Did they think he was one of the sheriff's men? An informant? Tossing restlessly on his narrow, straw-filled pallet, he had no answers. But since what he'd been doing was not working, he'd have to find a new approach. What had Jonas called Pepper Clem… a craven little gutter rat? Would a man like that have many friends — any friends? Mayhap that was the road to follow.
~~
Southwark lay just across the river from London, and was notorious for its brothels and its brawling and its dangerous sins. Pepper Clem's favorite tavern was on the Bankside, in the disreputable neighborhood known as the stews. Justin had been there twice already, and when he walked through the doorway on Saturday morning, the tavern's hired man signaled his recognition with a raised eyebrow, a cynical smile.
"Back again, are you? Still looking for that lost cousin of yours?"
Justin ordered a flagon of red wine. On his last visit, he'd heard a customer call the man by name, and now he said casually, "Rauf, is it not? Put out another cup and I'll buy you a
drink."
Rauf's brow arched even higher. But he'd have accepted a drink from the Devil. "Why not?" Pulling up a stool, he watched Justin pour two cups from the flagon. "I see you still have the cur."
By now Justin was getting used to having a faithful, four-legged companion. At least the dog looked less bedraggled today, having been given — unwillingly — the first bath of his young life. Justin could not help smiling at the memory, for he and Lucy had ended up wetter than Shadow, with the kitchen flooded and Nell scolding them nonstop. "This is no cur," he joked. "He has at least a thimbleful of royal alaunt blood. Rauf… I have a confession of sorts. I was not entirely truthful with you the other day."
"Does this look like a church? Do I look like a priest? Of course you lied to me, man. People always lie in taverns. The only ones who hear more falsehoods are whores. But your lie was particularly pitiful, I'll admit. Long-lost cousin, indeed! No one kin to that little weasel would ever admit to it, except at knifepoint."
"You're right. That was not very clever of me. The real reason I am looking for 'that little weasel' is the one you've probably guessed. He owes me a debt."
"Money… or blood?" Rauf had a high-pitched laugh, almost like a cackle. "You need not answer that. It is enough to know you'll be giving him some grief." Peering into his cup, he then glanced pointedly at the flagon. Taking the hint, Justin filled the cup again.
"Now… where would you be most likely to corner Pepper Clem?" Rauf puckered his forehead in thought. "You might try the churchyard at St Paul's. He sometimes lurks there, trying to peddle vials of blood from Canterbury's holy martyr, St Thomas. Every now and then he even finds someone simple enough to believe it! Or he hovers around the Cheapside, selling cat fur as rabbit pelts. You might try the Cock, too, one of the bawdyhouses up Bankside. He runs errands for the whores and offers potions to their customers."
"What kind of potion?"
"The kind that is supposed to fire a man's blood — from gelding to stallion in just one swallow. Men buy it, too… at least once." Rauf cackled again. "Clem might be dumb as a post, but he has plenty of company, and that's God's Truth!"
Justin had gotten what he'd come for. He could only hope the hunt's end would be worth all the trouble of the chase. So far, nothing he'd heard about Pepper Clem inspired much confidence.
~~
Justin decided to try the Cock first, since it was so close. All the bawdyhouses were whitewashed, meant to lure potential customers across the river. The symbols of their names — the Crane, the Bell, the Half Moon — were painted above their doors, and he located the Cock without difficulty. He was surprised to find the common room half full, despite the early hour. Apparently sinning was a neverending activity in Southwark. He was accosted by a plump redhead as soon as he walked through the doorway, and disentangled himself with some difficulty. He fended off the next prostitute by feigning shyness, and she went to order wine, hoping that would dispel his nervousness. Justin took advantage of her absence to head toward the far corner of the room, for he'd spotted his quarry.
Pepper Clem was easy to recognize. Jonas had described him as a "chinless wonder," and he did indeed have a receding jaw-line, poorly camouflaged by a skimpy ginger beard. Everything about the man was meagre: a narrow chest, a small, pursed mouth, sparse, lank hair. His pallor was unhealthy, even for February; he put Justin in mind of a mushroom, grown in a damp cellar far from the sun's warmth. He squinted up uneasily as
Justin approached, wavering between alarm and interest at the sound of his own name.
Without waiting to be asked, Justin, took a seat opposite the thief. "I've been looking all over Southwark for you, Clem."
"I know you?"
"No, but you know someone I need to find."
"I've never been one for doing favors for strangers."
"Who said anything about favors? You get me the information I want and I'll pay. Play false with me, though, and you'll pay."
Clem digested this. "Who are you looking for?"
"A man named Gilbert the Fleming." Justin saw at once that his arrow had hit its target dead center. Clem shifted in his seat, pulling back like a turtle retreating into its shell.
"What… what makes you think I know him?"
"Jonas says so." Clem's reaction to the serjeant's name was unmistakable. Justin watched the emotions battle across Clem's face, his fear of Gilbert the Fleming warring with his fear of Jonas. "I said I'd pay you," he reminded the thief. "Find out the man's whereabouts for me and you'll be the richer by a half-shilling." That was a generous sum and Clem lunged for the bait like a starving trout, heedless of the hook.
"One shilling," he insisted, and looked as if he could not believe his luck when Justin nodded, for he had no way of knowing that was the sum Justin had always intended to pay. "Half now," he bargained, emboldened by his success, but this time
Justin shook his head.
"Do not insult me, Clem," he said coldly.
Clem accepted defeat with a shrug; he'd had a lot of practice at it. "I'll see what I can find out," he promised. "Do you know the tavern on the Bankside, the one next to the public bathhouse? Suppose I meet you there on the morrow, the third hour past noon?"
The deal being struck, Justin pushed away from the table. "Wait," Clem protested. "I do not know your name."
"No, you do not," Justin agreed. "The only name that matters is Gilbert the Fleming's."
~~
"You cannot stay away, can you?" Grinning, Rauf filled a flagon from one of the massive wine casks behind him and set it down, unasked, in front of Justin. He looked disappointed when Justin did not offer to share, but Justin did not want to be distracted by the other's cheerful chatter. Now that the hunt might be nearing an end, he was becoming edgy and tense. Once he found Gilbert the Fleming, what then? Surely the sheriff would agree to make the arrest? Lime Street fire or not, the man was a murderer. Mayhap it would be best to contact Jonas first. Assuming that the sheriff cooperated fully and the Fleming was seized, could he be made to talk? Justin did not doubt that Jonas knew any number of ways to loosen a man's tongue. But the queen would not be wanting Gilbert to unburden himself to anyone but Justin. It was a twisted coil, for certes.
Justin did not expect Clem to be a stickler for punctuality, and he was not concerned at first by his lateness. But as the afternoon dragged by and the shadows started to lengthen, he grew increasingly restless. Where was that wretched little cutpurse? Even if he'd had nothing useful to report yet, he ought to be here, vowing by all the saints to make good his promise. With a shilling at stake, he'd want to keep Justin's trust. Had he gotten drunk and overslept?