Theobald’s Bookshop was a blackened wreck, flour-dusted by the night’s light snowfall, the roof fallen in, the windows smashed. A breeze stirred the ashes, sending the burned ghosts of pages twisting into the air. The nearby houses were charred but still standing.
He became aware of a couple of people watching him. “What happened?” he demanded, and his voice did not sound like his own.
“The Hobhouse boys, that’s what happened, sir,” a woman offered. “Couple of wretches from Ave Marie Lane with a grudge against Mr. Mason on account of he thrashed their thieving brothers for ’em. Set the place lit on Monday night. Could have burned the whole street, the little—”
“Arson?” Dominic stared at the wreckage. “Monday?”
“Monday night, about two of the clock, when we was all abed—”
“Where’s Mason?”
“Ooh,” said his informant. “Well, sir, I couldn’t say—”
“Did he get out?”
“Aye, sir, aye,” said the woman’s companion soothingly. “No fear of that. He was fighting fire with the rest of us till past dawn. Got out with the clothes on his back, nothing more.”
“God’s mercy he still had his skin,” the other said.
Dominic muttered agreement. “Where is he?”
That, it seemed, nobody knew. Silas had watched his home and place of business, with all his stock, burn to the ground, and then he had disappeared into London. Nobody had seen him since Tuesday morning. They had all been much more interested in the Hobhouse boys’ arrest. There had been a witness who had raised the alarm, it seemed; the scum would hang. As if Dominic cared.
Silas was penniless, homeless, and he hadn’t come last night.
Harry would know. He’ll have gone to Harry, Dominic told himself, and embraced the hurt that thought gave, because it meant Silas was safe and warm instead of lost on London’s bitter streets. Dominic didn’t allow himself to wonder why Harry would not have said anything to him. Silas had surely gone to Harry.
It was not yet midday. He went straight to Julius’s rooms, since Harry was as likely to be there as at his nominal home with Richard, and found the pair recruiting their strength with coffee, ham, and eggs.
“Dominic, welcome,” Julius said as he entered. “Good God, what’s wrong?”
“Silas,” Dominic snapped at Harry. “Where is he?”
“Silas? I’ve no idea. Has something happened?”
Dominic stared, mouth open. “You don’t know? But…”
“Sit down.” That was Julius at his elbow, forcing him into a chair. “Coffee. Drink that and then enlighten us. What’s going on?”
“The bookshop burned down on Monday night. Arson, some bully’s grudge. He’s lost everything and he’s gone.”
“Where?” Harry demanded, white-faced.
“He doesn’t know, my love. That’s why he’s here,” Julius said. “Apply your intelligence. Has he family?”
Harry shook his head. “A cousin. William Mason, the printer. I doubt he’d go there, though; he’s always been careful with contact. Because of the, you know, writing.”
Julius nodded. “Other radicals then. Who?”
“Uh…Some of the Spenceans, maybe, but they’re all poor as church mice. I’m sure they’d help if they could, but he wouldn’t want to be a burden. That’s the problem. It would need to be someone he could trust, who could afford to help, but also someone he wouldn’t taint by association.” Harry met Dominic’s eyes, his deep blue gaze full of urgent desire to be believed. “That’s the reason he wouldn’t come to you. He wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Or, presumably, you,” Julius said. “So where would he go? Or, and I regret to be the one to say this, what if he hasn’t gone anywhere? Was he injured in the fire?”
“Not that I could learn,” Dominic said. “But he’s alone on the streets, and it’s cold.”
“My understanding is that this man is not an imbecile,” Julius said crisply. “Or do you both believe he’d rather freeze to death than ask for help?”
“But his books burned,” Harry said. “His books.”
“Yes, yes, wounded animal, I take your point. Then think of a burrow, dear boy, while Dominic drinks some more coffee, and both of you at least pretend to mental fortitude.”
Julius’s astringency won him few friends, but it focused the mind. Harry threw out a few names, none with any great certainty, none that Dominic knew.
“What about Millay’s?” he asked after a while. “Mistress Zoë and he seemed good friends.”