‘Run down to the chapel,’ Clent would say, when the door was opened to another pair, ‘and see if any of them keep their gloves on even to the exchanging of the rings,’ and Mosca knew that he was afraid of the Locksmiths coming after him.
But one day, when she had been sent down for the thirteenth time to listen at the kitchen door, Mosca did indeed hear the constable’s voice, asking questions about strangers in the marriage house.
‘Oh, some folks come to the door to ask after nuptyals,’ the Cakes was explaining, ‘but no one gets into the house without they’re gettin’ married. An’ the back rooms, they’re all for happy couples to stay in after the ceremony.’ She clearly thought this the most romantic thing imaginable. ‘All their names are safe down in the register, an’ you can be sure that no one else has been in the house ’cept Mr Bockerby and me.’
‘And your regular lodgers,’ the constable added.
‘Oh yes, ’cept them.’ There was a silky, slopping sound, as if the Cakes was whipping up a syllabub for her guest.
‘Tell me… these guests of yours, do they have a goose?’
‘Why yes, that they do, a fine, white, fat one. I never see one so big. Why?’
‘We’ve had a bit of excitement this morning, that’s all. Did you ever hear the pair of ’em mention a man called Partridge?’
‘Not to my face that I remember,’ the Cakes said slowly, ‘but I do start to think I might have overheard the name once, while I was passing their door. I keep my ears folded shut, mind, and I don’t go eavesdropping, but I can’t be held to blame if they will go shouting at each other all the time. But they might have been talking about a partridge to put in a pie, or something.’
‘Do you often discuss recipes so loud you can be heard in the next room?’
‘Well, no…’
‘Is Mr Clent in the house this moment?’
‘I think so – he stays in most mornings.’
‘Then I think I’d like to talk to him.’ There was a sudden scrape of chair feet against the floorboards, as if someone had risen to their feet quickly. ‘What was that? I thought I heard a rustling outside in the passageway.’
‘Oh, that’ll be nothing but some bundles of honesty I hung to dry in the Chapel of Goodman Pulk the Tardy. They make quite a din when the seedheads pop.’
Sure enough, when the constable pushed open the kitchen door and cast a curious glance up and down the corridor there was no one to be seen, and no movement but the gentle swinging of a row of honesty bundles in an unfelt draught. He walked the length of the corridor and knocked on the door at the end. A voice answered in calm tones, and when he pushed the door ajar he found Clent alone. Clent was reposing in the window seat in a pose suggestive of poetic abstraction, a roll of paper curling across one knee, a quill delicately imprisoned between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, his gaze adrift above the city as if the clouds were sharing their secrets with him.
When his gaze fell upon the constable, he rose and offered a gracious bow, blinking slightly as if he needed to refocus his eyes in order to look upon ordinary, worldly things.
‘A welter of pardons, my good sir. I thought you were Bockerby’s girl servant with a dish of tea. Do take a seat.’
The constable sat himself down on the room’s only chair.
‘Your own girl’s not about?’
‘Ah, no, I sent her to buy ink.’
‘Too bad. It was the girl I particularly wanted to speak to. No matter. I can tell you now that we have discovered the name of the dead man found at Whickerback Point. Have you heard the name Halk Partridge?’
Clent raised his eyebrows, and seemed to consider for a few moments.
‘The name is faintly familiar, but the hook floats free and will not catch upon anything.’
‘The Watermen were worried that the poor cove we found in the nets might have been knifed by a spider boat working the quays, so they put out a description of the dead man to see if anyone recognized it and could put a name to him. The river water made this hard, since by the time they pulled him out he was tending to the blue and bilious, if you see my meaning, sir. But he had a little kink in his wrist, just here.’ The constable pulled back his cuff, and rubbed at the knob of his wrist bone. ‘A most particular kind of a kink, and one of the porters on the jetty remembered seeing a barge captain with just such a kink.’
Clent wore a patient and polite expression, as if the high matters of his poem were calling to him and he was trying not to hear them.
‘So we went down to Dragmen’s Arches,’ continued the constable, ‘and we found out that barge skipper had not been seen for about a week, and we heard his first mate was bowsing at the Wide-eyed Kipper. So we searched the mate out at the Kipper, and one of my men laid a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. And quick as you can blink, the fellow looked up, saw us in the Duke’s colours, and threw his stew at my head. He was a right dog for a fight, and it was only when we had three men sitting on his chest that we got any sense out of him.
‘He had it in his head we’d come to arrest him for smuggling, and swore his own soul black as a kettle, laying curses on the pair he thought had cackled on him. A pair of passengers the barge had taken up at Kempe Teetering, was how he put it. I think his exact words were, “a bloated viper with a lawyer’s pretty manners, and a ferrety- looking girl with unconvincing eyebrows”.’
Clent shifted uncomfortably at this unflattering description, and for an instant his eyes did have a furtive, viperish expression.
‘He also mentioned a goose.’ The constable looked meaningfully at the floor, which was strewn with tiny white feathers from Saracen’s grooming and the pale blots of his droppings.
‘Invaluable birds,’ Clent smiled brightly. ‘Far better for guarding one’s domicile than a mastiff.’
‘Mr Clent.’ The constable leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. ‘I hope you can understand my position. I have no wish to harass a gentleman in the pay of the Lady Tamarind, or to risk a scandal which might besmulch her name, but I cannot be in any doubt that you know this man Partridge, and know a good amount about his dealings. This whole business has become too serious to ignore.
‘And so, Mr Clent, I have to ask you a question, and I think you know what it is going to be.’ The constable sat back, folded his arms, and peered at Clent’s carefully blank expression with narrow dislike. ‘Who has been melting down gods to make gunshot?’
Clent’s poker face broke down at this unexpected question, and he simply boggled.
‘I entreat your pardon… perhaps you could elucidate… I find myself a little… What?’
‘Once we had the first mate in darbies, we tracked down the rest of the crew. Most of them stayed mum, but the youngest got leaky, and told us they’d dropped off their smuggled cargo at a potter’s on the waterside. We turned the place over, and found nigh on a hundred and forty god statues under the floorboards. As you know, most god likenesses have a core of lead in them, so they won’t get blown over in their shrines. They’re about the only source of lead that wasn’t melted down during the war to make shot. And there under the floorboards, sure enough, was a set of bullet moulds and smelting gear. It is no secret that our noble Duke is seeking the ringleaders in a Diabolical Radical Plot against the Twin Queens… and we suspect that these bullet-makers may be part of the plot.’
‘Good sir, I can assure you that I know no more about this than the greenest pea fresh-popped from its pod. It is true that my secretary and I did travel from Kempe Teetering by barge for a time, and if you say the captain’s name was Halk Partridge I will not gainsay you, but if the first mate fancied that we were aware of his dark doings I can only tell you that he was deluded…’
The constable gave a slow nod, but not as if he was satisfied.
‘Very well, Mr Clent.’ He stood to leave. ‘You may realize that you remember more about our friend Partridge, and when you do I hope you will tell me about it. And when your secretary comes back, I’d thank you to bring her to the watch house to answer some questions. You see, she was seen climbing aboard Partridge’s boat the day after he disappeared, and talking to one of his crew.’
Clent remained motionless as the constable left the room, and he stayed so until the front door slammed. Then with tiptoe haste made absurd by his bulk, he tripped silently to the window to peer into the street. Only when he was satisfied that the constable really had left the marriage house did he tweak his coat off his bed, revealing the crouched form of Mosca, who had been listening to the interview with some confusion, and watching through a
