Her Majesty's Necromancer (The Ministry of Curiosities #2)(13)

"How did the fight start?" I asked.

"Some folk didn't take too kindly to him joining their game of dice, then winning every time. When they all owed him money, he said he'd wipe their debts if they answered his questions."

"That sounds like a fair exchange to me."

One of the old drinkers chuckled. "Aye, but they suspected him of cheating."

"Could they prove it?"

"No," said the innkeeper. "And that only riled them more. They were sure he cheated. No one wins every round of dice unless they’re weighted."

"Had the luck of the devil, the cur," muttered the man on my right. He downed the contents of his glass.

I bought him another, and the second man too. They thanked me with yellow-toothed grins.

"So the dice players attacked him?" I asked as the innkeeper handed them full tankards. "That doesn't sound very fair when they couldn't prove he cheated."

"He had a look about him." The man on my left wrinkled his nose. "Reminded me of a gypsy I once met in Cork. Black-eyed snake he was, always cheating and lying. Couldn't trust him."

A gypsy? That was rather extreme. Lincoln did have the black hair and eyes of that kind, but his bearing was that of a gentleman, not a carnival trickster.

"And he was asking too many questions," said the other fellow. "If he just took the money and left, he might have got away with it. But he had to go and ask questions."

"The wrong ones, by the look of it," said the innkeeper. "And of the wrong people."

"Was one of the dice players Jimmy, do you think?"

"P'haps." The innkeeper shrugged then edged away. I got the feeling he was hiding something.

The man on my right slapped his palm down on the counter. "Jimmy Duggan!"

The innkeeper glared at him, but the man was too busy grinning at me to notice.

"Jimmy Duggan was one of the dice players. I remember now. He wouldn't answer the gypsy when he asked if he'd been to the cemetery recently."

Lincoln had asked a direct question like that? Good lord, his interrogation technique was worse than I thought.

"What's he want to know about cemeteries for?" asked the other patron with a shiver.

"Jimmy Duggan is my brother," I told them, sitting forward on the stool. "Do you know where he went after the fight?"

"No," said the innkeeper. "He left with his friend."

"What was his friend's name?"

"Don't know."

"Pete Foster," said the man on my right. He was being particularly helpful so I touched his arm to encourage him. "Do you know him too, miss?"

"No. He must be the one encouraging Jimmy to get up to no good." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Jimmy's a good fellow, and he wouldn't do anything wrong on purpose. Mother and I are so worried. Is there anything else you can tell me about them? Do they have other friends?"

"They came in alone and left alone." The innkeeper shrugged. "That's all I know."

"Sorry, miss," said the man on my right. "If he stops by again tonight, I'll tell him you were looking for him."

I doubted Jimmy and Pete would be back so soon, now that they knew Lincoln was after them. I thanked him and hopped off the stool. It all seemed rather hopeless. I'd learned their names, but not where to find them. Perhaps Lincoln could do something with the information.

"Did the man with the black eyes leave after Jimmy?" I asked.

They glanced at one another and shrugged. "I didn't see him go," the innkeeper said. "Did you?"

The man beside me shook his head. "Must have slipped out when we weren't looking."

I bought them each another round, thanked them again then left. With a sigh, I trudged up the street. On the one hand, it had been a waste of time visiting The Red Lion, but on the other, I'd at least learned both grave robbers' names. I'd also learned something else just as important—I was capable of getting answers if I asked the right questions in the right way. It was a small victory, but only in the war against myself.

I was close to the destination of my third stop for the day, so I decided to leave luncheon until afterward. I'd passed by the handsome red brick Kentish Town orphanage many times when I lived in a nearby lane, but had taken very little notice of it. It was a large building compared to the others in the wide street, and had perhaps belonged to a wealthy merchant in the days when the land was used for farming. It now looked odd, set back from the street amid a row of joined townhouses, but impressive for the same reason.

It was the third orphanage I'd visited since learning of my adoption, but I went in with high hopes. Kentish Town wasn't too far from Tufnell Park, where my adopted parents had lived. I was shown into a small office with a poorly rendered painting of the queen hanging on the wall. The balding bespectacled man at the desk looked annoyed by the interruption. He steepled his fingers and blinked at me over the top of his glasses. According to the carved wooden plaque on his desk, his name was Mr. Hogan.

"Do you have an appointment?" he asked.

"No, but I hope you can help me anyway."

"You need to make an appointment." He returned to the open ledger on his desk. "I'm very busy."