from the confines of the girl’s mob cap had shimmered copper.
‘Fitch might know where the cap’n is.’ One of the smaller boys spoke up. ‘Fitch’s real friendly with Lu. Gives ’er money sometimes, ’e does.’
Without looking, the leader cuffed the boy on the head. ‘Stow it.’
‘Fitch?’
But the small boy took one look at the other boy’s face and shook his head.
The leader shrugged. ‘Just a cove.’
James reminded himself that it was none of his business if Miss Hensleigh was real friendly with anyone. Even a cove who gave her money sometimes. It happened. Yet in his pocket, his hand balled to a fist.
From above the sound of a violin being tuned floated down. James listened, arrested as first the G string was tuned, then the D and A in turn were coaxed into harmony. Finally the E string. A moment’s silence and then the instrument sang, a lilting, dancing tune that somehow brightened the dingy yard even though the sun sulked behind its gloomy defences.
Dragging his attention away from the music, James tossed the original sixpence to the leader, plucked another out of his pocket and gave it to the small boy who had mentioned Fitch.
‘If anyone does know where the captain is, I’d be interested.’
‘Took a bag, ’e did,’ volunteered another boy. ‘Saw ’im wiv it right down on Fleet, by the Bolt.’
‘Did you see him get on a coach?’ James asked. The Bolt-in-Tun, on Fleet Street, was the departure point for some of the Bath coaches. Bath would be a very likely destination for a card sharp looking to recoup his losses.
The boy hesitated, finally shrugged. ‘Nah. Just happened to see ’im there. Wasn’t that int’rested, was I?’
James fished out another sixpence and flicked it to him. ‘Apparently not. And you’re also clever enough not to tell me what you think I want to hear. Thank you.’
The lad nipped the coin out of the air with startling dexterity. ‘Could nick down there an’ ask around if you like, guv.’
James considered that. ‘No. Never mind. Does the name Kilby mean anything to you?’
The boys went very still and furtive glances were cast at their leader. He shrugged. ‘Nah. Never heard of ’im.’
James nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Fairly sure he had just been lied to, he strolled out of the yard and headed west, towards Fleet Street and the Bolt-in-Tun. The lilt of Lucy Hensleigh’s fiddle remained with him long after it had been drowned by distance and the rumble of wheels and hooves.
* * *
Lucy played until the light slid away from the window, leaving her in the shadows. Wrapped safely in the music’s enchantment, she could pretend for a little while, hold out the terrifying reality of her life. She played from memory. He had sold her music months ago, along with her last three books. The only reason he hadn’t sold the violin as well was that she had been out with it when he came home looking for things to sell. Slowly she let the spell unravel, knowing that even music could not keep out the world for ever. Shivering a little, she set the instrument back in its case and closed the window. She had practised for long enough and Fitch would be along soon.
Her stomach growled.
If only Papa had been home when Mr Remington called! Then they’d have some money. Money for the rent, money for food. Unless he owed it all to someone else. Over the four years that she’d been with him after Grandma’s death the gentleman’s code of so-called honour had been drummed into her—debts of honour were paid first, no matter if your daughter was hungry and you weren’t using your real name.
Perhaps he wasn’t out of town after all. Surely he wouldn’t have gone right away if someone owed him money...unless he owes more to someone else...
The gaming was a disease, holding her father in a fevered grip. Nothing else mattered to him. No logic, no reason could reach him. Nothing but the game. He was charming about it, naturally. Papa was always charming. Even when he was lying. In fact, especially when he was lying. He had reassured her at first. There was nothing to worry about. Everything was quite as it should be. All proper gentlemen played. He would stop as soon as he had made their fortunes. And she had believed him. Or perhaps she had just wanted to believe him. That he would stop. Just one more game to set all right, get the dibs in tune. Always just one more game. To get the dibs in tune. To oblige a friend. A matter of honour. Just one more.
She supposed she had wanted to believe him. What sixteen-year-old girl, with nowhere else to turn, wanted to believe that her father had them on an irreversible downward slide to destitution?
She looked at the worn-leather violin case. Thank God she’d had it with her the afternoon Papa had sold her books and music. He’d been furious that the violin had not been there to sell as well.
Luckily he had won that night and had forgotten about selling the instrument the next day. Now she either took it with her or hid it. And she hadn’t told her father the truth—that, courtesy of Fitch, she had found a way to earn enough money to feed herself.
Jig waited as Kilby’s pen scratched across the big ledger. Wonderful it were, how the man could write so quick an’ all. Not that Jig had any use for book learning—he did all right. Too much book learning could make a fellow soft. But there was no doubt that Kilby had kept his edge, right enough.
The pen slowed and sand was sprinkled across the page.
Kilby looked up. ‘Your report, Jig.’
Jig, so named because he’d narrowly escaped dancing a hempen jig as a boy, shifted under Kilby’s flat stare.
‘Found ’is nest, guv.’
Kilby stretched his arms and set his hands to either side of the ledger. His smile, to Jig’s way of thinking, weren’t real encouraging. Nor his fingers, drumming on the desk. Jig watched, narrow-eyed. The left hand it were—the one near the knife. Word was that Kilby drumming his fingers meant he was annoyed. Further word said that the first a man knew of Kilby reaching for the knife was the realisation that his difficulty breathing had to do with the knife buried in his windpipe. Nor a smart cove didn’t discount the pistol near Kilby’s right hand neither.
‘Two days since I set you on to find Hensleigh, Jig,’ Kilby said. ‘Two whole days. I note you only say you’ve found his nest. But perhaps that’s just your roundabout way of saying you have found the man himself?’
Jig swallowed. ‘As to that, guv, I ain’t found ’im as such. Seemin’ly ’e’s away. No one ain’t seen ’im.’
The fingers stopped drumming and Jig breathed a mort easier. Kilby was usually open to reason.
‘Away?’
‘That’s it, guv. Can’t find a cove who ain’t there, but I got ’is hole.’
Kilby nodded. ‘But if he’s left his hole, Jig, then it
