Blake hesitated. “A few bits.”
“What bits?”
“Enough to know it weren’t old,” Blake said. “It weren’t some boy copying pretty marks. It meant something. It said—” He broke off abruptly.
Mrs. Larkin’s voice hitched. “What did it say?”
Blake exhaled. “Shipments.” The word landed with weight in the cold, damp air. “They be running again. Same as before. I heard him saying the storm was a blessing ’cause it keeps the Revenue away and covers sound at night.”
Edmund’s mind raced. Shipments. Arms. Hidden channels. Singleton’s work?
But Singleton was dead. Fagge was dead. Devil and his gang, as Renforth had put it, dealt with—unless there was someone else. Had there been more men than they had known of?
Mrs. Larkin spoke again, her voice thick with controlled fury. “Who said this?”
Edmund heard Blake swallow. “I did nay see his face proper. But there were one… one with a scar on his cheek. Called himself—called himself ‘Holt’, but that ain’t his real name. He asked about old times. Mentioned the London Docks.”
The London Docks. Edmund’s spine straightened. That was precisely what had happened before—arms going missing from the docks.
Mrs. Larkin’s voice shook slightly, though she obviously tried to smother it. “Then?—?”
“’Tis likely to be the same ring,” Blake said. “Likely he was looking for men.”
A long silence followed.
Then Mrs. Larkin whispered, “We must be very careful.”
Blake’s voice softened. “Aye.”
“Have you heard any more? Anything at all?” Mrs. Larkin asked grimly.
“No,” Blake said.
Mrs. Larkin’s voice steadied. “They must be stopped.”
Blake gave a hoarse laugh. “Aye.”
“Next time, should there be one, keep the cipher. I must see it.”
Edmund felt the cold realization settle more firmly: she was not simply a widow with a school. She spoke like a person accustomed to danger, accustomed to thinking in patterns and contingencies.
A plank creaked beneath Edmund’s boot as he shifted his weight. He froze and held his breath, forcing himself to remain still until the tension eased.
After a moment, Mrs. Larkin said softly, “I must go. I have been here too long.”
Blake muttered something—agreement, warning, perhaps prayer.
Mrs. Larkin re-emerged, her basket empty again, her posture composed. She did not look around as if searching for a watcher; she walked as if she had never been frightened in her life.
Edmund waited until she had passed. Then he hastened back toward the cottage along a different path in order to reach it before she did, his mind working in swift, ruthless circles.
Holt. Scar. London Docks. A connection to Singleton?
How could it be? Singleton’s men had been dealt with. Who else could have taken up the work—the work of profit and treason?
He had barely returned to where the men were working and greeted them when she came upon them. “Mrs. Larkin!” he greeted her amiably. “How was the town?”
“Busy with repairs, the same as here. This was left for you,” she said, her tone perfectly civil. “Mrs. Markes says it is urgent. The post-boy could not deliver it here with the tree in the way. He tried last night, it seems.”
