“It’s his way,” one of the others responded. “He goes underground for weeks until he’s acquired something of interest, then he pops up like a rabbit, just shows his head. That’s how we’ve managed to grab the last two agents. Strickland comes up for air, they move towards him, we snap ‘em up.”
“This time we get both of them,” Brian declared, then he couldn’t help adding, “What I don’t understand is why, when you all know so much about Strickland’s habits, he’s constantly eluded you. The bounty for his head would be tempting enough, I would have thought.”
“The man’s slippery as an eel,” Heinrich growled. “We’ve followed him often enough, then he goes to ground just as we’re within an inch of catching him.”
“Aye, but I’ll lay odds he’s not sent any dispatches off in a while,” the first man declared. “We’ve made it too hot for him.”
“A matter for congratulation,” Brian muttered, then recollected himself. “We’ll start at the Tulip. If Strickland’s not there, Granville will be trying to track him down.”
The five men left the warehouse, and Phoebe, after she forced herself to wait a few minutes until they were clear of the building, ducked out of hiding and sped to the door in their wake.
She stood blinking in the sunshine, looking around the quay, but there was no sign of Brian or of a group of likely-looking assassins. She went over to a carrier supervising the unloading of his cart.
“The Black Tulip?”
He frowned as if he didn’t understand her, but when she repeated the words, he nodded and jerked a thumb towards a narrow alley leading off the harbor.
Phoebe thanked him and ran for the alley. It was shadowed by the overarching roofs of the houses on each side, and the kennel was thick with refuse, the cobbles on either side slimy so that she nearly slipped in her haste.
The steep alley turned a corner and she saw her quarry way up ahead, the five men striding easily, purposefully. They had the air of men on a mission and were clearly unconcerned that any of the town’s inhabitants might take exception to their rule of law.
Cato leaned against the counter in the taproom, one hand circling his pot of ale as his deceptively idle gaze roamed around the dark room. The low rafters were blackened with smoke, and blue rings of pipe smoke wreathed heavily above the heads of the taproom’s occupants. This early morning it was a dour, generally silent crowd, but Cato was aware that he was under observation by more than one man.
A tavern wench threaded her way through the room, hefting her tray of tankards aloft, deftly sidestepping the streams of tobacco spittle that arched through the air to clot in the sawdust scattered over the floor. Boiling cabbage, smoking tallow, and stale beer mingled in a noxious melange.
Cato waited. He knew he’d been noticed and he hoped that someone in contact with Walter Strickland would pass on the news of his presence. Of course, there was another side to the coin. Not just friends, but enemies also would be aware of the Englishman’s arrival in town. But to catch Strickland’s attention, he had to make himself generally visible.
It was to be hoped Strickland would find him first, Cato reflected aridly as he called for a refill, his right hand tightening instinctively over his sword hilt.
The tavern keeper, a red-faced man with a sour and harried expression, refilled Cato’s tankard at the keg. “There’s a lad just come, sir,” he murmured. “Says yer ‘onor might want a word with ’im.”
Cato raised an eyebrow. “Might I?”
The tavern keeper shrugged. “That’s fer Yer Worship to decide.”
Cato drank his ale. He glanced casually around and caught sight of a small boy in the doorway. Cato set his empty tankard on the counter, tossed a silver coin beside it, and strolled to the door. He walked past the boy and went out into the alley.
The boy darted after him and kept pace, trotting at his heels. Neither of them spoke but when they reached a side turning, the boy tugged Cato’s cloak, gesturing that he should take the turning.
Wondering whether he was walking blithely into a trap, Cato followed the child. He could see no alternative to taking the risk. They were in the street of the cobblers, and shoemakers sat in doorways plying their trade. Several glanced up as the elegant gentleman passed, and a few exchanged looks.
At a house at the very end of the street, the lad stopped. He stood in the doorway regarding Cato with hopeful eyes.
Cato dug into his pocket and gave him a coin, wryly trusting that he was not paying an assassin’s lure. The boy grabbed it and took to his heels with an alacrity that increased Cato’s unease.
He glanced up and down the street. People seemed to be minding their own business, goodwives bustling with baskets and brooms, shaking mats from upper windows, calling to each other in a cheerful stream of incomprehensible chatter.
After a tiny hesitation Cato stepped through the doorway into the darkness beyond. It took a minute for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom after the sunshine outside. He was in a long, narrow passage with a door at the far end. A staircase rose to his right. It was very quiet and yet he knew he was not alone.
He glanced at the door behind him, half expecting to see his retreat cut off, but there was no one there, just a puddle of sunshine on the threshold. With another mental shrug, he headed for the stairs, climbing rapidly on the smooth wooden steps worn down over the years by the procession of countless feet.
The stairs emerged onto a small landing at the head. There were two doors, one of which stood slightly ajar. Cato pushed it open. The chamber appeared to be deserted. The grate was empty and the small window was unshuttered. He stood in the doorway listening intently. Then quietly he closed the door at his back and dropped the heavy bar across it, locking himself in. If there was danger, it was not going to come up behind him.
“A wise move,” a voice murmured.
Cato spun round, his sword already in his hand, and found himself facing a broad-shouldered man in rough homespuns who also held a naked blade in one hand and a dagger in the other.
Cato realized the man had stepped out of the fireplace. “Strickland?” he inquired calmly, sheathing his sword.
“Who wants him?”
“Cato, Marquis of Granville.” Cato held out his hand.
“Well, I’m honored indeed.” Walter Strickland sheathed his own sword and took Cato’s hand in a brief clasp. “It’s been the devil’s own job just staying alive in the last weeks.” He gave a short laugh and thrust his dagger into the sheath at his hip.
“We assumed so. All the agents we sent have disappeared.” Cato walked to the window and looked down onto the street. “Is this house secure?”
“No. I know of no such place,” Strickland responded. “I move constantly. You were lucky to catch me today. I’m heading for The Hague this evening. I thought to try to send my dispatches from there, since Rotterdam’s become so chancy.”
“You’ve heard that the king has gone to join the Scots?” Cato left the window and came into the middle of the room.
“No.” Strickland shook his head. “But that’ll set the cat among the king of Orange’s pigeons.” He went to a tall cupboard and opened it, taking out a bottle of some clear liquid.
“Genever,” he said, uncorking the bottle. “The Dutch distill it out of juniper berries.” He poured a measure into two cups. “Crude stuff but I’ve seen it put courage into many a craven heart.” He handed Cato one of the cups.
Cato drank it and grimaced. “Foul,” he pronounced.
Strickland grinned. “It’s an acquired taste.” He refilled his own cup and drained it in one. “So the king’s gone for a Scot, eh?”
Cato nodded, setting his cup down with another grimace. “And I’m sent to bring you back. Your work here is done and there’s a feeling that you’ve much you can tell us… the kind of fine details and opinions that don’t find space in a dispatch.”