The younger man read it with an expression very like pain, tracing the lines with his fingertip again and again in his determination to absorb their meaning.
‘She’s alive,’ he murmured at last. ‘The sweetmeats – it must be for Miss Marlebourne. So she is definitely alive. And -’ the page quivered in his hand, and he smoothed it with his fingers as if trying to calm it – ‘at least… at least this ruffian Appleton seems to be taking some pains to see her treated well.’
‘Naturally, naturally,’ Clent cut in soothingly. ‘Dark as their hearts might be, those villains would as soon bowl with their own heads as harm that child. She is worth a fortune to most of them, and the very world to one of them, is she not?’
Sir Feldroll dropped into a chair. One sleepless night had evidently allowed him all too much leisure to imagine dark and terrible events befalling the mayor’s daughter.
‘And it would seem -’ Clent tapped the letter – ‘that our young spy has convinced Appleton to meet with her. BA can only be Brand Appleton.’
‘But why does she not describe the place where they are to meet?’ The mayor tweaked the letter back into his own grasp and tried to stare it into submission. ‘And these people with whom she is staying – who are they? Where are they? Why is she so damnably cryptic?’
Clent paused, drawing in a breath through pursed lips, and examined the mayor’s boots as if trying to guess their price.
‘Ah, yes,’ he answered pleasantly. ‘A curious string of obfuscations… but not I think inexplicable ones. Recall that she is a fly-child, fostered and fed all her life long on mistrust. Naturally she has a darkling mind and habits of secrecy. It is in her nature. It is in her name. And in this case… it is a very good thing. A very good thing indeed.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ asked Sir Feldroll.
‘I mean that if Mosca Mye had included the names of her hosts and the location of their dwelling in that letter I would not give this -’ he snapped his fingers – ‘for her life right now.’ Eponymous Clent drew himself up, his native sense of theatre overwhelming him for a second. ‘Gentlemen, someone has smelt us out. We are detected, decoded, discovered. Somebody was watching the letter drop.’
He left a dramatic pause, which his companions obligingly filled with consternation and exclamation.
‘With some degree of ingenuity,’ he continued, ‘I succeeded in losing the man who sought to follow me back here, but not before I had made good view of him. A Locksmith – I would stake my wits on it. The Locksmiths have doubtless read this letter, but left it where they found it so that we would suspect nothing and send a response, allowing them to learn more. So let us all spare a moment to thank Goodman Palpitattle for the tricky habits of mind that made young Mosca loath to include her own name – or anybody else’s – in her letter.’
‘But…’ Light was dawning in Sir Feldroll’s gaze. ‘What are we to do about this? If we cannot send Miss Mye letters through this drop…’
‘… then we cannot even warn her that the drop is compromised,’ continued Clent, clasping his hands and examining their interweaving. ‘Our young delver into the night town is herself in considerable danger. If we leave a note for her, it will be read. If we leave no note, they will know that we know that the drop is compromised. Mosca will become their only lead. They will follow her… or more likely wait to ambush her at the drop.’
Sir Feldroll creased his narrow, tufted brows. ‘Half a dozen of my men will arrive later today – men with night names. His lordship the mayor is willing to make arrangements with the Committee of the Hours so that they can be let through the Twilight Gate tonight. Miss Mye is expecting them – if she has good sense, she will be waiting at the Gate to meet them. They can warn her about the drop then. And she can lead them to ambush this man Appleton at her next meeting with him.’
‘Assuming, of course,’ the mayor muttered dangerously, ‘that it is not the girl herself that has betrayed the location of the drop in exchange for her own freedom.’
A maid came in to clear the breakfast table, but the mayor continued speaking. Clent winced, and his hands made tiny involuntary motions, as if patting some restive child back to sleep. Hush, hush.
‘Indeed,’ continued the mayor, apparently oblivious to Clent’s concern, ‘if it were not for the testimony of Mistress Jennifer Bessel, I would have considerable doubts about placing my reliance this far on you, Mr Clent. However, given that you have managed to earn the respect of a lady of such elevated sensibilities and decency…’
A couple of expressions pulled Clent’s face to and fro between them like puppies trying to fight their way out of a bag.
‘Ah, yes – an admirable, ah, admirable creature. With boundless… qualities, and unfathomable… talent.’
‘I cannot imagine where this household would have been without her this last day or so.’ A gentle expression wandered on to the mayor’s angular features, where it looked rather out of place. ‘But then I suppose she discovered an inner strength and courage after the death of her husband.’
‘The death of her – ha, hmm, of course.’ After a brief convulsion Clent’s face took on the kindly expression of a pitying cherub. ‘So tragic. And… extremely unexpected.’
The maid departed again, tray in hand. Clent waited until the door closed behind her, eyes raised as if assessing the thread by which his good graces hung.
‘My lord mayor, I know that you have grave doubts about my secretary.’ He paused, then sighed. ‘Gentlemen, let me be perfectly candid with you. Before we came to Toll, Miss Mye and I had some… encounters with the Locksmiths – with Aramai Goshawk specifically. We did not precisely make an enemy of the gentleman, as you can see by the fact that we are both still above ground, but we most certainly did not make a friend.
‘Miss Mye knows all too well that crossing his path again would probably have fatal consequences. She cannot betray us to the Locksmiths without risking her own neck. If I might be blunt, you can place your trust in her because you are still her best… her only chance of weathering these disasters without being undone entirely.’
Neither of his listeners looked approving, but his words appeared to have sunk home.
‘Very well.’ The mayor settled back in his chair. ‘Then we had better contrive some letter to leave in the chink – something that will tell the Locksmiths nothing.’
‘And let us pray to the Little Goodkin that she goes to the Twilight Gate before the drop,’ murmured Sir Feldroll.
Goodman Snatchavoc, the Voice in the Gambler’s Ear
Like a good housewife eking out her store of dried fruits, Eponymous Clent knew how to make a little truth go a long way. It was a matter of theatre, like everything else. You sighed, as if you had given up all pretence, as if your listeners had been too shrewd for you. You spread your arms or your hands, as if flinging wide the doors of your treasury of secrets. And then, in tones of weary resignation, you said something like, Gentlemen, let me be perfectly candid with you…
In short, you let your audience examine your pockets so that they did not think to look up your sleeves. Eponymous Clent was sometimes candid. But he was never perfectly candid.
For example, his mind was currently full of thoughts that he had no intention of sharing with the mayor or Sir Feldroll at all. The letter drop had been discovered. How? Had Mosca betrayed them, or been clumsy and let herself be followed? Both were… possible. And yet he thought both unlikely.
Somewhere our secrets are spilling out of the sack and into the hands of the Locksmiths, he mused silently to himself as his feet led him away from the mayors abode. And I will wager my wits the hole is in the mayors own house. If I were Aramai Goshawk I would have placed a spy in the mayor’s household as soon as I arrived in Toll – before my horses flanks had even dried. And the mayor speaks of covert matters before his servants as if they had no more ears than a hatstand.