Mr. Biswas had been bending down in the far corner, listening to Mr. Painter complain about curried lamb pies not being English enough. The barman straightened now, and though he smiled, there was a challenge in it. “Mr. Turner,” he said, loud enough to be heard over Nell’s determined strumming. “This is a surprise.”
Penelope leaned forward to whisper to Mr. Thomas. “I thought Mr. Biswas banned him from the pub. What’s he doing back? Did he get barred from every tavern in all of London, too?”
“Doubt it—why would he go to so much trouble?” Mr. Kitt murmured back. “He only gets thrown out of taverns his wife is playing in.”
Mr. Thomas had a pinched look as he added: “Mr. Scriven tells me he got dismissed from Birkett’s for brawling. Apparently he’d written another play, and showed it to someone, and took it poorly when they didn’t praise it to the skies.”
The tall man stepped forward, into the tavern proper. He was smiling, a cheerful, self-satisfied expression that made Penelope clench her teeth. “I’m not here for any of your watered-down ale, my good host,” Mr. Turner said, to a small chorus of scornful sounds. He held up one graceful hand with a small bag, and shook it so it jingled. “I’m collecting a subscription for a pair of special constables, on behalf of the Melliton Auxiliary Branch of the Society for the Suppression of Vice and Mendacity.”
A surprised murmur flickered round the room. Special constables hadn’t been used in Melliton for decades. Not since the last food riots, in fact.
Mr. Turner winked at Mrs. Biswas, whose face went wooden. “It’s the duty of all good Englishmen to assist the Mendacity Society in their devotion to the law and the crown.”
“Is Melliton truly such a hotbed of unrest and sedition?” Mr. Biswas said with a snort, though his mouth had gone flat at the mention of the Society.
Mr. Turner opened his bag and held it out. “There’s an easy way to prove where your loyalty lies.”
Mr. Biswas scowled, and folded his arms pointedly over his chest.
Mr. Painter stood up with his nose in the air. “Well, I for one certainly care about the safety and decency of our village.” He sniffed. A trio of copper coins tumbled from his hand into Mr. Turner’s sack. “One for me—and one for our local veterans, who so valiantly defended the Crown on land and sea.” He gestured ostentatiously at Mr. Kitt and Mr. Thomas. “They should not be asked to sacrifice more than they already have.”
Mr. Kitt started up, face thunderous, but was pulled back to his seat by Mr. Thomas’s hand on his shoulder. Mr. Thomas’s face was a mask of grim disappointment, paler than his wont; Penelope knew he loathed hearing mention of his years in the army, especially among such a crowd.
Around the room Mr. Turner went, collecting subscriptions from tavern patrons. Some donated with an air of glee in the gesture. Others looked unhappy but handed over a few coins after hearing him tease the ones who refused. Mr. Kitt rose and stomped pointedly out the door when the bag came his way. Mr. Thomas only shook his head; he sat stiffly as if tied to his seat, but there was a wild look to his eye.
Mr. Turner passed over Harry, John, Penelope, and Agatha as though they weren’t even there.
Just as he completed his circuit through the bar, and Penelope thought he might be almost done and would actually depart, Mr. Turner turned toward his wife in the musician’s corner by the hearth. “And of course I’ll be taking those, Mrs. Turner,” he said, opening a hungry palm toward the coins Nell had collected in a small bowl at her feet.
Nell finished her song, drawing out the last notes as though taking a bracing breath. Then, without so much as a glance at her husband, she picked up the bowl, poured her tips into her pocket, and sat on her stool with her hands clutched around her guitar.
“Ah,” said Mr. Turner. “I see you want me to ask properly.” He bowed and with a flourish went to one knee before the makeshift stage. “Eleanor Turner,” he declaimed, “most loving and generous wife, I ask you to help me show this town the power of true, humble charity, in service of your Christian faith, and good King George.” He held out the subscription bag, as though offering obeisance to a monarch.
Someone snickered. Agatha Griffin huffed out an irritated breath.
Nell didn’t look at him. She didn’t move. She looked, Penelope thought, like a woman who knew there were traps all around her, no matter which way she tried to run.
“No?” Mr. Turner asked, in a voice of wounded surprise. “Think of your neighbors, and how they will whisper of your miserliness. Think of the law, which mandates that those coins you hoard are mine to dispose of as I see fit.” His voice sharpened; instead of a broadsword brandish, it now turned as sharp and intimate as a knife. “What will Arthur say, when I tell him his mother refused to honor his father in such a small request?”
Nell winced, as this struck home.
This was too much for Mr. Biswas. “Get out, Mr. Turner,” he growled, making the people nearest him jump in startlement. “You’ve collected your subscriptions—that will have to be enough.”
“I’ll leave when my wife does, Mr. Biswas,” Mr. Turner said, and put his second knee down. He stayed there, smiling at Nell, as behind him the audience murmured in mingled discomfort and fascination.
Nell sucked in a breath and began playing—halting notes on the guitar, attempting her usual verve but falling short. Penelope’s heart ached for her; Nell was used to putting on a show for the crowds, but not like this. Not where the entertainment was her humiliation.
Mr. Biswas moved forward, but stopped when Mr. Painter aggressively cleared his throat.
Harry and John glanced at each other, and stood up in a single swift motion.
Mr. Turner had his back to Penelope’s table, so he didn’t see the two men move until they were next to him. Harry’s stocky, sturdy body was fairly vibrating with suppressed anger, while John’s height let him loom over Mr. Turner in a way nobody else in the room could have done.
Mr. Turner kept his eyes, liquid and soulful, fixed on his wife.
“Come now,” John said in gentle tones, while Harry bared his teeth in an expression nobody mistook for a smile. “Let her be. We’re all enjoying the music, Mr. Turner.”
The man’s hands clenched into fists on his knees. “This is private business, Flood, between aproperhusband and wife—I’ll thank you not to interfere.”
