Page 69 of The Armor of Light

Like all but the most prosperous Kingsbridge tradesmen, Hiscock lived at his business premises. There was no basement, and the front of the house had not been altered, so Hornbeam guessed the print shop must be at the back.

Hornbeam said: ‘Knock on the door, Doye.’

The sheriff banged four times with the knob of his stick. The family inside would know that this was not a polite call by a friendly neighbour.

The door was opened by Hiscock himself, a tall, thin man of about thirty who had hastily put on a coat over his nightshirt. He knew immediately that he was in trouble, and the sudden fear in his eyes gave Hornbeam a shiver of pleasure.

Doye spoke in a tone of immense self-importance. ‘The justices have been informed that these premises are being used for the printing of seditious material.’

Hiscock found a measure of courage. ‘This is a free country,’ he said. ‘Englishmen are entitled to their opinions. We are not Russian serfs.’

Hornbeam said: ‘Your freedom does not include the right to subvert the government – as any fool knows.’ He made a gesture urging Doye forward.

‘Get out of the way,’ said Doye to Hiscock, and he barged into the house.

Hiscock stood back to admit them, and Hornbeam followed Doye, with the other two in tow.

Having made a masterful gesture, Doye found himself unsure where to go. After a moment of dithering he said: ‘Um, Hiscock, you are ordered to escort the justices to your print shop.’

Hiscock led them through the house. In the kitchen they were stared at by his frightened wife, a bewildered maid and a little girl sucking her thumb. Hiscock picked up an oil lamp as he passed through the room. The back door of the house led directly into a workshop that smelled of oiled metal, new paper and ink.

Hornbeam looked around, suffering a moment of uncertainty, staring at unfamiliar machinery, but he quickly figured out what was what. He identified trays containing metal letters, neatly sorted in columns; a frame in which the letters were arranged to form words and sentences; and a heavy device with a long handle that had to be the press. All around were stacked bundles and boxes of paper, some plain and some already printed.

He looked at the letters in the frame: this must be Hiscock’s work in progress. Perhaps it was the incriminating pamphlet, he thought, his heart beating a little faster. But he could not read the words. ‘More light!’ he said, and Hiscock obediently lit several lamps. Still Hornbeam could not read what was in the frame: the words seemed to be spelt backwards. ‘Is this in code?’ he said accusingly.

Hiscock looked at him with contempt. ‘What you’re looking at is a mirror image of what will appear on the sheet of paper,’ he said; then, in a tone of scorn, he added: ‘As any fool knows.’

As soon as this was pointed out, Hornbeam realized it was obvious that the metal letters must be a right-to-left reversal of the printed image, and he felt foolish. ‘Of course,’ he said abruptly, smarting from Hiscock’sAs any fool knows.

Looking at the type in this light he saw that it was a calendar for the coming year, 1796.

Hiscock said: ‘Calendars are my specialty. This one features all the Church festivals of the year. It’s popular with the clergy.’

Hornbeam turned away from the frame impatiently. ‘This isn’t what we’re looking for. Open all those boxes and untie the bundles. There’s revolutionary propaganda here somewhere.’

Hiscock said: ‘When you realize there’s no such material here, will you help me repack the boxes and tie up the bundles?’

Such a stupid question did not merit an answer, and Hornbeam ignored it.

Doye and Davidson began the search, and Hornbeam and Riddick looked on. Hiscock’s wife came in, a slim woman with chiselled good looks. She assumed a defiant air that was not quite convincing. ‘What’s going on?’

Hiscock said: ‘Don’t worry, my dear. The sheriff is looking for something that isn’t here.’

Hornbeam was a bit worried by how confident he sounded.

Mrs Hiscock looked at Sheriff Doye. ‘You’re making an awful mess.’

Doye opened his mouth to speak, but apparently failed to think of what to say, and he just closed his mouth again.

Hiscock said to his wife: ‘Go back to the kitchen. Give Emmy her breakfast.’

Mrs Hiscock hesitated, evidently not pleased at being dismissed; but after a moment she disappeared.

Hornbeam looked around. The woman was right, the place was beginning to look untidy; but more importantly, they had not found anything subversive. ‘Just calendars, mainly,’ said Doye. ‘A box of leaflets for the theatre, all about their coming shows, and a flyer for a new shop selling fancy tableware.’

Hiscock said: ‘Are you satisfied now, Hornbeam?’

‘Alderman Hornbeam, to you.’ He feared this was going to be mortifying. Stubbornly he said: ‘It’s here somewhere. Search the living quarters.’