"Did you hear the man's name?" Justin asked tonelessly, already knowing what the youth would say.
The squire nodded. "Sir Durand de Curzon."
~~
It was dusk by the time Justin got back to Gracechurch Street. Gunter and Ellis were inside the smithy, shoeing a horse. Shadow was sprawled in an empty stall and greeted Justin with a burst of riotous barking as he led Copper into the stable.
Ellis gaped at sight of Justin. "I sure did not expect to see you here," he blurted. "Luke said you'd kicked him out so you could have a tryst with some mystery woman!"
"That is none of our concern, Ellis." Gunter was using a rasp to file down a front hoof and looked up from his work to deliver a mild rebuke. "If you're looking for Luke," he told Justin, "he's across the street at the alehouse."
"The whole neighborhood is over there, celebrating the capture of that killer." Ellis gazed reproachfully at the farrier. "Except for us."
"You know we have to finish the shoeing ere it gets full dark," Gunter said patiently. "Smiths are not allowed to work within the city walls unless they forbear from heavy hammering and pounding at night."
Ellis's shoulders sagged and he turned to tend the forge with an air of martyred resignation. He cheered up considerably, though, when Justin gave him a coin to take care of the chestnut. Bidding them a terse farewell, Justin whistled to the dog and stepped out into the soft lavender twilight.
The day had been chilly; the night promised to be downright cold. Justin's steps slowed as he neared the cottage door. He reached for the latchstring, but his fingers clenched, instead, into a tight fist. He could not cross that threshold. He could not face the ghosts that waited within, not yet, not tonight.
~~
Justin had never seen the alehouse so crowded; in claiming that the entire street had turned out, Ellis had not exaggerated by much. His entrance passed unnoticed at first, for most of the customers were watching an arm-wrestling contest between Luke and Aldred. Nell was attracting a fair amount of attention herself, perched on the edge of a table and gesturing so expansively that her ale cup was sloshing about like a storm at sea. "And so I told him, 'Abel has twenty-five shillings hoarded away, which we can split after you do the murder,'" she declared, with such tipsy verve that she drew admiring murmurs from her audience.
In the midst of all this boisterous, chaotic commotion, Jonas seemed like an island of calm, watching the festivities from a corner table with a full flagon of ale and a sardonic half-smile. Justin was not surprised that he was alone. The alehouse regulars had come to accept Luke, for his powers were vested more than seventy miles away. But Jonas was the local law and thus posed a more immediate threat. Even those with an unsullied conscience grew uneasy whenever the serjeant intruded into their world.
Weaving his way between customers, Justin picked up an empty cup from a nearby table and headed in Jonas's direction. If Ellis knew about Claudine, that meant all of Gracechurch Street did, too. But Justin was sure that Jonas cared little about gossip, no matter how lurid. Jonas proved him right by showing no surprise when he materialized at the serjeant's table.
"I need to talk to you, Jonas." Justin caught the flagon as the serjeant slid it over and poured himself a generous portion. "We cannot wait for Sampson to surface on his own. We have to flush him out of hiding ourselves, and we have to do it as soon as possible. Any ideas?"
Jonas shrugged. "The sheriff does not pay me enough to have ideas."
"Do not do that!" Justin leaned angrily across the table. "Do not act as if you do not care, for I know better. You do not want Sampson prowling the London streets any more than I do. So how are we going to find him?"
Jonas leaned back in his seat, regarding Justin with a gleam of amused approval. "Whoever put a burr under your saddle, I ought to thank. It's always useful to have such single-minded allies. We can start by putting out the word that we'll pay for information about Sampson. Next we can — "
"What are you doing here, de Quincy?" Lurching into the table, Luke dropped, laughing, into the closest seat. "Why are you not back at the cottage, stoking your fire?"
Justin gave the deputy a look of such hostility that Luke blinked and then pretended to flinch. "Oh, ho, so that's the way the wind blows, is it? Well, I've got the cure right here for what ails you. Drink up, lad. You may not be able to drown your troubles, but you can damned well get them drunk!"
"I do not remember asking you for advice, Luke," Justin said, so curtly that the deputy's smile vanished. Before he could decide whether he ought to take offense, Jonas made that decision for him.
"If I wanted to watch a couple of young roosters go at it, I'll find a cockfight. We were talking about ways to track down Sampson, Luke. You have any suggestions?"
"Not offhand, no. You two are gluttons for punishment, so dedicated to duty it is truly disgusting. Would it kill you to spare one night for celebrating? Now the Fleming was a real challenge. But Sampson? He could not outwit that moon-mad dog of yours, de Quincy. Trust me, it is only a matter of time until he trips himself up. Have some patience. As for me, I'd rather have some ale."
"Take mine," Justin said, shoving the cup toward the deputy. "You might be onto something, Luke. Let's consider what we know about the man. He is on his own in a strange city, his money running out. He is not one to go looking for work, now is
he?"
Luke hooted. "That lout has never done a day's honest labor in his life. All he knows how to do is steal."
"Exactly. But is a slow-thinking stranger going to thrive in a city like London? Or is he more likely to blunder and run afoul of the law? Mayhap we've been looking for him in the wrong places. Instead of searching the streets, what about the gaols?"
Luke stared at him, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Now why did I not think of that myself? Let's give the Devil his due, Jonas, for de Quincy's idea is downright brilliant!"
"I'd not go that far," the serjeant said, laconic as always. "But it does sound promising." And coming from Jonas, Justin knew that was high praise, indeed.
~~
His ale-drenched sleep had given Justin a brief respite. But he awoke in the morning to a hangover and an onslaught of memories, mercilessly vivid, of Claudine's treachery.
His other memories of the night were much hazier, though. He did remember becoming the unwelcome center of attention. Once his presence had become known, everyone had wanted to congratulate him. But they'd wanted to joke, too, about the woman he had hidden away at Gunter's cottage, and their good-natured raillery had lacerated a wound still raw and bleeding.
It was Luke who'd come unexpectedly to his rescue, diverting the conversation away from bedmates to murder and mayhem. Justin's last clear memories were of the deputy holding court to the entire alehouse, all listening avidly to his riveting and gory recounting of the Fleming's bloody career. After that, Justin had set about drinking himself into oblivion, with some success.
Sitting up in bed, Justin discovered that he was still fully dressed, even to his boots. A groan from the pallet on the floor told him that Luke was stirring, and a hoarse "Christ Jesus!" that the deputy was too weak to fend off Shadow. Getting stiffly to his feet, Justin stumbled toward the table, only to find that his water pitcher had frozen solid in the night, for he and Luke had been too drunk to light a fire.
"My mouth," he said, "feels like five miles of bad road. And we have got nothing to drink in the entire cottage. We'll have to go across the street…"
"You go," Luke muttered, keeping his arm firmly crooked over his eyes to ward off daylight. "I'll just open a vein…"
Justin was searching for his mantle, finally finding it crumpled up on the floor, Shadow's bed for the night. "When I come back from the privy," he said, "I'll go get us some more ale. That is supposed to help…" But the bed was beckoning again and since it was much closer than the latrine or the alehouse, it won out.