Cutting Ball’s men fell in around me. That worried me a bit, for how far could I trust Ball? And why, even at Greene’s behest, should he serve me in this manner? For that matter, who and what was I to Greene?
I would do well to keep a loose sword in my scabbard. I was thinking of that when suddenly a voice spoke from an alley. “Tatt? I must see you.” It was Padget.
“At the Boar’s Head.” I spoke softly but hoped he heard me, continuing on without missing a step. There had been anxiety in his tone, and I knew he was my friend. What now, I wondered. What more could come?
Much, I realized well. I wished no association with Rafe Leckenbie or his kind. It might be true that what I had written had done him good rather than ill. Some might read it as an evidence of his power, but others would know better, for a thief exposed is a thief soon taken.
When Cutting Ball’s men left me at my inn and vanished into the night, I took a side door into a dark alleyway and went on to the Boar’s Head. There were few about, and Tosti sat alone toward the back of the room. I went to him.
“You keep late hours,” I suggested.
“I am received of a message,” Tosti said. “For you.”
“Why not directly to me?”
He shrugged. “I do not know. The man came to me. I did not like him but he was not one to trifle with. You were to come to a certain place, and you were not to be followed.”
“And for what?”
“There is one who wishes to speak to you of a private matter. He would give no name.”
“I do not like it, Tosti.”
“Nor I, my friend, but I think you have no choice. I think this man has power, for his messenger was a soldier—or had been. He carried himself well and knew what he was about. One who can command such a person is no ordinary man.”
“All right.” I made a decision suddenly. After all, I carried a sword and a dagger. “I shall see him.”
I was directed to a street of quiet elegance. Entering the gate, which stood open, I went to the door and used the brass door knocker.
The door opened almost at once and a man stood facing me—no doubt the one who had delivered the message to Tosti. “You are … ?”
“Tatton Chantry. I was asked to come here.”
“This way.” He indicated a door at the end of a short hall. As I stepped inside, he looked past me. The street was empty, as I well knew. Then he led me down the hall, rapped lightly at a door, opened it, and stood aside.
The room I faced was rectangular and lined with shelves of books. There was a fire on the hearth. A man of something over medium height stood near a table, an open book before him. As I entered he did not look up but turned a page, and read a bit more.
“Please be seated.” He looked up then, but not at me. “John? A bit of malmsey for me.” He glanced then at me. “And for you?”
“The same,” I said. “It is a rare wine.”
“Aye, so it is.” He sat down opposite me and crossed his knees. “You know it?”
“We sometimes drank it at home,” I said. “My father would have a bottle of it from time to time.”
“Ah? And your father was?”
“My father,” I said.
I knew the man at first glimpse, but he did not know me. Something about me disturbed him, a hint of familiarity, perhaps? I must have changed much in the past few years, but he almost none at all. The same white hair, the identical features, as if carved from marble, and the same wide, intelligent eyes. “Do I know you?” he asked suddenly.
“No,” I replied.
The less of me he knew, or anyone else, the safer I would be. With a hint here, a hint there, a man might well be traced.
“You are younger than I expected,” he ventured, frowning a little. “You’re little more than a boy.”
“Age is ever an indefinite thing,” I said, “and perhaps the poorest way to estimate or judge … except in wine, and even there one finds exceptions.”
He had done me a favor once, and I was disposed to do one now for him—if the situation permitted. I could not forget that moment at the inn when he had spoken for me and prevented my being cheated. Yet he would have no reason to remember a tired, lonely, and rather untidy boy.
“Yes,” he mused, “much younger than I expected.”
“I have never been older,” I commented. The barest hint of a smile touched his lips, a wry smile. He tasted the Madeira and I did likewise. It was excellent. My father would have approved.
“You have written some pieces,” he said. “You seem to know much of cheating.”
My expression did not change. “I observe,” I replied. “I do not participate.”
“I see. And where does one acquire such knowledge? Much of what you wrote in the Damber piece was strange to me.”
“There is always something to be learned,” I said, and waited. What did he want? Why was I here? The man was obviously a gentleman, a man of means.
“You have lately written a piece about a kind of ringleader of thieves.”
“I have.”
“How did you secure that information?”
“It is quite commonly known about London,” 1 replied, “and I listen well.”
He stared at me for a moment, not liking my reply. “Yet you seemed to have some personal knowledge of this … man.”
“We had a brief encounter.”
“And you are still alive …”
“It was an indecisive battle. However, as you suggest, I am alive.”
He frowned and seemed to be wondering just how to proceed. My obvious youth had surprised him, also the fact that I was of gentle birth. He had not yet succeeded in placing me and I had a feeling he was one who liked to put things—and people—into their proper niches.
“Having written such a piece, I am surprised you are alive, if this man has the power you suggest.”
There seemed no appropriate comment for that, and I let it pass, yet I was puzzled. Who was this man? What did he want with me? Was he a friend of Leckenbie? An enemy? Or did he think my writing might be used in composing a broadside of some kind for him? Many such were written and passed out in the streets to advance one cause or another, for there was no other means of getting information about except by gossip.
He sipped his wine and after a bit, he said, “This is your means to a living?”
“It contributes,” I replied.
“I do not seem to place you,” he muttered. “You are not from London, nor Lancashire nor Yorkshire…”
“I am from the Hebrides,” I replied, not wishing him to get around to thinking of Ireland.
“The Hebrides?” He spoke as if it were the end of the earth, which no doubt it seemed to him. “I did not think there were gentry there.”
“The MacLeods and the MacDonalds would not like to hear you say so.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
He finished his glass and put it down. I retained at least half of mine, for even Madeira can be heady, and I wished to be thinking clearly.
He was puzzled by me. A man accustomed to command, he was now uncertain of how to proceed. I was enjoying myself. The atmosphere was pleasant, the room warm, and I liked the candlelight on the backs of the books.
Suddenly he said, “You would like a bit of supper? It grows late and I have not dined.”
“I should, indeed.”
Some unseen signal brought John again, and when he departed, my host seemed to relax somewhat. He had not offered a name nor had anything been said of mine, although obviously he knew it.
“I would assume,” he said after a moment, “that Leckenbie was irritated by your piece?”
Did he know that I had encountered Leckenbie since? I decided he did not, and merely shrugged.
“If I were you,” he continued, “I would avoid him in the future. You seem an intelligent young man, obviously an able one. There is no reason to run such risks.”
I sipped my wine, and made no reply. What did he want?
“Such stories could destroy the man.”
“Or make him even larger.”
He glanced at me sharply. “Did he pay you to write the piece? Was that his intention?”
“He did not pay me, and I do not know his intentions, except …”
“Except?”
“Does not every man wish to grow larger? To improve his lot? I have heard rumors that since the piece was published some of his enemies have yielded and come over to his side.”