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Constable Magruder was a small, foxy-looking man, with narrow eyes that darted constantly from doorway to desk and back again, lest anything escape his notice. Grey took some encouragement from this, hoping that few things didescape the constable of the day and the Bow Street Ru
The constable knew Grey’s errand; he saw the wariness lurking at the back of the narrow eyes—and the quick flick of a glance toward the magistrate’s offices next door. It was apparent that he feared Grey might go to the magistrate, Sir John Fielding, with all the consequent trouble this might involve.
Grey did not know Sir John himself, but was reasonably sure that his mother did. Still, at this point, there was no need to invoke him. Realizing what was in Magruder’s mind, Grey did his best to show an attitude of relaxed affability and humble gratitude for the constable’s continued assistance.
“I thank you, sir, for your gracious accommodation. I hesitate to intrude further on your generosity—but if I might ask just one or two questions?”
“Oh, aye, sir.” Magruder went on looking wary, but relaxed a little, relieved that he was not about to be asked to conduct a time-consuming and probably futile investigation.
“I understand that Sergeant O’Co
Magruder’s face twitched.
“Disturbances, Major? The whole place is a disturbance come nightfall, sir. Robbery from the person, purse-cutting, fights and street riots, disagreements betwixt whores and their customers, burglary of premises, theft, tavern brawls, malicious mischief, fire-setting, horse-stealing, housebreaking, random assaults . . .”
“Yes, I see. Still, we are reasonably sure that no one set Sergeant O’Co
“Oh, aye.” Magruder was not without humor; a small gleam of it lit the narrow eyes and softened the harsh outlines of his face. He glanced from the papers on his desk to the hallway, down which echoed shouts and bangings from the prisoners in the rear, then back to Grey.
“I’ll have to speak to the constable of the night, go through the reports. If I see anything that might be helpful to your inquiry, Major, I’ll send round a note, shall I?”
“I should appreciate it very much, sir.” Grey rose promptly, and the two men parted with mutual expressions of esteem.
Tom Byrd was sitting on the pavement outside, still pale, but improved. He sprang to his feet at Grey’s gesture, and fell into step behind him.
Would Magruder produce anything helpful? Grey wondered. There were so many possibilities. Robbery from the person, Magruder had suggested. Perhaps . . . but knowing what he did of O’Co
But what if O’Co
He considered the possibility that the spymaster had then murdered O’Co
By the same token, though, if someone else had discovered that O’Co
A spymaster might make certain of the matter. And yet—would a spymaster depend upon the services of associates? For clearly, O’Co
“What do you think, Tom?” he said, more by way of clarifying his thoughts than because he desired Byrd’s opinion. “If secrecy were a concern, would it not be more sensible to use a weapon? Beating a man to death is likely to be a noisy business. Attract a lot of unwelcome attention, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, me lord. I expect that’s so. Though so far as that goes . . .”
“Yes?” He glanced round at Byrd, who hastened his step a bit to come level with Grey.
“Well, it’s only—mind, I ain’t—haven’t, I mean—seen a man beat to death. But when you go to kill a pig, you only get a terrible lot of screeching if you’ve done it wrong.”
“Done it wrong?”
“Yes, me lord. If you do it right, it doesn’t take but one good blow. The pig doesn’t know what hit ’im, and there’s no noise to speak of. You get a man what doesn’t know what he’s doing, or isn’t strong enough—” Byrd made a face at the thought of such incompetence. “Racket like to wake the dead. There’s a butcher’s across the street from me dad’s shop,” he offered in explanation. “I’ve seen pigs killed often.”
“A very good point, Tom,” Grey said slowly. If either robbery or simple murder was the intent, it could have been accomplished with much less fuss. Ergo, whatever had befallen Tim O’Co
His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of an agitated altercation in the alleyway that led to the back of the gaol.
“What’re you doing here, you Irish whore?”
“I’ve a right to be here—unlike you, ye draggletail thief!”
“Cunt!”
“Bitch!”
Following the sound of strife into the alley, Grey found Timothy O’Co
The ladies were not alone, he saw; Scanlon the apothecary was vainly trying to persuade Mrs. O’Co
“Take your wicked friends and be off with ye! He was my husband, not yours!”
“Oh, and a fine wife youwere, I’m sure! Didn’t care enough to come and wash the mud from his face when they dragged him out of the ditch! It was me laid him out proper, and me that’ll bury him, thank you very much! Wife! Ha!”
Tom Byrd stood open-mouthed under the eaves of the shed, watching. He glanced up wide-eyed at Grey.
“And it’s me paid for his coffin—think I’ll let you take it? Likely you’ll give the body to a knacker’s shop and sell the box, greedy-guts! Take a man from his wife so you can suck the marrow from his bones—”
“Shut your trap!”
“Shut yours!” bellowed the widow O’Co
“Madam,” he began, grasping Mrs. O’Co