A Broken Vessel (31 page)

“It ain’t lying. It’s just keeping mum about some’ut as ain’t his business anyhow. It’s best if he don’t know. You and Dip is the
two coves I cares about most in the world. I don’t want to blow the coals betwixt you.”

“Very well. I couldn’t refuse you anything at the moment, anyway.”

“Have a care, I might ask for diamonds next.”

“Then I shall go through the Insolvent Debtors’ Court with a smile on my face.”

“You’re off your head!” she laughed.

“Whose fault do you suppose that is?”

He rolled her over on her back, and kissed her lips, and the fluttering pulse in her throat. She wound her arms around him, stroking the muscles in his shoulders and back. His hands moved over her, his long, strong fingers playing her skillfully. She began to think the piano was very good training for a man.

He sat up suddenly. “Do you know what our problem is?”

“I didn’t know we had one,” she murmured, nibbling his ear.

“Seriously. Stop that for a moment. And definitely stop
that
.” He caught her hand, laughing. “Listen to me. Our problem is that we have too much information.”

She gaped at him. Was he really going to talk about the murder—
now?

He evidently was. “When we began investigating those three men, we expected to find evidence linking one of them to the murder, or at least to the refuge. Instead, we’re over head and ears in clues and suspicious circumstances. Fiske turns out to be intimately connected with the refuge, and to have a fugitive son who was accused of killing a woman once before. Avondale’s father is Harcourt’s patron, and he himself seems to have abducted, or at least mislaid, a girl named Rosemary. Rawdon is engaged in some decidedly rum business, and before we’re finished we may find further evidence against him. But only one of those three men had Mary’s letter in his pocket. Until we find out who it was, we won’t know which facts are important. We shall be conducting three investigations, when we ought to be concentrating on one.”

“That’s true enough.” Sally sat up, interested in spite of herself. Julian drew up the bedclothes around her. The room had grown cold during the night, but neither of them had wanted to leave their nest to put more coals on the fire. They had not even opened the bedcurtains, though a faint light filtering through the gaps showed that dawn must just be breaking.

She clasped her arms around her knees, thinking. “What if we was to write to each of them three coves, and tell ’em we have the letter? We could say, come and meet us at such-and-such a place, and maybe we’ll sell it to you. Then we could go there and see which cove shows.”

“Do you know, that just might answer the purpose. Whichever man lost that letter probably wants it back very badly. Of course, Fiske claimed to know nothing about it, but you didn’t have it with you, so he had nothing to gain by admitting you stole it from him. If he saw the chance of getting it back, he might change his tune. Of course, if our man is Avondale or Rawdon, he’ll be taken aback to hear from you—he’ll wonder how you identified him. But he probably wouldn’t realize you don’t know from whom you stole the letter. He’d assume he was the only one you wrote to about it, and wouldn’t guess he was giving you a new piece of information by acknowledging it as his.

“All the same,” he warned, “we’d have to be very cautious. The man who had that letter in his pocket may be Mary’s murderer, and, if he is, he won’t be squeamish about killing again.”

“If I plays me cards right, he won’t think I’m worth killing. I won’t let on I knows who wrote the letter, nor anything about it. I’ll just say I guessed there was some’ut rum about it and thought he might fork out a quid or two to get it back. Which he most likely will, and then he’ll think he’s safe.”

“But you’d have to give him the letter, and we don’t want to part with it. And what do you mean by
I
? You can’t seriously think I’d let you meet this man alone?”

“Why not?”

“If you tell me once more that you can take care of yourself, I’ll lock you in the hall cupboard till the investigation is over.”

“That’s how it al’ays is with coves,” she complained. “Lift your heels for ’em, and they thinks they owns you.”

“I’m not going to argue with you about this. You’re not going to confront that man without me, and there’s an end of it.” He drew her against him. “Do you think I could let anything happen to you, after last night?”

She was mollified, but wanted a little revenge. “Cor, look how light it is! Time we got up.”

“Not yet.”

“Dip’ll be back any minute.”

“Then we’d best make the most of the time we have.”

She tried to slip out through the bedcurtains, but he pulled her back. There was a scuffle, ending in a joyous surrender.

They got up about half an hour later. Sally played valet to Julian, tidying his bedroom, preparing his bath, and laying out his clothes. She even insisted on shaving him. He looked doubtfully at her as she hovered over him with a razor. “Are you quite sure you know what to do with that?”

“’Course I does! Me sailor taught me.” She tweaked his hair reproachfully. “Last night you said me hands was mi-ra-culous.”

“The context was somewhat different.”

“You stash your patter, or you just might lose your nose.”

It turned out she handled the razor very deftly. Julian gave himself up to the pleasure of being shaved. But when she would have helped him on with his clothes, he shooed her out, saying her presence was highly detrimental to his ever getting dressed at all. She went into the parlour, where she put coffee on to boil and speared bread on toasting-forks. Seeing an apple-seller in the street, she ran out and bought half a dozen pippins.

By the time Dipper came home, they were breakfasting demurely in the parlour. Dipper reported on what he and Annie had found out at Smith and Company. “Tea-pots and tea-chests?” said Julian. “You’re right: it must be some sort of code.”

“For what?” asked Sally.

“That’s what we have to find out.” He considered. “Smith and Company purports to be a business; the sign on the door
says ‘Dealers and Importers.’ I think it’s time we provided Mr. Rawdon with a customer.”

Sally stared. “What, you mean walk in and ask to buy a tea-chest?”

“It might be as simple as that.”

“But you dunno what that means.”

“He won’t know I don’t. He may assume that since I know about the code, I must understand it. And if he’s angry or suspicious, the worst he can do is put me over the door.”

“It might do the trick at that, sir,” said Dipper. “But won’t he be took aback to have a gentry-cove like you come asking after his wares?”

“Since we don’t know what his business is, how can we know what sort of customers he’s expecting? The role of bored young exquisite in search of amusement might make a rather good cover. If worst comes to worst, I can always say I came to see him on a wager. That excuses any sort of odd or asinine behaviour in a gentleman.”

Sally broke in, “But what about me idea of setting a trap for the cove I pinched the letter from?”

“It’s a good one,” said Julian, “but it needs fleshing out. For the moment, I should rather concentrate on Mr. Rawdon.”

She hunched down sulkily in her chair.

“I was thinking, sir,” said Dipper. “If Mrs. M. was to find out Sally’s come back—”

“Good God, I forgot all about Queen Mab. We’ll have to ask her to let Sally lodge with her again.”

“I don’t want to go back there. She ain’t a bad sort, but I likes it here.”

“There’ll be the deuce to pay if she finds out you stayed here again last night, after she told us she didn’t approve. I owe her some consideration. She’s a first-rate landlady—I don’t suppose there are half a dozen like her in London. I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”

“Come on, Sal.” Dipper took her arm. “Let’s pack up your traps.”

“I’ll do it.” She jumped up and ran off. She had to disarrange his room a bit before he saw it, to make him think she had slept up there.

Dipper looked after her, puzzled. Then he shrugged and began clearing away the breakfast things. When he had finished, he went into Mr. Kestrel’s room. He noted appreciatively that Sally had tried to tidy it. She had made the bed, but clumsily; he would have to do it over.

As he pulled back the covers, something flew out and bounced along the floor. He picked it up. It was a button covered in green wool, with a bit of broken thread hanging from it. He knew it was not his master’s. It came from Sally’s dress.

He looked more closely at the bed. Clinging to one pillow was a long brown hair that was certainly not Mr. Kestrel’s.

He smiled, put the hair in the dustbin, and pocketed the button, whistling softly to himself. So Sally had finally brought Mr. Kestrel up to scratch. Dipper could not but be pleased. It brought him and his master closer, somehow—like being brothers-in-law, wrong side of the blanket. Of course, he would not say anything about it to Mr. Kestrel. It was just the kind of thing he would feel delicate about. Mr. Kestrel could be skittish, like a high-bred horse. You had to be careful how you came at him, or he’d shy.

Later that morning, Julian strolled into Smith and Company. Lifting his quizzing-glass, he surveyed both the office and Mr. Rawdon. Neither appeared to impress him very much. He inspected a chair to see if it was clean and sat down.

Rawdon watched him from behind his desk, appraising and a little wary. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Mr. Rawdon.” Julian smiled and lounged back in his chair, stretching out his legs.

“You know my name.”

“Oh, you’re very well known in some circles.”

That seemed a safe enough generalization. Rawdon even looked faintly pleased—or as pleased as his pinched countenance would allow.

“What can I do for you?”

“I thought I might make a purchase.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“What do you recommend?”

“We don’t make recommendations. We supply what our customers ask for. Their tastes are their own affair.”

“What can you show me in the way of”—Julian chose at random—“tea-chests?”

Rawdon smiled unpleasantly. Julian thought: I’ve just signalled something about myself—something dishonourable or embarrassing—and he enjoys being let in on the secret.

“We have a wide variety,” said Rawdon. “Some are cracked, but there are some new ones as well. What’s your preference?”

“Oh, a new one, I think.”

“They don’t come cheap.”

“My dear sir, I beg you won’t plague me with figures. I can’t abide them.”

“You have to know the price. It’s fifty pounds. Have it with you, in cash, when you take delivery of the item. One of our employees will be there to see that the money’s paid. I’d advise you not to argue with him. He’s been known to do very nasty things to a gentleman’s face.”

“You have such a charming manner about you, Mr. Rawdon, it’s no wonder your business is flourishing.” Julian glanced around at the bare, dingy office.

“We’re doing very well,” Rawdon said tightly. “There’s no need to furnish up the office—we don’t get many customers calling on us in person. Most of our patrons write, or send for someone to call on them.”

“I was—curious.”

Rawdon shrugged. “Tell me more about what you’re looking for. Do you want the tea-chest gilded? Painted?”

Julian considered the matter, with an epicurean air. “Gilded.”

“Hm.” Rawdon consulted the leatherbound book on his desk. “We can supply you with a tea-chest of plain work, porcelain and gilded. It came in eleven days ago. What do you say?”

“It sounds satisfactory.”

“Right.” Rawdon shut the book with a snap. “You can pick it up tonight at ten o’clock, in Windmill Street. Here’s the number of the house.” He wrote it down. “And remember, have the money in cash.”

Julian rose and took up his walking-stick.

“One more thing,” said Rawdon. “I need a name to call you by. It doesn’t matter what it is, so long as you always use the same one.”

Julian smiled. “Why not call me Mr. Ketch?”

“After the famous hangman? I don’t think much of your sense of humour, sir!”