At last he turned to Clent, his face smoothing to a more civil expression. ‘Sir, I believe that you have acted in good faith here… but before I send half the parish’s constables scurrying after this plot I need to be sure that you have not been practised upon. This girl says she learned of this conspiracy at an auction of the Guild of Pawnbrokers (the location of which she cannot give us) and through letters (which she does not have) and now she wishes to warn us of this Romantic Facilitator (whose name and face she does not know). Do you in fact have any evidence that is not dependent upon the word of this girl?’ His gaze dropped meaningfully to Mosca’s Palpitattle badge and he raised his eyebrows. ‘Children of Palpitattle are notorious liars, and this smacks of a taradiddle concocted in order to claim a reward.’
‘A taradiddle!’ Mosca jerked out of her seat to land on her feet, the sheer injustice of his words stabbing into her like a spur. ‘What about this, then?’ She held up her wrists to show the reddened marks where she had wrestled against the bonds. ‘Tied myself, did I? What about these?’ She showed the scratches on her arms, neck and face. ‘Do you think I jumped head first into a blackberry bush for fun?’
Beamabeth raised trembling fingers to cover her mouth, and the mayor’s face took on a slow, seething heat.
‘You might have been seized and bound by a beadle for some petty theft.’ The mayor’s tones were as pleasant and convivial as a boot full of ice water. ‘You might have tangled with a bramble bush while making your escape.’
Mosca could hardly breathe for rage and matched the mayor glare for glare.
‘Ah…’ Clent fluttered his plump fingers soothingly. ‘My young secretary is merely overwrought… a terrible ordeal… many apologies. Your Excellency, I grant that this girl cannot brandish signed confessions from the brigands in question, though were she the accomplished fraud you suggest she might well have had a few ready. Granted, we have accumulated little solid evidence, but we sped here pell-mell-’
‘Cos we thought the lady might want to know she was going to get grabbed before it happened instead of after,’ cut in Mosca sharply.
‘And granted,’ Clent snatched back the conversation once more, ‘this girl is a housefly, the merest and meanest of two-legged creatures, a virtuoso in the more trivial forms of vice. However, in this case I truly do believe her to be in earnest.’
All was silent for a second but for the sound of Mosca’s teeth grinding.
Beamabeth gestured shakily, and a servant brought in a tray with a steaming chocolate pot and several tall chocolate cups. Mosca was disappointed to discover, however, that the steam was tangy, and that the pot contained not chocolate but only hot elderberry wine.
‘Nonetheless,’ continued Clent, ‘if you want proof, my lord mayor, it is easily acquired. You now have the names of two conspirators. Can you not send some bold fellows to round them up, bundle them to the county jail and rattle a few truths out of them?’
If anything, the mayor’s frown deepened, and when he spoke his voice was heavy and hesitant. ‘Brand Appleton is a night-dweller, and to judge by his name so is this Skellow. They will be… under the jurisdiction of Thrope Foely, the Night Steward. I… would have to write to him and request his cooperation.’
Request? That seemed like a funny word to use. Surely if you were mayor you just ordered people to do things? Why should talk of arresting men at night suddenly make the mayor look so cloudy and mulish? After all, he must be in charge of the constables on duty at night as well as those on duty by day… surely?
Mosca’s sharp ears twitched. Yes, there it was, the unmistakable sound of something not being said.
‘No matter, there is a better option.’ Clent adjusted his badge. ‘Thanks to the ingenious mendacity of Miss Mye, Mr Skellow and his Romantic Facilitator will soon be waiting in vain for each other at different meeting places… and we know exactly when and where. Both can be intercepted if we are wily.’
The mayor’s eyes took on a fierce and glimmering interest, like embers glowing in a hoary log.
‘Go on,’ he growled.
‘This Romantic Facilitator believes he will be meeting Mr Skellow in Lower Pambrick at nine of the clock tomorrow morning,’ Clent explained crisply. ‘Send a few men out first thing tomorrow – or better still tonight – and have them seize a man waiting by the stocks wearing a Fainsnow lily.’
The response of both Marlebournes was to look appraisingly at the clock, then at one another.
‘Perhaps there is time…’ The mayor’s face took on a grim and urgent resolution. ‘A pity that you did not come an hour ago – I might have been able to contact my High Constable before he locked up for the night. No matter. Have all the men come in here a moment!’ Half a dozen footmen crowded into the room. ‘Now -’ he deigned to glance Mosca’s way – ‘what manner of man is the Romantic Facilitator looking for? Did you give him a description in your altered letter?’
Mosca rubbed at her nose. She had indeed written a description of Skellow, though one that owed more to spleen than charity.
‘Told ’im to look out for a bony, ugly old bag o’ spindles with skin like sackcloth and a grin like a sick fox,’ she muttered.
‘Bony and ugly,’ the mayor murmured under this breath. ‘You there, Gravelip! You are the boniest and ugliest, I fancy. Smile for us – as unpleasantly as you can!’
Gravelip, a young, slight footman with a pocked nose and large ears, obediently gave a smile like toothache. He seemed less than delighted to have outpaced his friends in the ugliness race.
‘Where’s my secretary?’ called the mayor. ‘There you are. Draft a letter to the Committee of the Hours asking whether there exists such a person as Rabilan Skellow, and whether he left Toll recently. Gravelip, as soon as it is written I want you to take it to the committee’s office… and then set out immediately for Lower Pambrick.’
Gravelip boggled and went pale. His mouth made helpless fish shapes that wanted to be a ‘but’. His eye crept fearfully to the darkening window. Mosca could not help noticing that other servants were hurrying in and out of the room with soft-footed urgency, closing shutters, lighting candles and in some cases moving furniture.
‘Oh, Father!’ Beamabeth seemed to have noticed his plight, and her eyes were big limpid pools of sympathy. ‘Father, we cannot! At this hour?’
There it was again. Something unsaid, something too ominous to mention.
‘Oh… very well.’ The mayor’s tone was far gentler as he reached out to pat his adopted daughter’s shoulder. ‘Gravelip – delivering the letter will suffice, and you may hurry back here afterwards. You will have just enough time to reach Lower Pambrick if you set off immediately after bugle tomorrow morning, with three stout fellows at your back. Collar this Romantic Facilitator for us.’
Gravelip looked quite weak with relief, and after the mayor had signed the letter, took it and hurried out without further ado.
‘Now – Mr Clent – I am loath to ask you to leave, but -’
‘Let them stay just a little longer. Please.’ Beamabeth turned her face, and rested her cheek against the mayor’s sleeve like a younger child. ‘I want to hear more.’
‘All right.’ The mayor glanced at the clock again. ‘But quickly. We exist for only a little longer.’
‘My lord mayor -’ Clent sipped his wine – ‘you mentioned a name just now. Who is Brand Appleton?’
There was a pause during which father and adopted daughter exchanged glances, and something thawed and relented a little in the former’s gaze.