Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

The second man followed the mark up the lane. The Dutchman swore under his breath and was about to abandon the job – the first he had ever abandoned – when the second man turned down an alley off the lane. Without conscious thought, the Dutchman made a decision. Still holding the iron bar, he ran up the lane until he was just a few yards behind the mark. But the mark had almost reached the top of the lane where the streets were likely to be busier. He called out, ‘Henry. Is that you?’ The mark stopped and turned. The Dutchman raised the iron bar and leapt forward. But he had lost the advantage of surprise and this was no easy opponent. The mark was alert enough to parry the strike with his arms and aim a kick at his attacker’s knee. The Dutchman sensed it coming, swivelled on his left leg and used the mark’s momentum to push him face down on to the cobbles. He was on the prostrate man at once. One hard blow with the iron bar and blood gushed from the back of the mark’s head. He lay still.

The Dutchman had to move fast. He might have been heard and someone might appear at the top of the lane. He would have left the body where it was and disappeared, but his orders were to dump it in the river. He stuck the iron bar back in his belt, picked up the dead man’s ankles and dragged him back down the alley. He was a big man and it was hard going over the cobbles. It was also noisy. More than once he was tempted to abandon the effort, but he prided himself on always completing a task exactly as instructed, so he pressed on, ready to let go of the ankles and run if he had to. He was lucky. No one had heard the commotion and no one appeared in the lane. When he reached the bottom of the lane, he dragged the body over a narrow strip of shingle littered with empty bottles and rotting food, and heaved it into the river.

It was done. Not even stopping to recover his breath, the Dutchman walked briskly back up the lane and set off for the house in Wapping.

FOR THE FIRST two weeks Thomas had been proved right. He spent his time encrypting dull messages to Williamson’s agents in Holland and France and decrypting their equally dull replies. The few intercepted letters were easily dealt with, the most difficult being a nomenclator – a mix of letters and numbers – and he had been able to return every original with its transcription within twenty-four hours.

Despite not having used his skills for years, he quickly rediscovered what his old tutor, Abraham Fletcher, had called ‘Hill’s magic’. It was like riding a horse. Once you knew how, you never forgot, and his knack of visualizing the encrypter of a message soon yielded gratifying results. By seeing the man as young or old, short or tall, fat or thin, he could often divine what type of encryption he would have used. He found himself wishing for something more demanding. What was more, not one of the letters revealed anything more alarming than an enquiry about the date and strength of the next spring tide in the Thames and Thomas wondered why anyone had bothered to encode them. And he had heard nothing more about the deaths of Smith or Winter, or indeed of Babb.

On the day of Thomas’s fifth visit to Williamson’s house, however, matters took a new turn. He was awoken from a nap in his room just off the entrance hall by a loud knock on the front door and the arrival of a man with a loud voice.

‘Josiah Mottershead, ’ere for Mr Williamson. I must see ’im at once.’

‘Mr Williamson is upstairs and has asked not to be disturbed,’ replied the steward.

‘Tell ’im Mottershead’s ’ere. ’E’ll want to be disturbed for that.’

‘I’m not sure, sir …’

‘Mottershead. Just tell ’im.’

‘Very well, sir. Kindly wait here.’

While the steward went to find Williamson, Thomas wondered whether to make himself known to this insistent visitor. The day’s work had been particularly dull and he could do with a little excitement. He opened the door of his room and stepped into the hall. Josiah Mottershead was sitting in an upright chair, his hat in his hands and his hands on his lap. A stout stick rested against the chair. He jumped up when he saw Thomas.

‘Josiah Mottershead, sir, to see Mr Williamson.’

‘Yes, Master Mottershead, I know,’ replied Thomas. ‘I am Thomas Hill, an aide of Mr Williamson.’

For several seconds, the two men stared at each other, neither knowing what to say next. Despite being six inches shorter than Thomas, Mottershead was a powerful-looking man with muscular shoulders and thick legs. He had a nose that had been in more than one fight, a mangled right ear and a scar on his left cheek. He wore his hair tied back with a black ribbon and a short black coat and breeches, both of which had seen better days, and he held the stick not by the knot which formed its handle but six inches down the shaft. It took Thomas a moment to realize that Josiah Mottershead had unusually long arms for his height. While his right arm held the stick, the left reached almost to his knee. He did not immediately strike Thomas as a likely employee of the Post Office.

Williamson came bustling down the stairs. ‘Mottershead. What the devil brings you here during the day? I see you’ve met Mr Hill.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mottershead, ‘I ’ave. Did you want me to speak in front of Mr ’Ill, or shall we be private?’

Not a man to mince words, thought Thomas. I wonder what he does.

‘Both, I think,’ said Williamson. ‘May we use your room, Thomas? Do join us.’

‘Of course,’ said Thomas, holding the door for them, and thinking, Now I shall find out.

Mottershead did not stand on ceremony. ‘Copestick’s dead, sir. ’E’s at the coroner’s. I came at once, soon as I ’eard.’

Williamson’s face was black. ‘What do you know about it?’ he growled.

‘Not much, sir. ’E was found in the river a little upstream from the bridge. A wherryman pulled ’im out.’

‘Did he drown?’

‘Don’t know, sir.’

Williamson stared at the floor. ‘The devil’s balls,’ he said so quietly that Thomas barely heard him. ‘Another one.’ He looked up. ‘We’d better go straight to the coroner’s office before that fool Manners does something stupid again. He made an impossible mess of poor Winter before I got to him. Every shred of evidence destroyed. Drunken clod. Come with us, Thomas. We can talk on the way.’

Thomas was unsure. ‘Is that wise? I have work to do here.’

‘Nonsense. Another pair of eyes can’t hurt.’

They were soon loaded into Williamson’s carriage and trundling over the cobbles up Ludgate Hill towards Moorgate, where the coroner’s office was located.

Williamson was visibly agitated. He rubbed his hands together nervously and tapped his foot on the floor of the carriage. ‘This is very bad,’ he said. ‘Henry Copestick worked for me in the Post Office. His job was to look out for suspicious behaviour and to report privately to me on the conduct of his colleagues. If he too was discovered, we are in grave danger.’

‘And what do you do, Mr Mottershead, if I may ask?’ enquired Thomas.

Williamson replied as if the little man was not there. ‘Mottershead is employed by me to gather intelligence. He’s adept at judging the mood of the common man and reports anything he hears which has to do with our national security. His face is well known in the alehouses and taverns of London, is it not, Mottershead?’

‘It is, sir, although only you know my real purpose in being there. I make sure no one else knows where I live or ’ow I earn my living.’

‘Does no one ever ask?’ enquired Thomas.