* * *
Charlotte followed the oily beacon of light across the cobbles and entered the smoke-swirled taproom of the Ship’s Lantern. After squeezing through the crowd of sailors clustered by the barkeeper’s counter, she found a stool in a shadowed nook and settled in to observe the activity around her.
The place was only moderately full—the tide was going out, so no ships would be arriving until well past sunrise. A handful of junior officers wearing the uniform of the East India Company were scattered around the tables near the hearth, while a group of Royal Marines were getting drunk on brandy in the center of the room. In an alcove at the rear of the establishment, stevedores were waging a game of darts, the low light from the wall sconces flickering over their sweat-sheened muscles. Judging by the snarls and mutters, the stakes were high.
Charlotte had no trouble picking out Annie Wright, at work clearing tables. Squid’s description, while crass, was accurate. However, she made no attempt to attract the buxom blonde’s attention. She was looking for a more roundabout route to her quarry.
A few minutes later, a lone man entered, earning a friendly nod from the dark-haired barmaid serving the tables near the door.
A regular, decided Charlotte. She studied him more carefully as he made his way toward one of the empty tables near her. A coat of decent quality but fraying around the edges . . . linen going grey with age . . . boots that had seen better days . . . A respectable fellow, but just barely—and slowly sliding into oblivion. The sort who could be made to feel important.
A quick wave drew the dark-haired barmaid. “A tankard of ale,” said Charlotte, assuming the accent of the rookeries around the naval yards in Greenwich. “And one for ’im, too, as I don’t wish to drink alone,” she added, gesturing for the newcomer to join her.
“Much obliged,” murmured the man. As Charlotte had suspected, he wasn’t about to turn up his nose at the chance to keep his purse in his pocket. “You’re not from around here,” he remarked as he took a seat.
“From farther east along the river,” replied Charlotte. “Did a job fer a friend over on the loading docks.” She took a slurp of ale. “He warned me it was a dangerous place, but it don’t seem so bad.”
A grunt sounded in answer. Lifting his tankard to his lips, the man drained half of it in one prolonged swallow.
She scraped her stool closer to the table. “I heard talk that there was a murder on Queen’s Landing just a few days ago, but I’ll wager that’s just argle-bargle.”
“It’s not,” said the man, leaning in a little. He had a long, thin face, with sallow skin that reminded her of a cod’s underbelly. His eyes were equally colorless, but they had an alertness that boded well for her purposes. “Therewasa murder.”
“You’re bamming me,” she said with a note of skepticism. Men liked to gossip just as much as women. And knowing something that others didn’t made a fellow feel important.
“I’m not. The fellow’s throat was cut from ear to ear.” Thin Face smiled in satisfaction as she recoiled in shock. “I knew him. He came here often.”
“You don’t say!”
“Aye.” Shaking his head, he took another long swallow of ale. “A dirty business,” he said softly.
Charlotte signaled for another round of drinks. “What do you mean?”
His expression turned sly. “You would have to ask that Miss Nose in the Air over there.” He jerked his head in the direction of Annie Wright. “She was thick as thieves with the dead man and yet was desperate to avoid talking to Bow Street about him.” A nasty smile. “I can’t help but wonder why.”
“Why do you think?” she prompted once Thin Face had a fresh tankard of ale in his hands.
He savored a long swallow, prolonging the moment of being the center of attention. “She’s hiding something, of course.” After another swallow, he tapped at the side of his nose. “I know a rat when I smell it. And whatever it is, it just might get her killed, too.”
* * *
As the intruder edged into range, Raven swung down hard with the brass candlestick, aiming a blow meant to stun. The air rippled—
But at the last instant, the figure spun around and with a careless flick of his hand caught the makeshift weapon hurtling at his head.
“Hell’s teeth, I ought to birch your arse, Weasel,” said Wrexford as he snagged the boy by his collar with his other hand and hauled him down from his perch.
“Don’t ring a peal over the boys,” said Sheffield, rising from his hiding place. “It’s my fault—”
“Ssshhh,” hushed Hawk. “You’ve got to keep your voice down when you’re doing something illegal.”
“Non omne licitum honestum,”retorted Raven.
“True. Not every lawful thing is honorable,” said Wrexford. He cocked an ear to listen for any sign of movement in the rest of the house. Satisfied that their presence was still undetected, he marched Raven over to where the others were standing. “However, we’ll discuss the morality of this little foray later. For now . . .”
He glanced at the desk and its still-open drawers. “Have you found anything useful?”
“A packet of financial papers hidden beneath a sheaf of bills from Woodbridge’s wine merchant—which I’ve pocketed,” answered Sheffield. “There’s still another drawer to examine.”
