The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery by L.C. Sharp (i have read the book .TXT) 📗

gave himself a few seconds to get used to the dimmer light here. The windows were small, and some were blocked up with rags, having lost the glass years ago. The air was further thickened by the smoke from the pipes the inn sold. An open jar of tobacco stood by the kegs, and a large snuffbox for the customers to buy. A rough trestle was set out, kegs of ale and beer set on it in a row, the neatest objects in the place. Rickety tables vied with benches, and all were occupied. Men were engaged in playing cards and dice and all the while, women clad in plain, scanty clothes darted about, attending to the customers in every way a woman could.

Ash ignored them all. After checking that Freeman was still with him, he went to the back of the room, to the only bench that had spare seats. His hobnailed shoes rapped on the rough floorboards in the brief silence as people examined him as he passed, then returned to what they were doing.

He sat. Freeman paused by the kegs, and came over with two brimming tankards of ale. While he knew he’d be taking his life in his hands, Ash drank enough of the stuff to show willing, then put it down. He knew better than to find the people he was supposed to meet. If they wanted to, they’d find him.

As they did. Two men stood by his table, glaring at the men sitting opposite Ash and Freeman. Obligingly, they got to their feet and shuffled away.

If the men in the inn looked down at heel and raffish, the men who joined Ash and Freeman were definite ruffians. Their clothes were rough, but not as badly worn, and their ample coat pockets bulged, rapping the table as they took their places with the dull thud of metal. Gunmetal, if Ash guessed correctly.

“You ever been to Newcastle?” one of the men asked.

“Might have.” Ash wiped his mouth and shoved his beer mug away. Without pause, the man opposite him picked up the mug and swilled back a mouthful, glaring at Ash as he put the tankard down.

Well, somebody should drink it, and at least Ash didn’t have to. “You’re Sir James Corvid?”

The man sneered, revealing a missing front tooth. He didn’t look as if he cleaned his teeth regularly. Or washed, for that matter, but Ash knew only too well that appearances could be deceptive. However, some of that dirt looked ingrained.

His companion appeared less disreputable. His clothes were as respectable as the ones Ash wore, if not a little better. “That’s me,” the man said, his accent positively refined. “I was expecting somebody else.”

Ash lifted his coat away from his body, showing his inner pocket. The ruffian nodded, giving him permission to delve within. Ash brought out a note. It was Newcastle’s signature, cut from the letter he’d received. “This man? You can hardly expect him to come here on his own.” Deliberately, he roughened his accent. While he wouldn’t pass for pure Londoner, he’d blunted the edge of his usual crisp tones.

The man took the scrap of paper and nodded. Ash took it back. So Sir James knew Newcastle’s signature, did he? True, the man signed a lot of documents, but they were hardly available to the general public.

The ridiculousness of the situation hit him hard, and he had to force himself not to laugh. He was sure the man sitting opposite had no more right to be here than he did; and yet here they were, disguised, forcing false accents, each doing their best to persuade the other that they belonged in this place.

They could have met somewhere far more respectable, and still passed unnoticed. “You may tell your principal,” he said, “that next time, if there is a next time, we can meet somewhere a little more respectable. I suggest Lloyds, or the Cocoa-Tree, or one of the many inns on the Strand.”

The man’s head jerked up. “This is no laughing matter.”

“I know it. So let’s get on with business, shall we?” Already he’d been here far too long for his comfort. The two men who had followed them in were standing by the door, not engaged in anything but watching the table where they sat. Not even pretending to take an interest in anything else.

His senses tingled. Something was wrong here. Even in this place, he sensed more danger than usual. He wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

Irritatingly, “Sir James” seemed in no hurry. He signaled to a barmaid, and ordered another round of drinks, and then added a request for a pipe when the woman returned.

Leaning back, Ash glanced at Freeman, who rolled his eyes skyward. He cleared his throat. “Do you have anything for me?”

Sir James shrugged. “A message.”

Digging a hand into his coat pocket, he brought out a square of paper. It was sealed with the silhouette of a raven. Ash took it and put it in his pocket. He wanted to slice into the note carefully, and keep the seal. In any case, he had no intention of taking his attention away from the men at the door.

He got to his feet, and threw a silver crown on the table. “We’re done here. Enjoy, with my compliments.”

If this man was the Raven, he knew a bit more than he had when he’d come in. Even if the man, or his companion, was heavily disguised, he could still discern features he would remember. Once he got home, he’d sketch this face. Because he had no chance of securing the ruffian, or getting any more out of him. And his warning hum had gone to a full-scale yell.

This was a trap. He wouldn’t be surprised if the note was blank. Nevertheless, he shoved it deeper into his pocket, forcing it past the tear inside into the inner part of the coat.

Freeman stood up swiftly, stepping back to allow Ash to exit the dangerous seat. Even