The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(59)

"Master Faulkner, how good of you to see us." Weasel Face stepped into the attic room, smiling benignly. He was dressed in lawyer's robes and carried a leather document wallet, all very respectable-looking. "My name is Samuel Kemp, and this is my client, Tom Armitage."

Ned waited until his mother had left the room before speaking.

"What are you doing here? I tell you what you want to know, and you stay away from my house. That's the deal."

"Deal's changed," Kemp replied. "We need you to do a little job for us."

"What sort of job? If it's paperwork you want, fine, but anything else–"

Kemp glanced meaningfully at the door. "You're not in a position to argue, Faulkner."

"All right." Ned sagged onto the stool. "What do you want me to do?"

"You told us Catlyn has a twin brother, locked up in Bedlam." Kemp began pacing back and forth with his hands behind his back, for all the world like a lawyer in a courtroom.

"Yes, that's right."

"You met him?"

"Once or twice."

"Is he dangerous?"

"Sandy? No. He wanders in his wits a lot of the time, and some days he doesn't say a word, but dangerous…" He shook his head.

"Would he recognise you if you visited him without Catlyn?"

"I don't know. Possibly."

"You say his wits wander. Is he slow? Can he learn?"

"Why do you need to know?" Ned asked. "What's going on?"

"Master Kemp is asking the questions," Armitage growled, looming over him.

"So, can he learn?" Kemp asked.

Ned sighed. "When he's in his right mind, he is sharper than any man I know. Reads Latin and Greek, and is learned beyond my wit to tell of."

Kemp seemed pleased with this information, though for the life of him Ned couldn't work out why.

"How often does Catlyn visit him?" Kemp asked.

"I don't know. Most Sundays, when he's in London."

"What about during the week?"

"Not that I know of. If he's working, he's rarely free to visit, and if he's not, then he usually hasn't got enough money to bribe the porter."

"Perfect," Kemp said to Armitage with an unpleasant smile. "We do it Monday, it'll be days before anyone notices."

"Do what Monday?" Ned asked.

"All in good time, Master Faulkner, all in good time." Kemp patted him on the shoulder. "We'll see you outside Bishopsgate at ten o'clock on Monday morning. In the meantime, I do indeed have a bit of paperwork for you."

"Oh?"

"Catlyn lived here for a while, right?"

"Yes."

"So, perhaps he left something, some letter or the like, with his signature on it."

"No, nothing." He had expected something like this when Kemp first latched on to him, and had destroyed what few papers Mal had left behind.

"Pity," said Kemp. "Just make it look good, then."

He handed Ned a sheet of paper and a large, official-looking seal. The document was a draft copy of a power of attorney; the name at the top read "Maliverny Catlyn Esq., of Rushdale in the county of Derbyshire".

"I think you know what to do with those," Kemp said softly. "See you Monday."

The front door of the Naismiths' house was locked, so Coby went round to the back. A clattering and reedy singing from the scullery told her Betsy was busy with the laundry. Perfect. Mistress Naismith was probably at the market or visiting friends, so she had the house to herself.

She let herself in and walked through the kitchen and upstairs to the apprentices" room. The spartan bedchamber held a plain bedstead, a washstand and a clothes chest cracked and stained with age. She rummaged in the chest amongst the tangle of clean and dirty linens, but found only the usual scant possessions of a boy: a comb with several teeth missing, a cupand-ball, a set of skittles. There was nothing under the mattress either, apart from dust and an odd sock. What Philip did not know, however, was that this room had been hers, briefly, after Master Naismith had first brought her to London. If he had explored it thoroughly since then, he would have found her old hiding place.

She moved the washstand to one side and levered up the short piece of floorboard with her knife. Reaching down into the dusty depths her fingers brushed against something smooth and cold. A leather pouch. She took it out and tipped the contents into her lap.

The gold and jewels blazed like beacons in the gloom. A handful of angels and half-angels, mixed with gold chains, finger rings and the rope of pearls Philip had boasted of pawning. Had he taken the hint and redeemed them? Still, by themselves these treasures were useless to her. Everyone knew that boy players received gifts from their admirers, and the canny ones like Gabriel Parrish saved them up for the day when their admirers sought newer, younger idols.

She reached inside the hiding-place again, but found nothing. Either Philip was cleverer than she thought, or he was not behind this wicked scheme. She put the pouch back and returned the room to the way she had found it. She was just about to leave when she heard noises coming from upstairs. Not the room above, which was Betsy's. That only left her own room and the costume store. Heart in mouth, she padded up the stairs.