Eventually he was able to speak. ‘There you are, sir, thank the Lord. I thought I’d lost you.’
‘Lost me, Mottershead? What do you mean? I am not a sheep.’
‘No, sir. And I see you’ve ’ad a little trouble. That scratch looks nasty.’
Thomas reached up and felt his face. Blood was dripping down his cheek where the woman’s nails had torn the skin. He wiped it with his handkerchief and tried not to wince. ‘It’s nothing, Mottershead, just a mishap. More importantly, I want to know why you have been following me.’
Mottershead looked as if he might cry. ‘Mr Williamson’s orders, sir. ’E said I was to keep an eye on you to make sure you didn’t come to any ’arm.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Just a precaution, ’e said, sir. I wasn’t to trouble you unless I ’ad to.’
‘I see. A precaution against what, I wonder.’
‘I couldn’t say, sir.’
‘No, Mottershead, nor could I.’ He paused. ‘Now I shall return to Piccadilly, where I shall be quite safe. Would you care to accompany me?’
‘I better ’ad, sir, just in case.’
Outside the Carringtons’ house, Thomas invited Mottershead in. The little man followed him nervously into the sitting room. To Thomas’s relief the Carringtons were out so he did not have to explain himself. He fetched Mottershead a tankard of ale from the kitchen and asked him to wait while he cleaned himself up.
Having sluiced himself down with water from the jug in his room, washed away the blood from his face and changed his clothes, he found Josiah, his feet only just touching the floor, perched on one of Charles’s big library chairs. With a restorative glass of Charles’s French brandy, he sat down opposite the little man. ‘Now, Josiah,’ he began, ‘I should be pleased to know exactly what Mr Williamson told you.’
‘Told me? ’Ow do you mean, sir?’
‘What exactly were your orders and why did he think I needed following?’
‘As to why, sir, I couldn’t say, except that Mr Williamson said ’e’d ’ave my balls for ’is breakfast if you came to any ’arm. Not like ’im, sir. Always such a correct gentleman. Very emphatic, ’e was. Must ’ave thought you were likely to come to some ’arm. Seems ’e was right.’
Thomas ignored the barb. ‘Nothing else?’
Mottershead thought for a moment. ‘Not really, sir. I was to keep you in my sight and make sure you got ’ome safely, wherever you went.’
‘So you’ve been waiting outside the front door for me to emerge and then following me? Sounds a dull job.’
‘The waiting’s dull, sir, but all in the line of duty for men such as me. We’re used to waiting and watching and listening. That’s what we’re paid for.’
‘Are there many like you, Josiah?’
‘Not many, I fancy. But Mr Williamson makes sure we don’t all know each other. It’s safer that way.’
‘I daresay it is. So you can’t tell me why Mr Williamson is so anxious to keep me safe?’
‘Afraid I can’t, sir.’
‘Well then, Josiah Mottershead, I believe that I can make your job easier. I’m tired of drinking coffee and being shaven and polished and I’ve learned nothing whatever of any use to Mr Williamson. Tomorrow I shall accompany you to some of the places you usually visit.’
Mottershead jumped off the chair. ‘Oh no, sir. You don’t want to do that. They’re nasty places, most of ’em, and only nasty people use ’em. All kinds of evil things go on. They’re not places for a gentleman like you.’
‘Josiah, I’ve spent time in Oxford gaol, been an indentured servant to a pair of murderers and killed two men in cold blood. I can manage an alehouse or two.’
If Mottershead was surprised, he did not show it. ‘Perhaps you ’ave, sir. But not in my care.’
‘Are you worried about being seen with me, Josiah? Is that it?’
‘Well, sir, as you mention it, perhaps I am. Wouldn’t do my reputation no good to be seen with a man of quality and we’d likely ’ave to answer some awkward questions.’
‘In that case I shall dress and speak appropriately and pass myself off as your cousin from Hampshire, come to London to help you with a few jobs. How would that be?’
‘It wouldn’t be good, sir, unless you’re the finest actor in London. And my balls won’t be the only things Mr Williamson ’as for breakfast, if ’e finds out.’
‘Then we’d better make sure he doesn’t find out. Just as he won’t find out about my little misadventure today.’ He coughed lightly. ‘As long as we have an understanding, that is.’
Mottershead looked miserable. One accident was bad enough. Another would be a disaster. But if he did not agree, Mr Hill would offer him up on a plate to Mr Williamson and that would be the end of his work. And well-paid work it was too. ‘Very well, sir, if you insist. But for the love of God, please keep your mouth shut and look as poor and ’orrible as you can.’
Thomas laughed. ‘Poor and ’orrible, it is. I’ll meet you outside St Bride’s Church at noon.’
‘St Bride’s at noon. Right, sir.’
‘And one more thing. If I am to be your cousin, you’d better call me Tom and I shall call you Josiah.’
‘As you wish, sir, Tom.’
When a disconsolate Mottershead had left, Thomas returned to his room. He needed to think and he wanted to put off the inevitable questions about his face for as long as he could. At dinner, he was going to feel the sharp end of Mary Carrington’s tongue again and he was not looking forward to it.
He took out his cast of characters and added
Josiah Mottershead: Williamson’s man with a stick
Sir Montford Babb: murdered investor in AV. Connection unknown
Chandle Stoner: businessman and friend of the Carringtons
Madeleine Stewart: unmarried friend of Charles and Mary
Now there were four victims, two eccentrics, a spymaster, the inventor of the Bishop Mark, a man of business, a little man with a stick, a beautiful woman and himself. And there would be other characters waiting to make an entrance. A deus ex machina perhaps, or even a dea. As he would have to stay in London to find out, he might as well amuse himself in low taverns with Josiah Mottershead. It could only be an improvement on tedious barbers’ shops and coffee houses.
Thomas went apprehensively down to dinner, his efforts to hide the marks on his face having been as good as useless. When Mary saw him her hand shot to her mouth. ‘Thomas, what have you been doing now? Who has done this to you?’
Not for the first time, Thomas dissembled. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks, my dear. An unfortunate accident. I slipped in the street and landed on my face. Entirely my own fault. A glass of wine too many, I fear.’
Mary got up from her chair and peered at his cheek. ‘I don’t believe you, Thomas Hill. Someone has scratched you. I knew this would happen. Were you attacked?’
He stuck to his story. ‘No, no. I fell, nothing more.’
‘You’re a poor liar, Thomas. I know you’ve been attacked. Kindly tell me why and by whom.’
Charles came to his rescue. ‘Really, Mary, if Thomas says he fell then he fell. He’s not a schoolboy. Leave the poor wretch alone. Come and sit down, Thomas, and have a glass of claret.’ He held up his glass. ‘It’s rather good.’
Much relieved, Thomas took a glass and changed the subject. ‘I plan to call on Madeleine Stewart the day after tomorrow. I still have Sir Montford’s journal and I had thought to ask her to return it when she next visits Lady Babb.’
That cheered Mary up. ‘I am pleased to hear it. And remember what I said. Spirited ladies such as Madeleine do not care to be kept waiting. Do not procrastinate.’
‘I have no idea what you mean, Mary,’ replied Thomas, suppressing a grin, ‘and I shall of course behave with the utmost decorum.’
‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Charles, ‘decorum will get you nowhere. Just say what you think. It’s never done me harm.’
‘Only because I�
�m so forgiving,’ said Mary. ‘Thomas is a good deal more tactful. Still, do be brave, Thomas, won’t you?’
‘I’ll try.’
Except for his stinging face, Thomas passed the rest of the evening comfortably enough until he asked leave to retire. ‘Of course, my dear fellow,’ said Charles, ‘you must be tired after your accident. Sleep well and do try not to fall out of bed. We don’t want any more accidents, do we, my dear?’
‘We do not,’ replied Mary. ‘Do not fall out of bed, Thomas, and do not scratch yourself. My credulity is strained enough.’
The next morning, refreshed in body by a breakfast of egg pie and boiled sausages but still unsettled in mind, Thomas set off in good time to meet Josiah Mottershead at noon, outside St Bride’s Church at the eastern end of Fleet Street. He had put on an old shirt, deliberately ripped around the collar, a pair of trousers which he had rubbed in the dirt, and the ancient, much repaired boots he had worn on the journey from Romsey. Having neither shaved nor washed, he reckoned that he looked about as inconspicuous for the day’s work as he could, particularly with the marks on his face.
Josiah, stick in hand, was waiting for him outside the church. The poor man still looked miserable. He tipped his hat as Thomas approached. ‘Good morning, sir. ’Ere I am, though I’d rather be ’aving a tooth pulled. I was ’oping you’d reconsidered but I see from your attire that you ’asn’t.’
‘Why would I reconsider, Josiah? I’m your cousin Tom from Romsey in Hampshire come to London to assist you in your work. Whatever that might be.’
Josiah sighed. ‘As you like, sir. At least your face looks the part.’
‘And my name is Tom. There’ll be more than eyebrows raised if you call me sir.’
‘Right, Tom. Best keep your mouth shut, though. You don’t sound much like a working man.’
‘I shall. Now where will you take me?’
‘Don’t know, Tom. Where’d you like to go?’
‘Let us start in Pudding Lane, where Matthew Smith and Sir Montford Babb were murdered. Do you know an alehouse there?’
‘I do. The Honest Wherryman.’
‘Have you been there recently?’
‘I ’ave, sir, in the course of my enquiries. Didn’t learn anything. It’s a rough place. Not many honest men to be found there, despite the name.’
‘Perfect. Lead on, Josiah.’
Pudding Lane was one of the narrow streets running from Eastcheap down to the river and it was where much of the offal from the butchers’ shops in Eastcheap ended up. The lane was swimming in it.
The upper storeys of the wooden houses on either side of the lane overhung so much that in places they almost touched each other and so little light penetrated that the inhabitants lived in perpetual semi-darkness. It was a horrid, miserable place, known for its bakers’ shops, but home also to pickpockets, beggars, whores and drunkards. Thomas could not believe that either victim had been there willingly, especially at night.
The Honest Wherryman stood at the lower end of the lane, near the river. It was a narrow building, with grey slates on the roof, many of them broken, and wooden walls roughly daubed with lime and clay. Thomas had to duck as he followed Josiah through the door and into the dark, cave-like room that served as the alehouse.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he made out small groups of drinkers seated on stools around low tables littered with bottles, mugs and the remains of whatever they had been eating. An emaciated dog lay unmoving under one of the tables. In one corner a game of dice was in progress, but otherwise the place was quiet. The customers of the Honest Wherryman evidently did not frequent it for company or conversation. They sat in silence, drinking, smoking their clay pipes and eyeing suspiciously any newcomer arriving in their midst.
Thomas shivered, although whether from apprehension or the damp he was unsure. Josiah went to a hatch in the far wall and called for a jug of ale and two mugs. Armed with these, he found them stools at an unoccupied table near the door. Thomas sat with his back to the wall and a good view of the room. Josiah sat to his right facing the door. They each took a sip of ale and looked about.
Only the dice players had carried on without taking much notice of the new arrivals. By every other eye in the room they were being examined either openly or furtively. Thomas did his best to look unconcerned, carried on sipping his ale and wondered if any of his fellow drinkers was ever going to speak. He had more or less decided that none of them was, when the door opened and another new arrival entered. A tall man, he had to bend very low to avoid hitting his head on the door frame, especially as he wore a narrow-brimmed hat decorated with half a goose feather. Once inside the room, the tall man straightened his back and peered around. He raised a hand in greeting to two of the men in the opposite corner, went to the hatch and ordered a mug of ale.
Turning back to the room, mug in hand, he spotted Josiah and came over to their table. ‘Josiah Mottershead, if I’m not mistaken. Here again? How’s business?’ His voice was deep and surprisingly well spoken. Unlike Josiah, he had a use for the letter ‘h’ at the start of a word.
Thomas noted the quality of his clothes – ruffled shirt, short waistcoat and trousers tied neatly at the knee with black ribbons – and his intelligent face. Hair tied back like Josiah’s, sharp blue eyes and a long, thin nose. He reminded Thomas of a schoolteacher who had once taught him Latin and Greek. A man who did not suffer fools gladly.
‘Oh, up and down, Woody, if you know what I mean,’ replied Josiah, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Up and down.’
Woody smiled knowingly. ‘And who’s this, if I may ask?’
‘This is my cousin Tom, come to ’elp out with a job I’ve got.’
‘Good day, Tom. Woody’s the name. Come to help Josiah, have you? Where’re you from?’
Before Thomas could reply, Josiah said ‘Tom’s a bit simpleminded, Woody. Doesn’t speak much, often not for days on end. Never blabs. Wouldn’t know ’ow, would you, Tom?’ Thomas shook his head and tried to look simple-minded. ‘’E’s good with ’is ’ands, though. Clever with locks and suchlike.’
‘Sounds like a useful cousin to have in your line of work, Josiah. Could do with one like him myself.’
Josiah grinned. ‘Only got one cousin, Woody. Can’t ’elp, I’m afraid.’ He paused and leaned forward to whisper, ‘Very quiet in ’ere today. Suspicious looks, too. Most of ’em ’as seen me before. What’s going on?’
‘It’s probably Tom they’re looking at. Since those gentlemen were found with their throats cut in the lane, there’ve been coroner’s men about asking questions. Not too popular hereabouts, coroner’s men.’ So Seymour Manners had not been entirely idle; covering his back, probably.
‘Tom doesn’t look like a coroner’s man, does ’e, Woody?’
‘He doesn’t. Except his hands are very clean for a man who’s good with them. Might have been noticed. Best tell Tom to hide them away if you don’t want any questions.’
Josiah was as quick-witted as he was broad-shouldered. ‘’Adn’t thought of that. It’s a thing with Tom. Always washing ’is ’ands. Must be to do with ’is mind being funny. Put them under the table, Tom.’ Thomas did so. ‘And what’s the story about the gentlemen whose throats were cut? What was the last one’s name?’
‘Bebb, I think. No, Babb. Sir something Babb. Murdered and robbed and not a sign of who did it. Nor the other one – Smith. Both in Pudding Lane.’
‘No word at all on it?’
‘None that I’ve heard. Strange that, there’s usually a rumour or two. Not the sort of murder we expect round here. Proper gentlemen, by all accounts. If it was any of the usual suspects, we’d have heard.’
‘’Ave there been any strangers about?’
Woody looked up sharply. ‘You’re very interested in it, Josiah. You sure your cousin isn’t a coroner’s man?’
‘No, ’e ain’t. Mottersheads don’t work for the law. Never ’ave, never will.’ Josiah sounded affronted.
; ‘Then why the questions?’
‘No particular reason. Just wondered who did it. Might be the same fellow who did for the other man – Winter, ’is name was. Found by the bridge. I met ’im once in a sort of way.’
‘Did you? What sort of way?’
‘I ’appened to be on ’is property one evening when he came ’ome. ’E didn’t see me but I saw ’im, and I remembered the name from something I found there. It was on a silver cup. John Winter. Same name, same man. I sold it on, of course.’
Astonished at Josiah’s facility for instant invention, Thomas sat and stared at him, looking as simple-minded as he was supposed to be. What an extraordinary little man. Tough as old oak and quick as a rat. A hard man to best in a fight and an even harder one to trap.
Woody swallowed the story. ‘Trust you, Josiah. Another lucky escape. Can’t help you with names, though. I haven’t heard a thing.’
‘Ah well. Never mind. We’d best be off, Tom,’ said Josiah, ‘we got work to do.’
But before they could move, one of the men whom Woody had greeted came over to their table. ‘Morning, Woody,’ he said. ‘I see you got company. One I recognize, not the other.’
‘Josiah Mottershead and his cousin Tom, come to help him with some work. Tom doesn’t speak much. Or at all, in fact. At least I haven’t heard him. This is Jeb Jones. We were boys together up in Clerkenwell. Eh, Jeb?’
‘We were. Done well for ourselves, haven’t we, Woody?’ Jones’s laugh was more of a cough. It started down near his navel and ended at his tooth. Thomas could see only the one. ‘Hands like a girl’s, the silent one’s got. Where’d he get those?’ he asked suspiciously.
Josiah explained his cousin’s odd habit and rose to leave. ‘Come on, Tom. Time to go to work. Goodbye, Woody, Jeb.’
‘Goodbye, Josiah,’ replied Woody.
‘Have a drink before you go,’ said Jeb. ‘Like another drink, Tom?’ It almost worked. Just in time, Thomas bit his tongue and shook his head. In the Honest Wherryman, being caught out would not have been a good thing.
The King's Return: (Thomas Hill 3) (Thomas Hill Novels) Page 9