‘Indeed she is not. I was expecting her at ten o’clock.’
‘She left half an hour after nine.’
‘Could she have gone somewhere else first and been delayed?’
‘She said nothing about going anywhere else. She planned to walk directly to Piccadilly.’ Agnes’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Mr Hill, could something have happened to her?’
‘I expect there is a simple explanation, Agnes. You stay here and tell Miss Stewart I called if she appears. I will return to Piccadilly.’ Agnes wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Now don’t worry, Agnes, all will be well. I expect we’ll both be back here within the hour. You just stay here.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll stay here, but please let me know the moment you find her.’
Retracing his steps along Fleet Street, Thomas intended to make his way straight back to Piccadilly. But he soon found himself peering into dark doorways and venturing into mean alleys. It was absurd but he could not help himself. If Madeleine was lying injured, he must find her.
In the alleys and lanes off Fleet Street he was accosted by whores, insulted by beggars and jostled by street urchins. He ignored them all. He spoke to traders and street vendors. None of them had seen a lady matching Madeleine’s description and with each shake of the head he became more agitated. By the time he reached Charing Cross his shoes and breeches were splattered with mud and muck and he was covered in sweat. With an effort of will, he pulled himself up and tried to think rationally. It was fear that had driven him to behave so foolishly – fear for Madeleine, fear of what he might find, fear for himself. Calmer, he walked back to Piccadilly.
Charles and Mary were waiting for him. ‘What news, Thomas?’ asked Mary as he walked in. He told them what he knew from Agnes and that there had been no sign of Madeleine on his way back.
‘Damnably strange,’ said Charles. ‘What’s to be done, do you think?’
‘I suggest we send a messenger at once for Joseph. He will know what to do.’
‘Good idea. I’ll tell Smythe to find one.’
When Charles had left the room, Mary put her arms around Thomas. ‘You and I have been through much together and we’ll get through this. We’ll find Madeleine safe and well, and when we do, I shall expect you to propose to her without further ado.’
‘My history with people I care for has not been good. I wish I could share your confidence.’
‘Nonsense, Thomas. Joseph is one of the most powerful men in London and he is very fond of his cousin. He will move mountains to find her.’
‘Let us hope it does not come to that.’
Joseph arrived hot and flustered from Chancery Lane within the hour. ‘What’s all this about?’ he demanded without a greeting. ‘The messenger insisted that I come at once. What has happened?’
‘Madeleine has disappeared,’ replied Mary. ‘She left her house at half an hour after nine this morning to walk here. When she did not arrive Thomas went to her house, thinking she might be ill. We cannot imagine where she is.’
‘Why was she walking here alone? Why was she not escorted?’
‘Oh come now, Joseph,’ said Charles firmly, ‘it was mid-morning and the streets would have been busy. There was no reason for her to be escorted. No blame attaches to anyone. And anyway it does not matter now. What matters is finding her.’
‘Can you help look for her, Joseph?’ asked Mary.
‘I’ll tell Mottershead to get to work on it immediately. If she’s been robbed or attacked in the street, he’ll soon find out.’
‘If she had been,’ said Thomas, ‘she would have raised the alarm or made her way here. It must be something else.’
‘And if she had been sent for by someone – Lady Babb, for instance – she would have sent word,’ agreed Mary.
‘Possibly, possibly.’ Joseph sounded distracted. ‘I’ll put Mottershead on it anyway. Let me know at once if you find her and I will do the same.’ He turned to leave. At the door, he added, ‘You were right to tell me,’ and was gone.
Thomas sat alone in his room, going over the events of the day in his mind. On her way from Fleet Street to Piccadilly, in the middle of a fine morning, Madeleine had disappeared. If she had been attacked, why had there been no hue and cry? If she had fallen or been struck by a coach, there would have been witnesses and word would have reached them. There must be more to it and it was not difficult to hazard a guess as to what had happened.
What was more, Joseph’s parting shot suggested that he too could guess. It was no secret that she was his cousin and an unseen watcher would also know that she and Thomas had become close. That made her doubly vulnerable and they should not have spoken freely in front of her. Knowing what she did would not help her if she had been abducted and was being questioned. She would suffer until she spoke and then she would die. And her abductors would know that the message had been decrypted and that their plans were no longer secret. They might have to change them and start again, but they would not fall into the trap of assuming they were safe. It was the worst of all possible outcomes, and the most likely.
That evening, after Charles and Mary had tried and failed to lift Thomas’s spirits – unsurprisingly, as their own spirits were just as low as his – he could no longer sit and wait. He had to get out and do something – almost anything would be better than waiting for the news that the body of a woman had been found under London Bridge, her clothing ripped, her face cut and a jagged scar running from her throat down her chest. He shook his head to clear the image, made his apologies to the Carringtons and ran out of the house.
An hour later, having aimlessly walked the streets and peered into dozens of dark alleys and doorways, Thomas found himself outside Madeleine’s house in the lane off Fleet Street. His knock was answered by Agnes. To his surprise, behind her stood the square figure of Josiah Mottershead, stick in hand and a belligerent look on his scarred face.
When he saw Thomas, Josiah put an arm around Agnes’s shoulders and moved her gently out of the way. ‘It’s you, Mr ’Ill,’ he said with some relief. ‘Come in and tell us the news.’
‘I have no news, I fear, Josiah. I merely thought to come here for want of anything better to do. And you? The same thought?’
‘Mr Williamson instructed me to search the ’ouse, sir, just in case there was some sort of clue.’
‘And have you searched it?’
‘I ’ave, sir, and found nothing. Agnes ’as baked a pie. We were about to eat it when you knocked.’
‘Would you care to join us, Mr Hill?’ asked Agnes. ‘There’s plenty.’
Thomas had never felt less like eating, but he needed company and he did not want to return to Piccadilly yet. ‘Thank you, Agnes. I’d be glad to.’
They sat around a small table in the kitchen. Agnes cut the pie and gave each of them a large slice. Agnes and Josiah, despite their obvious distress, polished theirs off speedily. Thomas could manage only a couple of mouthfuls.
‘Excellent pie,’ said Josiah, giving Agnes a smile and a pat on the hand, ‘don’t you agree, Mr ’Ill?’
‘Excellent indeed, Agnes. Although I fear I have little appetite.’
‘In times of trouble, I make a point of eating,’ said Josiah. ‘It keeps the body strong and the brain working. And a man in my line of work can never be sure when ’e might eat again. Eat your share if you can, sir, that’s my advice.’
Thomas had another try and swallowed two more mouthfuls before pushing his plate away. ‘Agnes, tell me again about this morning. Did Miss Stewart show any sign of worry or distress?’
‘None, sir, that I noticed. She was bright as ever and looking forward to seeing you. We talked about where you might go.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing, Josiah?’
‘No, sir. But I’ll be out again tonight. News often travels faster in the dark. I’ll ask about, see if anyone’s ’eard anything.’
‘I shall come with you.’
Josiah frowned and scratched his head. ‘That would no
t be a good idea, sir. You won’t pass as my cousin Tom in those clothes and, if you don’t mind me saying, I’ll ’ave a better chance on my own. You stay ’ere in case anyone calls and keep an eye on Agnes.’
Josiah was right. Where he was going, Thomas would stand out like a turkey in a hen house. ‘Very well. I’ll spend the night here and wait until you return.’
‘That’s better, sir. Agnes’ll take care of you, won’t you, Agnes?’
Agnes’s round face lit up. ‘Of course I will. Be a pleasure. And you take care too, Mottershead. I don’t want to have to mend that ugly head of yours.’
‘Don’t you worry about my ’ead, Agnes Cakebread. My ’ead’s taken a few knocks in its time and it’s still fixed on. You just look after Mr ’Ill.’
When Agnes had ushered Josiah out of the door, Thomas went to the sitting room, leaving her about her business in the kitchen. He needed to be alone and to concentrate on Madeleine. Just thinking about her might bring something to mind, some small clue as to what had happened to her.
He thought about what she had told him of her childhood, about the pain she had suffered, about her coming to London. He replayed in his mind their walks in the park and their whispered words in this house. He concentrated harder. He saw her sitting opposite him, distraught at having pushed him away, and tearfully recounting the horror of her rape. He thought and thought. And found nothing – neither clue nor inspiration. There could be but one explanation for her disappearance – she had the misfortune to be Joseph Williamson’s cousin and the lover of Thomas Hill. She had been abducted and would be interrogated for what she knew. Then she would be disposed of. Thomas’s gorge rose at the thought and he tasted bile in his throat. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply. It must not happen.
For Thomas there was no possible hope of sleep. He wandered into the kitchen, where Agnes was curled up on a pallet on the floor, and into the bedroom where they had made love, and he looked again at Madeleine’s paintings. With a wry smile, he realized that they were not quite as accomplished as he had at first thought – the brushwork in places was a little heavy – but they were good enough and they were hers.
He jumped at the sound of every footstep in the lane, expecting a knock on the door and the return of Josiah or the arrival of a messenger from Joseph. But none came and when dawn broke and Agnes emerged from the kitchen she found Thomas, red-eyed and haggard, sitting and staring at the empty hearth.
‘Mottershead’ll be back soon, sir,’ she said, doing her best to sound cheerful. ‘I’ll make some breakfast for you both.’
Before long, roused by the sounds and smells of cooking, Thomas shook his head free of the long night, stood up and stretched his legs and back. There was a knock on the door and when he opened it, Josiah came straight in. Thomas knew at once that he had learned nothing. There was not a hint of a smile on the little man’s face and, accustomed as he doubtless was to sleepless nights spent in the course of duty, he looked exhausted.
Josiah shook his head. ‘Not a squeak, sir. Nothing. If anyone knows what ’appened to Miss Stewart they’re not saying, and I don’t think they do know. I’d ’ave spotted it if they did.’ Thomas did not know whether to be relieved or dismayed. Neither sight nor sound, but no rumours of a robbery either. And, thank God, no body in the river.
Nothing, it seemed, interfered with Josiah’s appetite and he was soon demolishing more of Agnes’s pie. Thomas, as he had the previous evening, ate little. They listened as Josiah told them where he had been and to whom he had spoken. He had persevered all night, despite hearing not a word about a lady being robbed or attacked in the street.
‘I’ll go to Mr Williamson,’ he said, wiping his plate with a crust of bread. ‘’E’s expecting me and there will ’ave been other men out last night. Perhaps one of them ’eard something.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ replied Thomas, standing up from the table. ‘Let’s be off,’ he said, adding, ‘Unless you need to rest a while, Josiah,’ when he saw the look which passed between him and Agnes.
‘No, sir, rest can wait. Thank you for the food, Agnes. I shall be back later.’
‘I’ll be here,’ she replied, ‘and praying for better news.’
CHAPTER 16
JOSEPH WILLIAMSON HAD also been up all night. His shirt and coat were crumpled and his eyes were red. The lid of his left eye drooped over the pupil, giving him the look of a drunk, unable to focus. He led them into his library and invited them to sit. ‘What news, Mottershead?’ he asked without preamble.
‘None, sir, I fear,’ replied Josiah nervously. ‘Not a sound. I don’t understand it.’
‘No more do I.’ Joseph was tired and short-tempered. ‘How can a lady disappear in the middle of the day in a perfectly respectable part of London without anyone apparently having seen or heard anything at all? It beggars belief.’
‘So there’s been no word from anywhere?’ asked Thomas.
‘None. I sent four others out as well as Josiah. Not a glimmer from any of them. Three of my men dead and now Madeleine . . . we’ve lost control of our own city. Whoever these traitors are – Aurum and Argentum and their murdering friends – they must be as cunning as the devil. And I’ve heard nothing from that drunken sot Manners. I’ve told him to let me know at once if he has any suspicions.’
‘Are you convinced that Madeleine’s disappearance is connected to the murders?’ asked Thomas.
‘I am now. Anything else and we would have heard something. Don’t you agree, Mottershead?’
‘I do, sir.’
Williamson turned to Thomas. ‘Mottershead knows about the letter and the spy ring. I thought it best to tell him in case he picked up a murmur about the names. I do wish we had not said anything to Madeleine, however. Stupid fool that I am, this did not occur to me. It should have.’
‘If there’s nothing else, sir,’ said Mottershead, ‘I’ll be off. I’ve still a few places to visit.’
‘Of course, Mottershead. Report back this evening, please, or the moment you hear a word.’
‘I will, sir. Goodbye, Mr ’Ill. And don’t worry, we’ll find ’er safe and well. I can feel it in the Mottershead bones.’
Thomas managed a weak smile. ‘Do your best, Josiah. If anyone can find Madeleine, you can.’
When Mottershead had gone, Joseph pulled off his long wig and scratched the top of his head. ‘God’s wounds, but I hope he’s right. I’d never forgive myself if Madeleine were to come to any harm on my account.’
‘Nor I,’ agreed Thomas. ‘Is there no more intelligence?’
‘None. If it wasn’t so serious, it would be comic.’ Williamson rubbed his eyes. ‘I have never seen the king so angry. “Our entire intelligence service with no intelligence,” he said. “Murders, abductions and a Franco-Dutch plot about which we know next to nothing. Get to the bottom of this without delay, Mr Williamson, or we will find someone else to do so.” I am going to Cloak Lane to speak to Morland and Squire again, Thomas. Will you accompany me?’
‘If you wish it. And if Squire thinks the letter might have been tampered with, perhaps we should also speak to his chief clerk.’
At the Post Office, Henry Bishop was less than pleased to see them. He berated them for yet another intrusion into the daily workings of his Post Office and complained about his lack of staff, Morland’s ungracious behaviour and Squire’s frequent absences. Joseph and Thomas sat silently until the outburst was over. Then Joseph asked quietly if Morland might be fetched. Without another word, Bishop stormed out.
If anything, Sir Samuel Morland was even less pleased to see them than Henry Bishop. ‘I assume you have come to inform me that this man has failed to decode the intercepted letter?’ he barked, glaring at Williamson. ‘If you now wish me to do so, you will be disappointed. I am much too busy.’
Joseph ignored the bait. ‘That is not our purpose. We simply wish to confirm some facts.’
‘What facts?’
‘That you did not see the original letter
, only the copy made by Mr Squire.’
‘I have said so. Why do you ask again?’
‘So you cannot comment on Squire’s view that the seal might have been tampered with?’
‘If anyone tampered with the seal it must have been one of the clerks. Or Squire himself.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘That is for you to establish.’
Williamson leaned forward in his chair. ‘Be sure that we shall, Sir Samuel.’ He paused. ‘And why did you suppose that you alone could break the numerical code?’
The look that Morland shot at Thomas was so venomous that Thomas felt himself recoil. ‘Because I am the most accomplished cryptographer in England. I do not believe that this man has the skill to do it. And it seems that I am right.’ Thomas bit his tongue. Much as he wanted to humiliate this hateful man, they had agreed to keep his decryption secret.
‘Very well, Sir Samuel,’ said Williamson. ‘Now please be good enough to ask Mr Squire to join us.’ With another look of pure poison, Morland left.
Thomas exhaled. ‘That man should hang, guilty or not.’
Williamson laughed. ‘You are not alone in that opinion. Let us hope Squire is in a more helpful frame of mind.’
When Squire bustled in, Thomas only just stopped himself from laughing. Even by Lemuel’s standards, his outfit that day was bizarre. His ample stomach was encased in a short green jacket with a high collar, over a cream shirt with huge mutton-chop sleeves and a long red skirt. On his feet he wore blue heeled shoes with silver buckles. The whole ensemble was finished with abundant ribbons of assorted colours. In certain circles such an outfit was the very height of fashion. On the rotund Squire it was merely comical.
He adjusted his wig and wiped his face with a pink handkerchief. ‘Good day, gentlemen. How can I be of service?’ The smile was as wide as ever.
‘Just a few questions for clarification, Lemuel. How long was the encrypted letter on your desk before you opened it?’ asked Joseph.
‘I was away for two days.’
‘And you opened it as soon as you returned?’
The King's Return: (Thomas Hill 3) (Thomas Hill Novels) Page 15