Rogue's Home

by Hilari Bell

  Michael still had his doubts, but I was certain the moment I saw D’VORIN embossed in the soft gold. He’d been too close, too kind, too cursed nice—why I hadn’t suspected him before?

  But the law wouldn’t act without proof, and I had no proof. I wouldn’t be getting any tonight, either. In the last twenty-four hours I’d fought a fire, tramped through a swamp, uncovered a murderer, gotten no sleep, and worried a lot. But I wasn’t too tired to enjoy the expression on the face of the street sweeper in front of Max’s house when I strolled past him. He fell into a spirited argument with the ratcatcher who’d followed me from the marish, and I was so amused by the two of them that I forgot Trimmer would be opening the door. I barely had time to conceal my expression with a yawn.

  Over dinner I assured the others once more of Michael’s safety. With Trimmer hovering unobtrusively in the background (the urge to throttle him was amazingly strong), I mentioned Michael’s reluctance to leave the horses, and that it would take some time to come up with a plan to smuggle them out. I added that it would also be wise to let the search die down and went to bed without so much as glancing at Trimmer, congratulating myself on having won several days to investigate.

  After breakfast I noted the positions of the beggar in the back alley and the chimney sweep, whose hand-cart had broken down within sight of Max’s front gate, and then went through the orchard, over the outer wall, and down the road into town.

  Tradition held that the worst of the winter storms waited till after Calling Night. It didn’t always work that way, but this year it looked like tradition was right on target. Gray clouds marched in from the sea, and the wind that carried them was cold enough to make me clutch my cloak tighter and wish I’d brought a scarf.

  No one seemed to be following me as I made my way over Drybridge to Master Clogger’s wheelwright shop, though with everyone bundled up against the chill, it was hard to be certain. The poor fools watching Max’s house were going to freeze.

  I had to go round to the yard to find Clogger, but he let me without hesitation, announcing that he didn’t hold with mobs no matter what anyone said. He glared at a neighbor’s windows as he spoke, but I already knew what the townsfolk thought. As long as Michael was safe, it didn’t matter—though if a mob came after me, that would change in a hurry. I wondered why Worthington had chosen to frame Michael alone and not both of us. It might be because Michael wouldn’t be granted a hearing, where our suspicions could be publicly aired, but still…

  When Michael had turned up on Max’s doorstep, with his self-esteem battered almost beyond recognition, I’d been forced to desperate measures to shake him back into himself. Now I was trying to balance that against the need to keep him alive, and it wasn’t easy—but at least I was no longer worried that he’d abandon me for my own good. With Michael, curiosity was a stronger bond than chains.

  Clogger wasn’t as indifferent to the neighbors as he pretended, or maybe he just wanted to get out of the cold, for he led me into his shop. I told him, as gently as I could, about discovering the pack, and anguish twisted his blunt face. I hardly needed to ask, “You’d recognize that pack, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes. I watched him load it. It was a good piece of work. One of his best. He was a good tanner, a good man. If he’d just…” He stopped to take a deep, shaking breath. “How did it happen?”

  “He was knifed. Very quick, very clean. He’d barely have had time to realize what was happening,” I lied.

  Clogger sighed. “I wish…He was so angry with those bastards. What they’d done to that girl. Angry and sad. I can’t believe he’d lie about it, even to pay his debts. But if someone killed him to keep him silent…”

  “He could have been killed to keep him silent even if he didn’t lie—to keep him from denying it when the scandal about Maxwell broke.”

  “And that old woman too? You think they killed her?” He went to his cluttered workbench and sank down on a stool, as if standing was suddenly too much effort. He picked up a wheel spoke from a pile on the bench, turned it, and put it back.

  “Two people could have sworn that Max didn’t bribe them to lie. Both are dead, one murdered and one ‘committed suicide.’ What do you think?”

  “But if that’s true, where did Ren get the money? I thought about what you said the other day. I talked to some of his friends. The ones he paid off. All of them told me that Ren wouldn’t say where the money came from. A few said he told ’em that ‘a very generous man’ was helping him out. That was all they knew.” He picked up a plane, caressed the smooth grip, and replaced it. He picked up a chisel.

  A very generous man. A philanthropist perhaps?

  “Did anyone mention a name? Or anything else Ren said about the man?”

  “No. One of them had the impression somebody had hired Ren to act as his agent—broker some kind of deal. But Ren was being discreet, for once in his life.” He abandoned the chisel and picked up a hatchet, thumping the blunt end into his palm. “You think that’s what he did? Promised Ren a good job in another town, so his departure wouldn’t raise suspicion, and then killed him.”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “That’s what I think. I’m sorry.”

  Thump, thump, thump. The hatchet seemed to satisfy him, for he kept it.

  “You’re sure no one mentioned anything that would give me a clue to the man’s identity?” I asked.

  “Nothing. ‘A very generous man’ was the only thing Ren told ’em. Who do you think it is?”

  Thump. Thump.

  I didn’t dare mention Worthington’s name. “I don’t know. But when I do, your brother will have justice.”

  I left him gazing into space, pounding the hatchet softly against his palm.

  Having no desire to repeat Michael’s mistakes, I went round to the tannery’s back gate to see Mistress Skinner. I succeeded in avoiding the mob but not the husband, who flatly refused to let me in. But there’s more than one way to lift a purse.

  I walked down the street Mistress Skinner would take to the nearest market, found a sheltered nook beside some high steps, and settled in to wait…and wait…and wait….

  My buttocks became numb, and I rose to pace. I was so cold, I started to feel sorry for the deputies watching Max’s house. I waited some more. Mid-meal came and went. I got hungry. I paced again. I waited.

  I was questioning the wisdom of this strategy for about the hundredth time when Mistress Skinner came down the street carrying an empty basket. She wore a man’s coat and a long scarf, which was a lot more practical than a cloak in this wind.

  I rose from my shadowy corner as she passed. “Mistress Skinner? May I speak with you a moment?”

  She spun, her eyes widening. “You! Den said he ran you off.”

  “He did.” I smiled. When I want to, I can look very harmless. Actually, I look harmless even when I don’t want to. “But I really need to speak to you. We can stay here on the street if you wish. Or there’s an inn over there—we could have tea. Whatever you’d like.”

  She settled at this reassuring speech, but her eyes were thoughtful. I wondered if she’d noticed that not talking to me wasn’t among the options I listed.

  “I don’t know which would be safer,” she said. “I’m sorry about what happened to your friend. The mob, I mean. I’d have let him in if I’d realized they’d chase him like that. I’m glad he escaped. Both times.”

  I forgot my reassuring act and frowned. “How do you know he escaped the second time? That he’s still alive, I mean?”

  She smiled. “Because if he wasn’t, you’d have a very different expression on your face today. If you want folk to think he’s dead, you’ll have to—”

  “I don’t,” I said. I might have if I’d thought of it. The search would die quicker. And I could have circled back from the marish and done my investigating while the deputies thought I was looking for Michael’s body in the swamp. Why hadn’t I thought of it?

  My irritation must have shown, for she laughed softl
y. “The inn, Master Fisk. Den’s less likely to find us indoors.”

  A brisk fire blazed on the hearth, but the mid-meal crowd had gone and we had the place almost to ourselves. I took the opportunity to order a sandwich with my tea.

  “So why is it so important for you to talk to me, Master Fisk? I told you all I knew that first day. If Ma didn’t kill herself, I don’t know it. Or at least, I can’t prove it.” Irony tainted her bleak voice, and her eyes were dry. I began to hope a rational conversation was possible. I also thought I might be able to trust her. Her husband, on the other hand…Maybe a roundabout approach would be wiser.

  “I have some new questions today. Have you ever heard of a man named Yorick Thrope?”

  “Your friend asked me that. I told him the truth—I never heard that name before his office burned down.”

  “How about your mother? Did she know him?”

  Lenna Skinner shrugged. “Not that I know of, but it’s possible. ’Specially if he bought fish.”

  “Everybody buys fish,” I said. “How about Benjamin Worthington?”

  “Oh!” She smiled. “Of course I know Master Worthington. Ma did too. He’s a fine man, and he’s been a good friend to us.”

  I schooled my well-trained face to hide my sudden surge of interest. “How do you know him? In what capacity, I mean?”

  She smiled again, a little sadly. “You mean how could we be friends since he’s so rich.” It wasn’t a question. “I suppose it is a bit one-sided, but if he ever needs our help, he’s got it. My pa was a rope maker. When Ma got sick, the Fishmongers’ Guild paid out, of course, but only magica medicine eased the pain when it took her bad. As a roper’s widow Ma was entitled to their guild’s aid as well, and they did help. But Master Worthington was more generous than the guild, and not just with money. He’d come by from time to time, to be sure she didn’t lack for anything. Bring her a bit of fruit or a warm shawl and talk awhile. Ma used to flirt with him. I hear he visits most on the ropers’ sick list. He’s on the charity board, you see. But most charity board members just meet once a month to have a good dinner and glance at the ledgers. They don’t really care about the people they’re helping. Not like Master Worthington. Why do you ask?”

  “His name came up and I wanted your opinion of him, that’s all.” This wasn’t the first time a con had taken a dangerous turn, but that didn’t quench the fear leaping along my nerves. If she went to Worthington…. I smiled easily. “What do you think of Sheriff Potter?”

  “We’ve had no dealings with him, except when he looked into Ma’s death. The writing on the note was hers, and enough medicine to kill her was gone from the bottle. There was no sign of a struggle. He asked a lot of questions, but those were the things that mattered. That, and the money in her chest.”

  “Her chest? I thought she had a bank account.”

  Lenna snorted. “She was a fishmonger, not a rich merchant. She kept her money in the chest at the foot of her bed, in a lockbox. Except the money for…the money they say she got from Maxwell. That was just there, in the chest under her clothes. Bags and bags, and her box with only a few fracts in it. More money than Den and I had ever seen in one place.” Her mouth flattened unhappily. “She was dead. Den says that you don’t scuttle the ship that carries your own cargo.” She drew a shaking breath. “But that’s blood money, Master Fisk, and it’s my ma’s blood. She felt so bad about that poor girl being murdered. She’d never lie about a thing like that—I don’t care what the writing on that note looked like. I know she was dying, but it shouldn’t have happened so sudden. No time to…to say things.” She wiped her cheeks angrily. “Anything else you want to ask me? I’ll tell you whatever you want to know if it helps catch the man who did that to Ma. I don’t care what Den says.”

  “All right. Have you heard of a man called Josiah Marcher?”

  I made up more names, and asked her about two members of the Tanners’ Guild Council, so when I left Worthington was only one of several upright, honorable men that I’d inquired about.

  When I thought about Ginny Weaver chatting with the good friend who carried her suicide note in his pocket, and that incriminating money in his saddlebags, I regretted having eaten the sandwich. But Worthington hadn’t had the key to her lockbox, and I was surprised that hadn’t caught Potter’s attention. Even if it had, there wasn’t much he could do about it. The evidence that her suicide was genuine was overwhelming, and I still had no proof. But speaking of keys…

  “Good afternoon, good Sir. Can you tell me where I might find Yorick Thrope?”

  The tailor, who sat crosslegged on the floor, blinked up sympathetically through gold-rimmed spectacles. “Client of his, were you, Sir?” He rose from his place beside the half-clad dummy as he spoke. “I’m afraid I don’t know where he’s staying—the judicary could tell you. But if you’re hoping your papers survived, I have to warn you they didn’t get anything out. Not that Master Thrope…Ah, that’s to say, the fire was too fierce.”

  “Not that Thrope concerned himself with his clients’ papers,” I said dryly.

  “Well, it’d be hard to think of work with all you owned going up in flames.” He didn’t sound convinced, and I suppressed a smile. It was no surprise to learn that Thrope’s neighbors didn’t like him either. Still…

  “I suppose it would be hard. He must have had most of his savings in that building, for property in this part of town comes high.”

  The tailor snorted. “He didn’t own the place; he was renting. All Thrope’s money went…Well, let’s just say that I value him high as a customer.” His eyes sparkled, and I had to laugh. But he went on, “It’s Master W takes the loss for the building. Though he’ll likely have been insured.”

  “Master W?” I stifled an urge to grab his vest and shake him. “That’d be Benjamin Worthington?”

  “Of course. He owns quite a bit of property around here—he’s a good landlord, too. Made me a fair price when I saved up enough to buy. Not a cheap price, mind, but a fair one.” He looked around his little shop with pride.

  It was no trouble to extract the information that Master Worthington had a manager who handled his rentals, a harder man than Master W, but honest. I couldn’t think of a way to bring keys into the conversation without arousing suspicion, but the manager almost certainly kept duplicate keys to all the properties in his office, and Worthington would have access to that office. It wasn’t proof, but the number of connections I was amassing should convince even Michael.

  Passing over Trullsgate Bridge took me almost to the doorstep of the burned-out brothel. The neighbors all knew where Mistress Morna had relocated—she was just two blocks away.

  The ramshackle, half-rotted buildings of the stews held memories I didn’t want to examine, and the sour, musty smell of Morna’s new place brought the past back even more sharply. She’d just awakened when I arrived, and her bed robe was her real one, warm and worn, not a working garment. “Bit early for a social call, isn’t it, mate?”

  “This isn’t a social call, Mistress. I just want to ask a few questions.”

  “Why?” Her gaze ran over me, placing my station and pricing my clothes as expertly as I could have done it. “You’re no deputy.”

  “Do you care why?”

  She grinned at that. “Not at all, but I warn you, my time costs.”

  “I’ll gladly pay your usual price for half an hour, deservedly high though I’m sure it is.” I bowed, suppressing a wince at the thought of how thin my purse was growing.

  “Ah, but questions are something special, and special, as everyone knows, costs extra.”

  I gazed into the clouded mirror that hung over the mantel. “Have I suddenly started to look like an easy mark? I didn’t when I shaved this morning….”

  We settled on a gold roundel for the inconvenience and a silver one for each question, which was perfectly outrageous, but she was a shrewd bargainer. And even at a silver roundel each I didn’t dare let her guess my purpose—if she sce
nted further profit, she’d be on Worthington’s doorstep in an instant.

  Somewhat to my surprise she hadn’t heard of Thrope until he became known as a hanging judicar. She knew nothing of Worthington. She’d never heard of my imaginary folk either, though one of the tanners’ councilmen was a regular.

  I paid her off and left her to her breakfast, feeling amused, sad, and frustrated. No help there.

  The Old Ropers’ Home was only a few blocks away. Though I saw daylight through the window of the room that had been next to the burning parlor, the front door was still intact. I rapped hard and prepared to wait, remembering the elderly doorman from Calling Night, but the door was opened almost at once by Mistress Mapple herself.

  “You!” She started to slam it, and I swiftly inserted one foot, which was promptly mashed into the door-frame with bruising force.

  I yelped, shoved the door open, and limped, swearing, into the hall. Part of the parlor wall had burned away, and the gap was filled with wide boards. The scent of burning lingered, but the hall had been cleaned. Mistress Mapple, starchy as ever, folded her arms and lifted her chin.

  “How dare you, Sir! I’m amazed—”

  “How dare you, Madam. Of all the ungrateful…”

  We wrangled for several minutes before she conceded that neither Michael nor I had had any opportunity to start the fire and that we had, in fact, helped fight it.

  I, in turn, conceded that I shouldn’t have tried to push my way in—though that didn’t give her the right to assault me!

  She liked confrontation, especially if she won, and soon we were on such comfortable terms that she was happy to sit on the steps beside me and gossip about the fire’s aftermath. Aside from the deaths, which sent grief skittering over her stiff face, the damage could have been much worse. And Master Worthington had personally offered to help them rebuild since the Ropers’ Guild wasn’t in great revenue at the moment.