Not to mention the fact that the reward would need to come from him, Mosca added silently.
‘I am sure that I could find friends to help defend me,’ Beamabeth insisted. ‘I can talk to them about it at the party this afternoon. And there’s the servants, of course.’ She looked contemplative, then sighed. ‘But yes – Father will be a problem. Nowadays he never unlocks the house at dawn, you see – always a good hour or so afterwards. Of course when he is away I am head of the household and can open the doors when I choose… if only he was out of town!’
‘You could ply him with gin till his legs give out,’ Mosca suggested. ‘Wouldn’t be so spry in the morning, then.’
‘He never touches fiery spirits.’ Beamabeth looked, for the first time, decidedly offended. ‘Mr Clent – can you not think of anything?’
‘My dear, given more than the hours at our disposal I could doubtless concoct some scheme to keep your father from home, but time is not on our side. Time…’ Clent’s eyes suddenly glazed over, and he eased back into his chair, beating an excited tattoo against his waistcoat with his fingertips. ‘I am quite, quite wrong,’ he said quietly after a moment. ‘Time is not my enemy. Time is my monkey and will dance to my tune. Miss Marlebourne, does your father have a pocket timepiece?’
‘Why… yes.’ She stared at him curiously.
‘You might be required to reset it by stealth. Where is he likely to spend this day?’
‘Well… he will probably be in his study until lunchtime. Today the Pyepowder Court is not in session – I think he said that he would be in his counting house in Waggle Lane, reckoning the tolls and reading appeals to the treasury. He often tries to avoid my little gatherings, so he will stay there as long as he can. But he is bound to be back before sunset.’
‘And Waggle Lane is the far side of town?’ Clent raised an eyebrow, and received a nod in answer. ‘Good. You say your father touches no spirits – does he have a taste for ale, or small beer, or anything else that might tempt him into a hostelry?’ ‘He never sets a foot in such places. Why?’ ‘Because taverns have clocks, my dear, and most other places do not. If there is a clock in this counting house we must set it back an hour or two, and do the same to his pocket watch. If there is a chance that he will check his watch against the clocks in this house, they too must be set back. When the bugle sounds, it must come as a surprise to him – and if his distance from home is too far to cover in fifteen minutes, he will have no choice but to remain where he is.’
‘Then you can leave that to me, Mr Clent.’ Beamabeth’s brow cleared, and she fulfilled her name by beaming. ‘I have a copy of the key of his counting house – I can go there this morning and see to the clock. And I’ll take care of the hall clock as well.’
Beamabeth took her father his morning nettle tea and returned with his watch cradled in her hand, her face pink with pride and excitement, and was congratulated for her ingenuity by Clent. (Mosca tried to remember receiving such praise for any of her many thefts.) The next challenge was to lose ninety minutes from the main hall clock without the servants noticing. Clent suggested that it should be done piecemeal, turning it back ten minutes now, ten minutes then, so that it did not attract attention.
‘You do remember which side we’re on, don’t you, Mr Clent?’ Mosca whispered while Beamabeth was out of the room. ‘You’re playing games with the mayor now, and it’s the mayor who holds the purse strings!’
‘Indeed. It is a risk, I will grant you, but it is Miss Beamabeth who holds the mayor’s heart strings, and if we do not play things her way then we shall have no means of setting our trap, nor winning the mayor round afterwards.’ Clent gave his smallest, thinnest smile, and for a second his eyes were shards of slate. ‘And, yes, I daresay that the mayor will be quite aggrieved when he discovers that a trick has been played on him. But he cannot help but forgive his daughter, who will have been the active party, and when he finds that he has a man he hates entirely in his power… I have the strangest presentiment that he will forgive us.’
‘You’re a peach full of poison, you know that?’ Mosca snapped back, but could not quite keep a hint of admiration from her tone.
Since it would not do for the mayor to come down from his study to find his reception room full of Mosca and Clent, they spent the rest of the morning in a little-used guestroom catching up on much-needed sleep. When they finally woke, and rallied enough willpower to leave their beds, Clent insisted that they stroll through the market and examine the lie of the land in the castle courtyard. Within an hour, however, Mosca had almost ground her teeth to stumps.
Her dark badge was all that anybody noticed. She might as well have been covered in tar or stinging insects. Every time she passed a stall, she caught the owner pausing to count the wares on it to make sure nothing was missing. Once when she stooped to take hold of a goat’s collar to stop it munching at her skirt, it took all Clent’s eloquence to prevent her being dragged to the Pyepowder Court for attempted theft. And nobody seemed to believe that she could have come by a fine plump goose honestly.
Mosca was used to the sort of invisibility that came from being beneath notice. But apparently one could be beneath beneath notice, and become more noticeable than ever.
‘Child… you are drawing the eye like an inkblot on muslin. I daresay our patroness is back from her father’s counting house by now – I propose we prevail upon her to conceal you while I make enquiries…’
Waiting for Clent to return might have been tolerable if Beamabeth had not resolved to be kind to Mosca.
‘You will want to come to the party too, won’t you?’ Beamabeth’s eye wandered doubtfully over Mosca’s tattered and mud-stained dress. ‘Come! I am sure we can fit you into one of my old gowns.’
And so Mosca found herself in Beamabeth’s room, where dried rose petals crinkled in pots, lambs frolicked across tapestries and a red plush cushion bristled with gilded hatpins like the queen of hedgehogs. Dress after undersized dress was pulled out of an oak chest and held up to Mosca’s neckline so that her hostess could scrutinize the effect.
‘You are better in lemon yellow, or tansy pink, or cream. Pale is best for your age – try this one!’
Mosca found herself with an armful of cream-coloured muslin, and a matching lace day cap embroidered with strawberries. She was just holding the gown up to her chin to check its length when she noticed a faint scent rising from the fabric. The smell was piquant, heady and familiar.
‘Miss Marlebourne -’ she lowered her head and took a deep sniff – ‘this dress smells of chocolate!’
Beamabeth Marlebourne’s eyes crept to the oak chest. Peering into its depths, Mosca could now see a few small boxes and bundles that had been all but concealed by the folded gowns. One of them was a tiny, straw-work tea caddy. Another looked a great deal like one of the chocolate bundles the clawed girl had been throwing through windows.
Beamabeth gave Mosca a small, slightly abashed smile. ‘You will not tell Father, will you?’ She pulled the loose fabric across to conceal them once more. ‘The mayor’s household cannot be seen to have bought anything that might have come in through Mandelion. I just… I just like to have a little of these things. Now and then. Quietly, so that it will hurt and upset nobody. It is my secret treasure chest.’
She gave Mosca a sudden, dazzling, confidential smile. ‘Come, put on the gown, then I shall order hot water, and you and I shall have secret tea!’
In spite of herself, Mosca could not help being a little touched by the offer, not least because Beamabeth seemed so delighted by the idea. As she was moving to remove her skirt, she heard a rustle in the petticoat pocket and suddenly remembered the letter that the midwife had entrusted them with.