When the cabbie heard where we wanted to go, he demanded double the half-crown he’d been promised, and Rosie agreed to pay him on condition he broke every rule of traffic in his efforts to get there quickly. To his credit, he did, whipping his horse brutally as we weaved along the road, at one point tipping so far over as we hurtled round a corner I thought we might capsize.
Peter seemed exalted by the whole experience. His eyes were shining. Several times, he put his head out of the window and whooped at people as they dodged out of the way.
‘Master Thackery,’ said Rosie, in a rare moment he was seated. ‘Are you not concerned by what we’re doing?’
He grinned. ‘This is all a waste of time, I’m sure of it. Mother has never done anything dangerous in her whole life. She can’t even walk without a stick.’
The paving ran out at the docks and our cab had to slow down on the muddy tracks. The bridge was the same as the last time I’d been there, lined with beggars unsexed by their emaciation, slouched against the wall or sitting on the ground, hands out for farthings.
We disembarked and hurried down the lane towards the mill. In the shadow of the railway embankment and surrounded by marshes, the buildings resembled ships marooned on a windless lake.
A crowd of a dozen or so men and women were huddled around a brazier of red-hot coals. The mill itself was grim and silent.
Two of the men stood up.
‘There’s a strike,’ one of them said.
‘Let us by,’ I told him, in no mood to be delayed. ‘Our business isn’t with you.’
He shrugged and watched us pass, the only noise coming from the squelching of our shoes in the mud.
Peter unlocked the main door and threw it open. I led the way through the anteroom. In the eerie silence, I could hear pigeons trapped in the building, flapping against the skylights.
Our eyes slowly adjusted. The long lines of machines were dormant, half-chewed jute spilling from their mouths. Where in this place might Aiden and Ciara be? They could be locked up in a storeroom or gagged and bound in a cupboard, and I might never be able to find them.
‘Aiden!’ I shouted. ‘Ciara!’
All I wanted was to hear their voices; a cry, a sneeze, a cough – anything would do. I strained in the forbidding silence, but there was nothing.
We searched as thoroughly as we could, walking up and down the lines, looking from side to side, peering under tables and trolleys, opening crates and chests, always thinking: this is the place. They will be here. Rosie stayed close to me, two lines along, matching my pace, but Peter roamed across the building. At one point I caught sight of him climbing up an immense rack of shelves the height of a cottage, sitting at the top and surveying his father’s empire.
Twice, out of the corner of my eye, I was sure I saw movement. The second time, I dashed quickly round the corner to where I thought it was. The dust on the floor was covered with boot prints and skittering trails of rats’ paws, and I couldn’t tell which were recent and which were old.
‘Edwin?’ I called out, but there was no reply.
My one comfort was the mechanics of the search: lifting lids, turning handles, occasionally calling out their names. I will do this for ever, if necessary, I thought. I will search inch by inch and hour by hour until I find them.
I did something I’d only done three or four times since I was a child. I prayed under my breath: No matter what you think of me, oh Lord, please let Aiden and Ciara live. Please. I will do anything. I will pretend to be Lottie again, if that’s what you want.
The stillness was oppressive. I noticed that Rosie was searching more gingerly than me and in smaller spaces: stock boxes, cupboards and rubbish sacks. I had the feeling she wasn’t looking for two grateful children, but for two tiny bodies, curled up.
When we reached the end of the building, she took my hand.
‘Leo—’
At that moment, we heard footsteps, growing louder. Through the murk I could see two figures coming towards us, one the unmistakeable frame of Constable Pallett, and the other Hooper, increasing his speed as he saw us.
‘What’re you doing here?’ he demanded.
Peter had seen them too, and loped over to where we were standing, adopting a superior expression exactly like Sir Reginald’s. ‘They’re with me,’ he said. ‘This is my father’s mill. Why are you here might be a better question.’
Hooper flagged in the face of such youthful brio. ‘We’re looking for Edwin Cowdery. Have you seen him?’
‘No, Detective,’ I said. ‘But he might be hiding here somewhere.’
If he was here, it would be best that they found him before he carried out his plan.
‘It’s Detective Inspector,’ Hooper corrected me, though without much conviction. ‘It’s my theory Cowdery will have another go at burning down this mill, and we intend to catch ’im at it.’ He licked his lips. ‘Not to mention, he’s a suspect in the murder of John Thackery, who called himself John Duport, with apologies for my bluntness, Master Thackery, him being your brother and all—’‘He wasn’t my brother,’ interrupted Peter. ‘He was adopted.’‘Yes, so I understand,’ agreed Hooper. ‘Which might explain his duplicity. Be that as it may, he was killed with a sword right through him, same as the girl, only a day after we let Cowdery out of jail. Stands to reason Cowdery’s the guilty party.’
I thought Hooper was wrong. I had examined John’s body, and he had been dead for a few days. But I couldn’t disclose that.
‘It’s not important.’ I spoke so firmly he took a step backwards. ‘Dora Hannigan’s children are here somewhere, taken against their will by Lady Thackery. They’re in danger, do you understand? Now, help us find them.’
‘You think Lady Thackery stole ’em?’ Hooper chuckled, shaking his head. ‘You’re clueless, Stanhope, whatever the newspapers claim.’
I was about to respond, and probably get myself into considerable trouble, when I realised there was one place we hadn’t searched. He was right, I was clueless.
‘There’s a pair of cottages,’ I said. ‘At the back.’
Without waiting for the others, I ran out through the rear door and into the pale glow from the railway embankment. The cottages were on the other side of the paving, which was half-submerged. The wind had kicked up, sending brisk squalls across the pools of water and flogging my coat around my legs.
In the left-hand cottage, the lamps were lit.
Constable Pallett had followed me, with Rosie and Peter a few steps behind. I peered through the window into the front room. It was empty. We stole as quietly as we could around to the back. I had a momentary fear that a carriage would be there, and we would have to deal with the driver, but the patch of mud was bare, glistening in the reflected light.
Pallett tried the handle of the back door, and it opened. Rosie put her hand on his arm.
‘Be careful,’ she whispered. ‘Her Ladyship has a gun.’
Inside, the room was warm and smoky, making my cold fingers ache. On the table, a pile of clothes was still wet from the mangle, as though someone hadn’t yet got around to hanging them up. I recognised Aiden’s sweater and Ciara’s dress.
A child’s voice cried out from somewhere upstairs. I’d spent so long yearning to hear it that, when I did, I wasn’t sure it was real. But Rosie’s head jerked up too, and then I heard it again. Without a doubt, it was Ciara. She sounded close to tears.
‘Wait, Mr Stanhope,’ instructed Pallett.
I ignored him and headed for the stairs, with Rosie close behind me. It was an effort of will not to run, but I had to stay quiet; with any luck, I could rescue the children before Lady Thackery even knew we were there.
The fourth stair creaked under my weight.
There was a noise and the door to the parlour crashed open. I turned, and Lady Thackery was standing there holding a pistol with both hands, shaking so hard it could have been aimed at any one of us. She was wearing full mourning weeds and her face was contorted as she tried to find the strength in her fingers to pull the trigger. She pointed the gun towards me and I heard a shout and a bang so loud in the confined space of the stairwell it sounded almost muffled, as if I’d been clapped on both ears at once.
Rosie cried out and fell.
Lady Thackery gasped as she saw her son. Pallett lurched forwards and barged into her, throwing her backwards into the parlour.
I knelt next to Rosie, who was lying at the bottom of the stairs, her breathing coming shallow and fast.
Across her upper arm, a red patch was growing.