"Lucy's father… he cannot help you?"
"Not likely. He is dead." She sounded quite matter-of-fact; if this was a wound, it was an old one. Pulling the shutter back in place, she sat down at the table and picked up her cider again. When he followed, she said, "My man and I were properly wed, had the vows said over us at the church door." She raised her chin, as if challenging him to doubt her. "I insisted upon it. I may be no saint, but I am no slut. I'd have no one ever call my child a bastard, for that is a word heavy as any stone and bitter as gall. I ought to know."
"So should I," Justin said, and saw her flicker of surprise. "What happened to your husband?"
"Will was a raker." Seeing his puzzlement, she explained, "That is what Londoners call the men who clean the city streets. It did not pay much and God knows, it was a miserable way to earn his bread. But Will had no trade and he was no thief. Good hearted, he was, but not one for planning for the morrow. He took his fun where he could find it, and more and more, he found it in alehouses. He liked to stop for an ale after work, and sometimes during work, too. The day came when he stopped once too often, and he fell off his cart. If he'd been sober, mayhap he could have rolled clear. Instead, the wheels ran over his chest." Setting her cider down, she said, without irony, "He was lucky. He died quick."
Justin offered no sympathy, for it was clear she neither expected nor wanted it. "You had no family to turn to, Nell?"
"Money and family — I never had much of either. Most are dead, like Will. So I took in laundry and did sewing and a few times, what I did is better left betwixt me and God. None of it was enough to pay the rent on our house. Here at least we have a bed of our own, my girl and me… and that is no small thing, Master de Quincy."
"Make it Justin," he said. "How did you end up here?"
"I have not 'ended up' anywhere, not yet! I admit the Lord's plan for me seems right murky at times, and trying to find my way can be like looking for a black cat at midnight. For now, the road has led me and Lucy here. A cousin on my mother's side is wed to Godfrey, who owns this pigsty. He is old and soured and crippled by gout, and he's come to depend on me more than he'd ever admit. I started by helping out, but now I do the ordering and hiring and firing and in return for all that, I get a bed above-stairs, a weekly wage, and the fun of fending off dolts like the one you tossed out on his ear. But I hope to — "
Nell flinched at the sound of a sudden, loud pounding, showing that her nerves were not as steady as she'd have Justin believe. "Shall I tell them that the alehouse is not open yet?" he offered, and when she nodded, he headed for the door.
The pounding had continued, unabated. Lifting the bolt, Justin opened the door and scowled at the intruder. "You'll have to come back later."
"I think not," the intruder said, and Justin braced for trouble. The man's appearance was no more reassuring than his words. He was of medium height, well muscled and well armed, his mantle swept back to reveal both a scabbard and a sheathed dagger. It was hard to estimate his age. Somewhere, Justin guessed, between thirty and death, and when death did come, it was not likely to be a peaceful one. A black eyepatch, a thin slash
of a mouth, contorted at one corner into a sinister parody of a smile by a jagged scar that could have been inflicted only by knife's blade — no, not a man to die in bed, full of years and honors. Not a man Justin would have wanted to meet in a dark alley. Nor was he happy to have to deal with him here and now, and he said curtly:
"We are closed. You'll have to get your ale elsewhere."
"I am not here for an ale. I'm looking for a man named de Quincy."
"Why?" Justin asked warily, and the man gave him a daunting stare, his one eye as black and fathomless as polished jet.
"Are you de Quincy? If not, why should I be answering to you?"
"Yes… I am. Now it is your turn. Who are you?"
"Jonas." When Justin still looked uncomprehending, the man said impatiently, "Did Fitz Alan not tell you that his serjeant would be seeking you out?"
"You're the serjeant?" Justin's smile was both apologetic and relieved. "Sorry — the sheriff did not give me your name. Come on in."
It took a while before they were able to talk, for Justin had to reassure Nell that this formidable stranger was trustworthy, and then fetch candles and cider. The serjeant was still standing. When Justin gestured toward a table, he noticed that Jonas picked the seat facing out into the room. He'd wager it had been years since the serjeant had sat with his back to any door. Pushing a cider cup across the table, he said, "Do you know Gilbert the Fleming?"
The serjeant nodded. "He is the worst of a bad lot. I know of at least three robberies and two killings I want to question him about. But he is not an easy man to track down… as you're finding out."
"He has unholy luck," Justin admitted. "If ever there was a man deserving to hang, it is this one. But he somehow slides through every noose. Can you help me change that luck of his? Can you help me find him?"
Jonas shoved his cider aside. "If it were up to me, I'd forswear food and sleep and even whores to hunt that hellspawn down. But the sheriff says he cannot spare me, not until we find out who set the Lime Street fire. Half a dozen houses burned, including one belonging to an alderman, and he has been harrying the sheriff every damned day since, out for blood. The fire must come first, whether I like it or not."
"I understand." And Justin did. The fear of fire stalked every city, dreaded even more than plagues, for it was far more common. But understanding did little to dilute his disappointment. "Can you at least suggest where I ought to start looking?"
"I can do better than that. I can give you a name — a sometime informant of mine. He is a craven little gutter rat, with less sense than God gave a sheep. But he has an uncanny knack for sniffing out other men's secrets. He might be able to help you, as long as you make it worth his while."
"That I can do. What is his name? And how do I find him?"
Jonas grinned. "His name is Pepper Clem, and yes, there is a story behind it. Clem does not have enough backbone to rob a man face-to-face, but he used to be a clumsy cutpurse. He was not very good at it, and more often than not, his victim caught him in the act. So he had an idea. He would bump into his target and surreptitiously spill pepper on the man's clothes, which would cause him to sneeze. And whilst he was sneezing away,
Clem's partner would steal his money pouch."
He grinned again at the look of incredulity on Justin's face. "I never said our boy was all that bright, did I? Needless to say, his pepper scheme went awry. The victim was so enraged that he punched Clem in the mouth and knocked out a tooth. And the accomplice spread the story all over London, making sure that he'd be known as Pepper Clem to his dying day!"
This Pepper Clem did not sound like the ideal ally to Justin, but he was not in a position to be choosy. "How do I find him?" he repeated, and the serjeant gave him a description and then the names of several Southwark alehouses that Clem liked to frequent.
Their business done, Jonas got to his feet. "If I think of something else, I'll be back." At the door, he paused, his gaze sweeping over Justin, coolly appraising. "Good luck, lad." That solitary black eye gleamed. "I expect you'll be needing it."
~~
The rest of that Thursday and the day that followed were as frustrating as they were exhausting. Returning, weary and dispirited, each night to Gracechurch Street, Justin felt as if he'd walked down every street and alley and byway that London had to offer, and he'd long since lost count of the alehouses and taverns he'd visited. All to no avail. He'd concocted several different stories; that he was a cousin of Pepper Clem's, that he hada job offer for Clem, even — in desperation — that he was seeking to pay an old debt. No matter how creative he was, no matter how he embellished or elaborated, the result was always the same. Silence and shrugs, indifference and suspicion.