“Damnation!” This was not addressed to me; Robert glared up at a young man who’d jostled him in passing. “Watch what you’re doing, Godwin.”
“If you didn’t sit half out of your chair, Oswald . . .”
Robert’s mouth thinned to a hard, white line. “If you wish to settle this with pistols, I will.”
The other young man gave him a withering look. “No need. I beg your pardon.”
He walked on. Robert returned to the game. “Beetle-brained oaf.” He played a card, his face flushed, his breathing rapid.
I reminded him of my question about Bow Street.
Robert had to lay down a few more cards before he was calm enough to answer. “I did go round to Bow Street, as a matter of fact, though I never told m’father. A Runner spoke to me. He was rude and insulting, but he told me what I already knew. She’s either become a tart, or she’s dead. Either way, there is not much we can do, is there?” Robert jotted down points. “The devil, Lacey, you win again. You have cursed good luck tonight. Another?”
***
The next afternoon, I went to the coaching inn, but I found no new information there. The hostler’s boy told me exactly what he’d told Clothilde Oswald, that Sarah had gone off with a respectable-looking woman in a white cap. The offer of a few shillings produced no more information.
I did not find the coachman. The innkeeper informed me that the man had died in an accident a few weeks before on the Great North Road. I recalled what Miss Oswald had said about gin and was not very surprised.
It was quiet in the yard and outside in the street, between arrivals of the coaches from the south. The inn’s gray walls reached to the damp gray sky, the only bit of color being the girl who lounged against one wall, her curls an artificial red. She wore virginal white and a threadbare cloak of dark blue, but in this drab setting, she looked as colorful as a butterfly.
On the off chance, I showed her the drawing of Sarah.
“Yeah, I know her,” she surprised me by saying. “You her dad?”
“A friend of her family,” I improvised. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“Suppose so. She’s one of Ma Martin’s.”
“Who is Ma Martin?” I asked, trying to suppress hope.
The girl shrugged. “Everyone knows her. Her house ain’t far.”
Then why hadn’t the hostler’s boy recognized her? I glanced at the closed door of the stable yard, and the girl gave a little laugh.
“Did they tell you they’d never seen her? Course they did. She pays ’em to keep their mouths shut.”
I ought to have guessed. “Will you show me this house?”
“I could, but the girl in this picture ain’t there no more.”
My hopes faded. “Do you happen to know where she went?”
The girl’s gaze drifted down my bad left leg. “Does it pain you?”
“It does,” I said. “Especially in the damp.”
She straightened up, turning the full charm of her large brown eyes on me. “You come with me then. I’ll tell you all about it inside, once we get you warm.” She grinned. “Promise.”
***
I knew full well that the young woman could lead me away and try to rob me, possibly with cohorts waiting in her rooms. I went with her regardless, not wanting to miss some vital bit of information about Sarah. Besides, I had little to steal.
She led me down a tiny lane to a faded door that opened right onto the cobbles. Behind the door, a narrow stair went up between walls covered with faded paper to a room bare of all furniture except a low bed with a moth-eaten coverlet.
The girl hung up her cloak and stirred the fire on the small hearth to life. “Sit yerself down. And let Frances take care of yer.”
I limped to the bed and lowered myself to it. I couldn’t hide my grunt of pain as my knee bent. It did feel good to take my weight from it.
