Daffy ate while Gus text-groveled to his protection officer.
Just down at the Belly of the Beast with Daffy Caron. All is well. Home soon.
I’m coming down.
No need. I’ll text when I’m back.
But he knew Hemstead would barge through the pub’s heavy door before he finished his pint.
“Good?” Ernst returned and pulled round a chair. “Well? Whatcha?”
“Right, down to business.” Gus exchanged a look with Daffy. “I’m looking for a craftsman. A furniture maker who’s more an artisan than anything. We have a delicate repair. You know everyone in the Old Hamlet. Does anyone have those ancient carpentry skills? Could you introduce me?”
“Old Emmanuel. But…” Ernst tugged on his goatee. “Old as Methuselah. Ain’t seen.”
“He’s a carpenter? A craftsman?”
“Best round. But…”
“Is he still alive?”
“Do’no. Lives up mountain. Two peaks above lodge.” Ernst leaned back in his chair and bellowed toward the kitchen. “Stella? Old Emmanuel? Seen him?”
“Goodness.” She matched his bellow. “Eight.”
Ernst sat forward. “Eight years since, Yer Royal. Chance he’s with Almighty.”
“Can you find out? Or do you know of another skilled carpenter? This isveryimportant and detailed work. Work done in the name of Her Majesty.”
Gus typically loved the shorthand gait of the Dalholmian speech. But tonight, he wanted lengthy, clear answers. For Daffy. For the queen.
“Well, well. Everything high tech. Let me see.” He tapped the side of his nose, as if he had some mystical powers. “Word out.”
“What if you can’t find this Emmanuel?” Daffy said. “Do you have any other names?”
Ernst stood, indicating he was done talking. “Another pint?”
“No, thanks. Ernst, when do you think we’ll hear about this chap?”
Ernst pressed his thumb to his ear. “Ring. Tell you.”
Gus jotted down his number and swore the man to secrecy—though he had no doubts. When Ernst walked away, Gus slumped forward, his forearms resting on the worn tabletop. “I’m not too hopeful.”
“To be honest, I’m not either, but he’s our only lead.” Daffy cupped her slender hand around her cold mug. “If we don’t hear anything by the end of the week, we have to tell the Trust.”
Gus shoved a hot, greasy fry in his mouth. “End of the week. We’ll give it until then.”
“Why does Ernst call you Yer Royalness?”
“He also calls me Your Magistrate, Prince Sir, Prince Royalness.” Gus couldn’t hold back a grin. “His way of being my friend, as well as honoring the title to which I was born.”
“Do you ever resent it? Being a royal?”
“Not really. I don’t know anything else. I sometimes envy Prince Harry, married to an American, getting a taste of another life.”
“What about King Nathaniel and Prince Stephen? They married Americans, but their wives dedicated their lives to Brighton.”
“Susanna had no choice. She married the king. Stephen’s wife was an heiress, already very global.”
