He nodded. ‘And who is this Mr Fisher?’
‘A rotten man. He hasn’t paid me for seven weeks. What do you want with him, anyway? Does he owe you money? You won’t get it.’
‘I have never met Mr Fisher. I am the father of Mr Armstrong. Presumably the two of them are associates.’
The look she gave him then told him everything he needed to know about Mr Fisher and his associates. Then he saw something start to dawn in the eyes of the child. If she had no liking for Mr Fisher and his associates, what was she to make of the father of one of those men?
‘The thing is,’ he reassured her, ‘I fear that my boy might have fallen in with Mr Fisher. I’d like to get him out of harm’s way, if I can. Have you seen a friend of Mr Fisher who is a young man of twenty-four, with light-brown hair that curls where it meets his collar, and sometimes wears a blue jacket?’
The girl stopped. Armstrong came to a halt a pace or two later, turned back and saw her face. If it were possible, she was whiter than before.
‘You said you was Mr Armstrong’s father!’ she hissed.
‘And so I am. He does not resemble me, it is true.’
‘But that man … you just described him …’
‘Yes?’
‘It is Mr Fisher!’ She spat the words at him, with a childish fury at being fooled. Then her face altered suddenly from outrage to fear. ‘Don’t tell him I told you! I never said a word! I never said nothing!’ There was a plea in her voice, and tears in her eyes.
Seeing she was about to flee, Armstrong put his hand in his pocket and drew out coins. She suppressed the instinct to run and eyed the money. ‘How much does he owe you?’ he asked gently. ‘Does this cover it?’
Several times her gaze shifted between the coins and him. She was wary, as though he were some kind of monster and the money most likely a trick. When it came, the snatch of her fingers was unexpected. In a flash the money was gone and she with it, apron strings and plait flying behind her as far as the first side street, where she turned and disappeared.
Armstrong got himself away from the moneyed part of town, and when he came to a busy street of shops and workplaces, entered the first public house he came to. He bought himself a drink, and one for the blind man who sat by the fireside. It was easy enough to lead the conversation from this public house to drinking places in general, and then to the Green Dragon in particular.
‘It’s decent enough between May and September,’ the man told him. ‘They put wooden tables outside and get some girls to serve the drinks. They water the beer and they overcharge, but folk put up with it for the roses they has clambering all over everywhere.’
‘And in winter?’
‘It’s a bad sort of place. Damp in the timbers. Thatch wanted renewing when I could see, and that was twenty year ago. They say the windows are so cracked it’s only the dirt what holds them together.’
‘And the people?’
‘Bad ’uns. You can buy and sell anything you wants at the Green Dragon – rubies, women, souls. If you have a difficulty in your life, go to the Green Dragon between the beginning of September and the middle of April and you’ll find someone to remove it for you. For the right money. That’s what they say, and it’s true enough.’
‘What do you do if you have a difficulty in spring or summer?’
‘You ’ave to wait. Or do it yourself.’
‘And where is it, this place?’ Armstrong asked as he reached the bottom of his glass.
‘You don’t want to be going there. You’re not the kind. I might not see very much, but I can hear your voice. It’s not a place for a gentleman such as yourself.’
‘I must. There is someone there and I must find him.’
‘Do he want to be found?’
‘Not by me.’
‘Does he owe you money? It’s not worth it.’
‘It’s not money. It’s – family.’
‘Family?’ The man looked wistful.
‘My son. I fear he’s got in with the wrong sort.’
The blind man reached out a hand, and when Armstrong took it, he felt the man’s other hand grip his forearm, measuring the size and power of it.
‘I’d say you’re a man that can look after yourself.’
‘If I have to.’
‘Then I’ll tell you where to find the Dragon. For your son’s sake.’
The directions Armstrong received took him right across town once more and out the other side. As he walked, it began to rain. He came to a meadow as the sky was turning shades of pink and apricot. On the other side of it was the river. He crossed a bridge and turned upstream. The path was edged with brambles and willows that dripped rainwater on to his hat, and the knuckles of ancient tree roots protruded from the ground beneath his feet. The light grew dimmer, as did his thoughts, and then he perceived through thickets of yew and holly and elder the outline of a building, and squares of dull light that were its windows. He knew he was in the right place, for it had the unmistakeable air of having been adopted by people who like to keep their doings out of sight and in the dark. Armstrong paused at the window and peered through the thick glass.
Inside was a low room, made lower still where the ceiling bulged in the middle. A pillar of oak, thick as three men standing together, had been placed as a support to hold it up. Gas lamps struggled to make an impact on the shadows, and were scarcely aided by the candles on the tables. It was only the end of the afternoon, but the place had the feeling of night. A few solitary drinkers sat in the shadows along the walls, but the best illumination came from the fire that was blazing in the hearth, and near it was a table, around which five men were seated. Four of the five men had their heads bent over a card game, but one sat up, his chair tilted on its back legs and leaning against the wall. His eyes were almost shut, but Armstrong guessed from the angle of his head that the appearance was a ruse. Between the narrow slits of his eyes, his son – for it was Robin – was casting about for a glance of the other men’s cards.
Armstrong passed the window and opened the door. As he stepped inside, all five players turned in his direction, but the air was thick with smoke and he was half concealed behind the pillar – he was not yet recognized. Robin lowered his chair to the floor and signalled to someone in a dark corner, as he squinted blindly through the fug to where Armstrong stood.
A second later, Armstrong felt his arms gripped by an unseen person from behind. His assailant was smaller than he was by a head and a half, and his arms were slim, yet they gripped him like wire rope. The sensation of being held against his will was unfamiliar to Armstrong. He was not certain of being able to free himself, for all that the man was so small that the brim of his hat jutted between Armstrong’s shoulder blades. A second fellow, with a single black brow that sat low over his eyes, came close and scrutinized him.
‘Peculiar-looking fellow. Don’t know ’im,’ he announced.
‘Get rid of him, then,’ Robin said.
The men tried to turn him back to the door, but he resisted.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, knowing that his voice alone would be enough to perturb things. He felt surprise in the hold of the wire-rope man, but the grip did not loosen. The monobrow peered at him again and, uncertain, turned back to the table, too late to see what Armstrong had seen: the flash of surprise on Robin’s face, instantly suppressed.
‘I think you’ll find your Mr Fisher will see me,’ Armstrong said.
Robin rose. He nodded to his guards, and Armstrong felt his arms released.
The two men returned to the shadows and Robin approached. He wore the same expression that Armstrong had seen a thousand times before, from early childhood to dawning manhood. It was the petulant fury of a child whose parent stood in his way. Armstrong was surprised to see how intimidating it looked on the face of a grown man. Had he not been Robin’s father, had he been a less powerfully built man, he might well have been afraid.