Where?’ He tried to follow her gaze, but he could see no sign of anyone.
‘He’s right there,’ she murmured, still staring. ‘On the bench. Waiting for us.’
They stood there a moment, not knowing what to do. Crake couldn’t fathom how she could sense this mysterious man, nor how she knew his intention. But he didn’t doubt the conviction in her voice. They couldn’t go forward without passing him, and they couldn’t go back. Crake suddenly wished they’d tried to smuggle in weapons, but it was forbidden for guests to carry arms.
Yet he couldn’t just stand here, trapped, a child afraid to move in case he disturbed the spider. That wasn’t the way a man ought to act. So he steeled himself, and walked on, Jez following behind.
A dozen paces later the path twisted and widened into a circular rest area, hidden by the trees. There was an ornamental stone pool, with a weak jet of water bubbling from a spike in its centre. Sitting on a bench, contemplating the pool, was Fredger Cordwain. He looked up as Crake and Jez arrived.
‘Good night,’ said Crake, without breaking stride.
‘Good night, Grayther Crake,’ Cordwain replied.
Crake froze at the sound of his name. He tensed to run, but Cordwain surged up from the bench, a revolver appearing in his meaty hand. He must have assumed the rule against carrying arms didn’t apply to him.
‘Let’s not make this difficult,’ Cordwain said. ‘You’re worth just the same to me dead or alive.’
‘Who’s this?’ Jez asked Crake. It took a moment before he realised she was still playing in character. ‘Sweetheart, what’s this about?’
Cordwain walked towards them, his weapon trained on Crake. ‘Miss Bethinda Flay,’ he said. ‘If that is your real name. The Shacklemore Agency have been after your “sweetheart” for several months now. I’m ashamed to say it took me a little time to recognise him from his ferrotype. It’s the beard, I think. I don’t have a good memory for faces.’
‘But he hasn’t done anything!’ Jez protested. ‘What did he do?’
Cordwain stared at her levelly. ‘Don’t you know? He murdered his niece. An eight-year-old girl.’
Jez looked at Crake, stunned. Crake was slump-shouldered, gazing at the floor.
Cordwain moved around behind Crake, took his wrists and pulled his arms behind his back. Then he shoved the revolver into his belt and drew out a pair of handcuffs.
‘Stabbed her seventeen times with a letter knife,’ he said conversationally. ‘Left her to bleed out on the floor of his own daemonic sanctum. That’s what kind of monster he is.’
Crake didn’t struggle. He’d gone pale and cold, and he wanted to be sick.
‘His own brother hired us to find him,’ said Cordwain. ‘Isn’t that sad? It’s terrible when families get to fighting among themselves. You should always be able to trust your family.’
Tears gathered in Crake’s eyes as the handcuffs snapped closed. He raised his head and met Jez’s gaze. She stared at him hard, shock on her face. Wanting to be reassured. Wanting to know that he hadn’t done this thing.
He had nothing to tell her. She could never condemn him more that he already condemned himself.
‘If you don’t mind, Miss, I’ll have to ask you to come along
