Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

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?’