“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Matthew said.
“I’ll pull out the rest of the chests,” Eoin said before he once again disappeared into the priest hole. The men went to help him while the women continued to riffle through the current trunk. Although Charlotte had unearthed a physical set of keys, they found nothing else other than more coded record books.
Hannah kept staring at the odd text. Although she had no prayer of reading it—at least quickly—there was a noticeable pattern. It was clear by the spacing that the jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols represented words. Each paragraph started with three to five words, and the first ones often consisted of just a few letters. Those that didn’t start with a short collection of symbols seemed to almost always contain a long word, then one with two characters, and finishing with another lengthier amalgamation. And the two-character words were always and invariably the same. The first short words also repeated frequently.
“They’re names!” Hannah hollered to no one in particular.
“Pardon?” Sophia asked as she lifted her head from the trunk she was searching.
“Here!” Hannah stabbed at what was an obvious record, but of what she did not know. “This right here, before the dash, it’smost certainly someone’s title. See that two-character word? That must be ‘of.’ The other shorter ones might be Mr., Mrs., Miss, Hon., and so forth!”
Sophia opened a book and ran her finger down the page. “I do think you’re right!”
“Which means we can figure out what some of the symbols mean,” Charlotte cried out in excitement.
“But even with knowing a few, it will take ages to figure out,” Hannah sighed. And during that time, the Purveyor would still be trying to kill Eoin.
“What’s happening?” Powys asked as he helped Eoin drag out another trunk.
As Sophia told the men about the discovery, Hannah glanced back at the writing. When she spoke, she mostly muttered the words to herself. “I don’t think this is a simple account book. There are too many words, nor do they appear in list form.”
Sophia scanned the journal that she held. “I see what you mean.”
“Do you think they could be descriptions of bets?” Hannah asked.
Charlotte looked over Hannah’s shoulder and then shook her head. “The entries are much longer than those in Joan’s diary.”
“It is as if they are telling a story or recording an event in the person’s life,” Hannah mused as she rubbed along the ink, almost as if she could conjure the author’s thoughts.
“Also why bother writing a bet in code?” Powys asked. “The entire point of recording a wager is to create evidence if the other person tries to wriggle out of the agreement. You wouldn’t wish to keep it a secret.”
Secret. The word rushed around Hannah’s mind and tugged at a half-forgotten memory.
“We know that the Purveyor began by selling gin,” Hannah said slowly.
“From the little that I know, that is correct,” Eoin’s mother confirmed.
“But gin no longer makes a profit.” Hannah tapped her foot as she thought. “Thus, the Purveyor must be selling something else now.”
“There’s the bearbaiting and boxing, not to mention the tavern itself. Entertainment can be very profitable as both Championess Quick and I can attest,” Powys pointed out.
“But none are illegal.” Eoin’s voice was measured and distant, and Hannah knew that he was working through the facts just like she was. “There must be something illicit that the Purveyor wishes to hide. If not, why would he try to kill me for poking around his enterprise?”
Don’t go chasing after spirits and secrets.
The half-remembered words ushered in an epiphany. Hannah slammed the book closed.
“I’ve got it! I know what’s recorded in here!”
Before Hannah could say more, Lord Percy burst into the room, followed by a vaguely familiar and very raggedy boy. As the youth nervously worried his fingers, recognition slammed into Hannah. He was the adolescent who frequented the Horse and Hen—the young man who Eoin had twice saved.
“The Black Sheep is going to be attacked in two days hence by the Purveyor,” Lord Percy gasped out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ever since Eoin had learned Hannah’s true motivations for assisting him in his search for his mother and his sister, he’d felt numb. It was as if he’d once again become an automaton—only he wasn’t governed by clockwork but by unrelating logic. He’d sorted through Francis’s belongings and felt… nothing. Even when the group had discovered the priest hole, he hadn’t experienced a single spark of adventurous energy. He’d just wanted the whole affair to be over. If they unearthed damning evidence indicting his uncles, then the Wicks could have their revenge, and Eoin could have his peace.
But then Lord Percy had burst into the solar and announced that the Black Sheep—Hannah’s home and livelihood—was under threat. And although it was the Purveyor who was planning the attack, the fault was entirely with Eoin. He’d dragged Hannah into this dangerous debacle.
