was the Mandrake family crest.
11
It was almost six o’clock by the time Hawkwood arrived at the Four Swans. The inn was a hive of noisy activity. The early evening coach had just pulled in. Passengers were being disgorged and baggage lay strewn around the yard. Hawkwood picked his way through the crowd, ducked through the open doorway, and entered the tap room.
He did not spot Lomax immediately and wondered if the former cavalryman had grown tired of waiting. Then he saw a darkened figure rise and beckon him from a dimly lit booth in the far corner.
“Good to see you,” Lomax said, resuming his seat. A quarter-full mug of ale and a bowl containing the remains of a fatty stew sat on the table before him. Next to the bowl was a wooden platter bearing several chunks of bread and a wedge of butter.
Lomax looked beyond Hawkwood and signalled to a passing serving girl. “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll take a belch,” Hawkwood said.
Lomax gave the order, ignoring the girl’s stare. He picked up one of the bread chunks with his left hand and began to mop up the gravy from the bottom of the bowl. When the bread was well soaked, he popped it into his mouth, bit down hard and chewed with relish.
“If you’re hungry, I can recommend the mutton,” Lomax said, licking the grease from his fingers before wiping them on his breeches.
The girl returned with Hawkwood’s beer. Hawkwood took a swallow and wondered how, with only one eye, Lomax could see what he was eating. The lighting in the booth was atrocious. The candle in the middle of the table was worn down to a stub. He realized that Lomax had positioned himself so that the injured side of his face was against the wall. It was only when Lomax turned his head that the ravaged side of his face became clear. Hawkwood suspected this was Lomax’s usual ploy. The look on the serving girl’s face had told its own story.
A thin dribble of gravy trickled down Lomax’s chin. Hawkwood averted his gaze but not quickly enough. Lomax had seen the gesture for he lifted his arm unselfconsciously and wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve.
The ex-cavalryman grimaced. “Shaving’s the real bugger. Can’t feel a damned thing. Why, I could slit my own throat from ear to ear. Wouldn’t know it ’til I nodded my bloody head.”
Hawkwood laughed. He couldn’t help it.
Lomax grinned crookedly and raised his mug. “Confusion to the enemy!”
“Amen to that,” Hawkwood said. He was coming to like Lomax’s sense of humour.
Lomax set his drink down and pushed his plate aside. “I left the message because I’ve some information for you.”
Hawkwood sipped his beer.
