A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Without shifting his head, Jack looked at her, caught the bright gleam of her eyes. “If you can describe the man I want, you’ll also be able to describe the clergyman.”

The bright eyes widened, then the crone nodded. “A smart one, you are. If that’s the way of it then, the clergyman’s tallish, but not as tall as you. He’s got precious little hair left, but what there is is plain brown and stringy. He’s a fretful sort, always frowning, not a jolly soul as some of them can be. He’s not fat, nor yet scrawny, and his lips pout like a woman’s.”

Quelling a surge of anticipatory triumph—her description of Humphries was too detailed to be false—Jack grinned encouragingly. “Right enough. Now what of the other?” If she could describe the ex-courier with the same exactitude, she’d be worth every penny he had on him.

The crone screwed up her face; she stared across the room. “Similar height, maybe a touch taller, but heavier build. Barrellike. Looked like a fighter though he was too well dressed fer that. Mind you, he weren’t a gentleman, but he weren’t no servant, either.” She paused, then added, “Not one of those business agents, neither—not the right look fer that at all.”

Jack’s gut clenched; a chill whispered across his shoulders. “What of his face?”

“Pale, whiter skin than most, pasty, you might say. And round—heavy and round. Eyes round and pale, smallish, broad nose. And he spoke with an accent, not one of ours. Something foreign. I didn’t hear enough to say more.” The crone looked up at Jack. “That enough fer you?”

Jack nodded. He reached into his pocket, reached past the pennies and found a sovereign. He drew it out, held it out.

The crone’s eyes gleamed. She took it carefully, examined it, then looked up at Jack as her hand and the coin disappeared beneath her tattered clothes. “Fer that,” she said, eyes narrowing as if she was revising her view of him, “you get a warning, too.”

“Warning?”

“Aye. The gent you seek, the other one. He’s dangerous. They met here twice. Both times, the clergyman left first. I saw the other’s face once the clergyman was out the door. He was planning something, and it weren’t good. Dangerous he looked, evil, too. So if you’re thinking to find him, have a care.”

Jack smiled winningly. Then he doffed his cap, bowed extravagantly, and left the old crone cackling delightedly.

But when he stepped out of the tavern, his smile faded. The crone’s description shared too many similarities with Clarice’s description of the man who’d run Anthony off the road to doubt that it was, indeed, the same person. Which meant the crone was an excellent judge of character; that man was definitely dangerous.

Luck, he’d often noticed, visited in multiples. Heading for the club, he made for Westminister Bridge, intending to hail one of the hackneys constantly crossing back and forth. Reaching the road to the bridge, he turned and strode on, past a trio of urchins who were taking turns with a streetsweeper’s broom.

Jack stopped. Turning back, he ambled up to the urchins. Fishing out three pennies, he started juggling them. When he stopped before the trio, he had their undivided attention.

He glanced at their avid expressions, worded his question carefully. “A man hired urchins to deliver messages around here. He’s tallish—almost as tall as me—and he has a round, white face. And he’s a foreigner.” He infused the word with patent disgust and saw their lips twitch. “These pennies are for any boy who can tell me where they delivered a message from this man.”

The boys exchanged glances. Jack suddenly understood. He stopped juggling for a moment, drew out another three pennies, and teamed them with the first three. He juggled again, then looked down at the faces of his audience.

They still looked unconvinced. He stopped and added another three pennies, then they smiled.

He smiled, too. Three responses. Fate was pleased with him.

“The bishop’s palace, main gate,” one said.

“Same fer me.”

“He sent me to the porter’s lodge this end, not the front.”

Jack looked at all three, then tossed the three sets of three coins to them. They all snagged them out of the air, swift and sure.

“One other thing.” No sense leaving any stone unturned. “Can any of you read? Do you know who the message was for?”

Again they exchanged glances. Jack sighed and fished in his pocket, careful to draw out only the pennies. He counted them. “Tuppence each extra if any of you can tell me who the message they took was addressed to.”

“Some deacon.” One boy tried to grab the coins, but Jack was faster; closing his fist, he raised it high.

“Aw—c’mon, mister.”

Jack shook his head. “Try harder. Deacon who?”

The boy screwed up his face, frowned ferociously. His friends egged him on.

“First letter,” Jack said.

The boy’s eyes popped open. “An aitch—I remember that. And it was longish—an em and a pee and another aitch, a small one.”