“There was no fire. It was a warm night. You had the paper when you rushed out, I believe. You might have thrown it away after that, of course.”
“Which public house?” I rose, unable to sit still. “Can you direct me?”
“The Fox and Hen, in a lane near the Quaker Meeting.”
Which I must have entered after speaking to Mr. Bickley. Bickley had not mentioned I’d been reeling drunk when I spoke to him, and neither had Miss Farrow. Therefore I possibly had drunk something in that tavern—something in the coffee—that rendered me senseless. Hadn’t Marianne told me that coffee could disguise the taste of opium?
And what on earth had been in the message that took me away?
“Forgive me, Captain,” I said. “I must go there at once.”
“Quite understandable. I will accompany you.”
The captain generously left coin for the ale we’d barely touched and led the way out. Brewster dumped as much ale down his throat as he could before wiping his mouth and hurrying after us.
Brighton was as cheerful as ever despite the sadness of the inquest—holiday-goers shopping and dining, locals haggling at the markets, vendors desperate to sell wares to tourists who might depart tomorrow and never return.
The Fox and Hen, sporting a lively painted sign of a large hen chasing a frightened-looking fox, was steps away from the Quaker Meeting House. One of the Quakers, working in the garden, glanced up in curiosity as we raced past.
While I wanted to charge inside and shake the publican until he told me what I wanted to know, I made myself calmly order ale for us all—I’d pay this time—before I addressed the man behind the bar.
“Do you remember me from Monday night?” I asked.
The publican, busy trying a broach a new keg, glanced up and grunted. “Can’t say I do.”
“I sat …” I looked to Captain Wilks for guidance.
“In the inglenook.” He pointed. “Near the fireplace.”
The publican remained at his task. “Many men do. My taproom’s a busy place.”
“I ordered a coffee, and then you brought me a note or letter,” I said. “I grew alarmed when I read it and ran out.”
The publican shook his head, then he paused and turned his head to study me. “Oh, aye, I remember now. You gave me a crown for my trouble. Thank ye kindly.”
“Excellent.” At least he recalled a good tip. “Do you know what the message said?”
The publican straightened, resting his hands on the bar. “No. I don’t read, meself. Have me son do that for me. Why don’tyouknow what it said?”
I warmed. “I cannot explain.”
The publican’s face creased in a smile. “Far gone in drink, were ye? You were swaying a bit as you sat, I remember. Probably didn’t mean to hand me so much for nothing, did ye? Well, ye can’t have it back. It’s mine fair and square.”
“I’d be obliged for your help.” I dipped into my pocket and brought out another crown. “Did anyone else read this message? Or did I drop it on my way out?”
“How should I know? We sweep up all kinds of bits every night when we shut the doors. You wouldn’t believe the things we find. If you dropped it on the floor, it’s long gone to the rag and bone man.”
I stifled my disappointment with effort. “Did anyone besides yourself see the message?”
“That important, is it?” The publican frowned at me. “Sit yourself down, sir. I’ll ask me son.”
I took the nearest chair, barely containing my restlessness. Brewster and the captain joined me, Brewster slurping this ale determinedly.
The publican finished setting up his keg before he wiped his hands and disappeared through a door.
“Is the place familiar to you?” Captain Wilks asked me. “Anything you remember?”
“Not at all,” I said in disappointment as I looked around. “If I’d wanted coffee, why did I not step into the coffee house?” There was one nearby, which I’d passed when I’d tried to retrace my steps from Monday night.
