He took Penny’s arm, and the three of them started back to the town. “Have you heard anything?”
“Wish I could say I have, but nay-there’s nary a whisper, and you may be sure I’ve put the word out good and proper.”
“Any advance on Arbry or Granville, or any related subjects?”
Pursing her lips, Mother Gibbs shook her head. “All quiet, it’s been.”
They turned onto the steep path that led down to the harbor; soon they were in the lee of the cliff, out of the wind.
Charles went on, “What about men passing through-gypsies, tinkers, vagabonds, men looking for work?”
“Wrong time of year for most such, but there was a tinker family came through. Near as me and the boys could work out, though, they was camped here, by Fowey town, days before poor Gimby met his end, and though they did head off just before he was found, they said they was heading to St. Austell. Dennis checked with the fishermen thereabouts, and the tinkers did appear there just when you’d expect, so they couldn’t’ve spared time to head the other way and murder Gimby, least not any ways we can see.”
“Thank you.” Charles fished in his pocket and drew out a sovereign; he offered it, but Mother Gibbs shook her head.
“Nay, not for this.” She fluffed her knitted shawl about her old shoulders and looked down at the fleet, bobbing at the quay. “Me and the boys don’t hold with this-Gimby might’ve been a blessed hermit, but he was one of ours. Whatever we can do to help you catch the beggar who killed him, we’ll do it and gladly. Dennis said as to tell ye he and the Gallants are at your disposal should you need extra hands.”
Charles nodded, returning the sovereign to his pocket. “Warn Dennis and the others to be extracareful all around. It’s possible the murderer’s already left the area, but something tells me he hasn’t.”
“Aye.” Mother Gibbs nodded. “I’ll do that.”
They parted from her at the lower end of the steep passageway leading to her door and strolled on along the quay.
Penny glanced at Charles’s face, often expressive, presently uninformative. “What are you thinking?”
He glanced at her, almost as if he’d forgotten she was on his arm. She narrowed her eyes on his. “Or should that be what are you planning?”
His swift grin broke across his face; he looked ahead. “Given that Nicholas is receiving dispatches, I was wondering if it was possible to arrange for him to receive the sort of information that would spur him to make contact with the French again. Assuming, of course, that simple treason is what we’re dealing with, a fact of which I’m still not convinced.”
“You think he might not have been passing secrets, but receiving them?”
“That’s one possibility we can’t as yet discount, certainly, but…” He shook his head. “It’s a feeling that the picture isn’t properly taking shape. Like a jigsaw with pieces that simply won’t fit. No matter what else we learn, at the back of my mind is the nagging fact that despite the assurances we received that there was a traitor working out of the Foreign Office, Dalziel never unearthed the slightest evidence that any information from the F.O. had actually turned up on the other side.
“Yes, the other side might have someone smart enough to hide all trace, however, Dalziel is terrifyingly good at finding such links, but in this case he turned up empty-handed, and it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
He stopped; arm in arm, they stood and looked out over the forest of masts lining the quay. “I don’t believe Nicholas is Gimby’s murderer. I was hoping, still am hoping that he’ll see the light and either confess, or at least take me sufficiently into his confidence so we can, regardless of all else, capture whoever killed Gimby. I am sure Gimby was the link with the French-the signals prove that. But while Nicholas is involved, just how he’s involved…” He sighed, frustrated.
She squeezed his arm. “I see what you mean about pieces that don’t fit.”
She sensed a sharpening of his attention, felt the subtle steeling of the muscles under her hand.
“Speaking of such pieces…”
She followed his gaze to a tall, thin figure standing on the wharf below in deep and animated discussion with two fishermen.
“The Chevalier.” She searched through the others thronging the wharf. “I can’t see Mark Trescowthick, or any others of that group.”
“No.” Charles was watching the exchange between the seamen and the Chevalier. “I have the feeling that while Mark might think he and the Chevalier are close friends, the Chevalier might describe matters differently.”
She considered. “The Chevalier’s rather older than Mark.”
“And far more serious than an overindulged pup like Mark Trescowthick. I’m sure the Chevalier is charming when he needs to be, but I doubt they have much in common.”
“If the Chevalier is just using Mark as his excuse to be down here, that rather raises the question of why.”
Charles studied the Chevalier for a minute more, then stirred. “With any luck Dalziel will help us with that-he has contacts enough to find out what the Chevalier’s real purpose here might be. Meanwhile, I should speak with Dennis, maybe tomorrow, and give him the names of our five visitors. Let’s see what he and the Gallants can learn.”
Together, they turned and started the climb back to the High Street.
“Perhaps we should ride to the Abbey and see if Dalziel has sent any word.”
Charles shook his head. “Not enough time has passed since I sent my report. The reply will come late tonight at the earliest, but most likely sometime tomorrow.” He looked at her. “Let’s have a quick lunch at the Pelican, and then, given Nicholas had a delivery this morning, I think a stint in the folly might be wise.”
They walked on in silence. As they neared the Pelican, she said, “On the way back, I’m going to stop off at Essington Manor. If I’m not seen about, visiting as usual, people will start wondering where I am-”
“And what you’re doing.” Charles sent her one of his devilish grins. “Good idea. I’ll endure the folly on my own. Who knows?” He arched a brow at her as he held the door of the Pelican wide. “I might even catch up on some sleep.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, elevated her nose, and swept past.
And hoped, in the dimmer light inside, that he wouldn’t see her blush.
That blush hadn’t owed its genesis to any prudish start but to her realization of how reluctant she was to forgo an afternoon in the folly with him.
But reason had to prevail.
When she rode into the Wallingham Hall stables at five o’clock-and not a minute earlier, as he’d instructed-he was waiting. Together they walked up to the house.
“Did anything occur this afternoon?”
“No. Nicholas is sitting tight.” Charles looked toward the wing that housed the library. “I’m inclining to the notion that he doesn’t know who to contact any more than he did when he first came here looking for Granville’s friends. If that’s so, it’ll be pointless to arrange to give him something worth another pillbox to sell. However, I think he’s very much afraid someone knows to contact him, and he doesn’t know what to do.”
“So he’s being extracareful.”
“Indeed. I’m going to try to rattle him this evening.”
Reaching the garden door they entered, and once again went their separate ways. She repaired to her room, bathed and changed for dinner; given Norris was in Charles’s confidence, she expected he was doing the same. Certainly, when she walked into the drawing room fifteen minutes before the dinner hour, he appeared immaculately groomed.
He was standing with Nicholas by the fireplace, dwarfing Nicholas more by vitality than size, and appeared to be in expansive good humor-a fact Nicholas, it seemed, had learned to view with suspicion, as well he might.