‘He also mentioned a goose.’ The constable looked meaningfully at the floor, which was strewn with tiny white feathers from Saracen’s grooming and the pale blots of his droppings.
‘Invaluable birds,’ Clent smiled brightly. ‘Far better for guarding one’s domicile than a mastiff.’
‘Mr Clent.’ The constable leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. ‘I hope you can understand my position. I have no wish to harass a gentleman in the pay of the Lady Tamarind, or to risk a scandal which might besmulch her name, but I cannot be in any doubt that you know this man Partridge, and know a good amount about his dealings. This whole business has become too serious to ignore.
‘And so, Mr Clent, I have to ask you a question, and I think you know what it is going to be.’ The constable sat back, folded his arms, and peered at Clent’s carefully blank expression with narrow dislike. ‘Who has been melting down gods to make gunshot?’
Clent’s poker face broke down at this unexpected question, and he simply boggled.
‘I entreat your pardon… perhaps you could elucidate… I find myself a little… What?’
‘Once we had the first mate in darbies, we tracked down the rest of the crew. Most of them stayed mum, but the youngest got leaky, and told us they’d dropped off their smuggled cargo at a potter’s on the waterside. We turned the place over, and found nigh on a hundred and forty god statues under the floorboards. As you know, most god likenesses have a core of lead in them, so they won’t get blown over in their shrines. They’re about the only source of lead that wasn’t melted down during the war to make shot. And there under the floorboards, sure enough, was a set of bullet moulds and smelting gear. It is no secret that our noble Duke is seeking the ringleaders in a Diabolical Radical Plot against the Twin Queens… and we suspect that these bullet-makers may be part of the plot.’
‘Good sir, I can assure you that I know no more about this than the greenest pea fresh-popped from its pod. It is true that my secretary and I did travel from Kempe Teetering by barge for a time, and if you say the captain’s name was Halk Partridge I will not gainsay you, but if the first mate fancied that we were aware of his dark doings I can only tell you that he was deluded…’
The constable gave a slow nod, but not as if he was satisfied.
‘Very well, Mr Clent.’ He stood to leave. ‘You may realize that you remember more about our friend Partridge, and when you do I hope you will tell me about it. And when your secretary comes back, I’d thank you to bring her to the watch house to answer some questions. You see, she was seen climbing aboard Partridge’s boat the day after he disappeared, and talking to one of his crew.’
Clent remained motionless as the constable left the room, and he stayed so until the front door slammed. Then with tiptoe haste made absurd by his bulk, he tripped silently to the window to peer into the street. Only when he was satisfied that the constable really had left the marriage house did he tweak his coat off his bed, revealing the crouched form of Mosca, who had been listening to the interview with some confusion, and watching through a buttonhole.
Clent’s eyes were very bright. There was a vague smile on his face, and Mosca feared that he had gone insane under the pressure and might try to murder her at any moment.
‘Do you see it?’ he asked, holding up one finger.
Mosca looked at his finger then back at his face. She glanced up at the ceiling, to which the finger seemed to point, then back at Clent.
‘It is a glimmer of light. It is the faintest promise of escape from the dark caverns we have been walking. It is, I think, a Way Out. Give me a moment of absolute silence, and I shall find it.’ He closed his eyes, and his hand moved slightly, just as if he was really feeling along a rocky wall for a crack or a hole.
Mosca bulged her cheeks full of air and held her breath, not daring to move in case her skirts rustled.
‘I have it.’ Clent’s eyes flicked open again. His expression was wild but jubilant. ‘The fissure is narrow, but I believe that with will and courage we can squeeze through it. We shall feel the sun on our faces again. Listen – a week ago you saw Hopewood Pertellis polluting the minds of children with his treasonous teachings, yes? Afterwards, being a good and loyal child of your nation, you followed the villain to see where he went, and you saw him enter conversation with our friend Partridge, give him a purse of money, and walk away with him.’
‘But he didn’t…’
‘How do you know? Something like that may have happened – it probably did. If Partridge was not selling the leaden bullets to Pertellis himself, then he was probably selling them to one of Pertellis’s confederates. Have faith – this story is perfect, it ties up everything for the best. Let us say Partridge was murdered by radicals when he tried to blackmail them. The constable can preen himself on uncovering a radical plot and solving a murder at once, and we will be safe.’
‘But Mr Pertellis-’
‘Is a radical. He probably spends his nights dreaming of roasting baby princesses like chestnuts.’
It did not seem likely somehow. Mosca thought back to Pertellis’s baffled, spring-blue gaze, and tried to find the words to explain her doubts.
‘He tries to put squashed snails back together,’ was all she could say.
‘Then he is clearly insane,’ Clent answered confidently. ‘Anyway, what does it matter? The man is due to be hanged for high treason – one little murder will not make his situation any worse. Our position is too precarious to be nice about such things.’
Clent’s words did have a ghastly sort of logic. Mosca was lost for an answer, and offered no protest as Clent put on his coat and steadied his periwig.
‘Now, that is a solemn face to be wearing when our salvation is within reach. Child, I quite understand your reservations, but trust me – no one will be able to disprove your story, and I doubt they will even try. Come now. If we tarry, that will look like conspiracy.’
Mosca followed Clent through the streets like a sleepwalker. After all, would it be such a big lie? And besides, what choice did she have? If Clent hanged, he would see to it that she hanged beside him. Suddenly Mosca wished that she had told Kohlrabi everything after all.
‘Look at that,’ Clent murmured under his breath, gesturing with his cane at a ballad-seller near the bridge. ‘I write one ballad on Captain Blythe, and now every penny-a-page scribbler has a song about him. If they are to be believed, our poor friend Blythe spends his every working hour defending young maidens from unwanted advances, and giving money to starving beggars, and helping unfortunate farmers to escape from the beadles who would drag them to debtors’ prison. And apparently all the while he is a perfect picture of a gentleman with gallantries for every lady – I wonder where he finds the time to groom his horse and practise his gavotte.’
Clent’s mood seemed to have recovered miraculously.
‘Mosca, you must remind me to pick up some fresh quills on the way back. I have a mind to compose that letter you requested, recommending you to Lady Tamarind’s employ. Would you prefer to be painted as a loyal character with a soul as pure and true as diamond, or an able-witted, adaptable, quicksilver sort of animal? No matter, I am sure I can contrive a union of the two. You know, it is the most curious thing, but… I believe I shall actually miss you, Mosca.’
By a potter’s brick kiln, a waif-faced boy with a knuckle-shaped coal-smudge on his cheekbone paused to watch Mosca go past, a glowing pot gripped forgotten in his long tongs. His face was narrow and unforgiving.
‘It is strange to admit it now,’ Clent continued, ‘but there was a time when I felt that your companionship would be something of a burden to me. I was entirely mistaken, I confess it – you have proved a worth far beyond your years and the limits of your education. If your mind were not so set upon working for Lady Tamarind… ah, but I know that in that lofty castle dwells your dearest dream.’