Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘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 not 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.