The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(92)

"Double?" She looked at the warehouse owner. "Is that true?"

"Well, I–" The man mopped his face with a striped kerchief. "There are running costs. And taxes. My cousin didn't keep the roof in good repair, and the price of vermin control has tripled in the last year–"

She held up her hand.

"Are you happy, sirs, with the state of the warehouse?"

The skrayling stared at the ground. "It has not been as good as we would like."

"But you would pay more if it were better."

"Yes."

She turned back to the warehouse owner. "If you were to begin repairs before increasing the rent, that would be a show of good faith, would it not, sir?" He seemed about to protest, so she added, "They always pay on time, do they not?"

"Oh yes, my cousin did praise them for it."

"And you," she said to the skraylings, "will pay your rent to this man's wife?"

She gestured to the woman in the crowd, who turned pale as the skraylings bowed to her in unison.

"If she is the new mistress of this property, yes."

"Good," Coby replied, clapping her hands together. "My lord Suffolk will be most pleased with this happy outcome."

"I– I will send him a butt of my finest sack immediately," the warehouse owner said, shaking her hand.

"Thank you."

She wondered what on Earth the duke would make of this unexpected largesse. Given the size of his household, he would probably not even notice.

"There is one more thing," she added. "You have men patrolling this wharf night and day?"

"Of course."

"Then perhaps they may recall something that happened yesterday, around noon."

The warehouse owner beckoned to a tall, heavy-set man in a leather jerkin.

"Wat, you were on duty yester noon, were you not?"

"Aye, sir."

Coby cleared her throat, picking her words carefully. "Master Wat, did you see a coach arrive here yesterday, with four men in it? One got out and caught a wherry, and the rest drove away again."

"A coach, you say?" He scratched his head. "Plenty of coaches fetch up here in the early afternoon, bringing folk what want to cross the river." He nodded knowledgeably. "That's when the plays start."

"But not so many before noon, I dare say," Coby prompted.

"That's true enough. Aye, come to think on it, I did see one betimes. I remarked that the fellow who got out looked more like a servant, and an ill-kempt one at that."

That certainly sounded like Ned Faulkner. "Do you remember anything else? Which way did the coach go, afterwards?"

"Now that was the odd thing. They waited a long time, until the servant was well across the river and out of sight. I was going to go and ask their business, but just as I stepped out, three more men got out and boarded another wherry, and the coach left without them."

"Was one of them tall and thin, with black hair?"

"Aye," the watchman said. "I got a good look at his visage; he was staring about him like he'd never seen the river afore."

"Which way did the wherry go?"

"Why, upstream of course. I watched it for a good while, until it disappeared round the southward bend towards Westminster. Beyond that, I can't say."

"Thank you again, gentlemen." She bowed, trying not to show her elation. "My master will hear of your faithful service."

Heart pounding, she ran back to Thames Street to make her excuses to Mistress Naismith. The thought of that unfortunate young man being carried away by ruffians, and to who knew what fate, had made up her mind. Tonight she would return to the Tower, and hazard the consequences.

CHAPTER XXIV

The Borough Compter was attached to the courthouse in Long Southwark. It had once been part of the parish church of St Margaret, its jewel-coloured windows replaced with plain glass and its Biblical murals whitewashed over. The walls were not white any more, but stained brown with the sweat of guilty men.

Ned hunkered on his heels against the wall to which he had been shackled by one ankle, unwilling to sink into the vermin-infested straw that covered the floor. At least he was in one of the upper rooms, where prisoners who could pay the gaolers' fees were kept. Down below, in filth and gloom worthy of Hell, were the debtors and other wretches who had run out of money or had no one to support them. Ned patted the purse hanging round his neck under his shirt. Gabe had given him a few shillings, since he had fled the scene of his crime with almost nothing. All Ned had to do was avoid being robbed by the other prisoners within reach of his chains.

The cell had room for perhaps a dozen men, with heavy staples cemented into the walls at intervals of a few feet. If the gaolers chose to use short chains, they could easily keep the prisoners apart, but they seemed to find it more entertaining to allow them enough freedom to torment one another. Word soon got around that Ned had murdered a man twice his size, and thankfully so far no one had seen fit to challenge him to prove it.

He glanced from side to side. The man on his left was curled up in the filthy straw, shivering as if with a fever; Ned noticed that the prisoner beyond him gave the poor wretch as wide a berth as the chains would allow. Plague? Ned muttered an oath and turned his attention to the man on his right. A scrawny fellow with thinning mousy hair, he sported a large purple-and-yellow bruise on his forehead that did nothing to improve his homely looks.