The Sign of Death by Callie Hutton (i like reading .TXT) 📕

in the room. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, most of the tables were filled with men, all of them with glasses of ale in front of them.

“Why aren’t they at work?” she asked.

“They are probably dock workers. The ships that go out of Bristol pick up men here and all along the road. Most of these men are waiting for a captain to arrive and offer them a job.”

“And they drink while they wait?”

William shrugged. “It passes the time.”

A young woman with a dress sporting a bodice considerably lower than Amy had ever seen approached their table. Amy watched her, amazed that her charms didn’t fall out onto the table. “What’ll be, laddie?”

“Ale for both of us.” William’s accent changed a bit, which brought a smile to Amy’s lips.

When the lass returned with the ale, William said, “I’m lookin’ for someone ’oo I fin’ might ’ave been ’ere a couple of weeks ago.”

Amy almost choked on the watered-down ale, and the wench snorted. “Good luck wif that, laddie. I ain’t got the bloomin’ nickle and dime ter keep track of ’oo comes in ’ere. They aw butcher’s alike.”

“This geeza ’ad a silver flask. It belongs ter me.”

She shook her head. “Ain’t seen notin’ like ’at, laddie.” She sauntered off, hips swaying, but not before she gave William a look that Amy found quite annoying.

The next pub they entered, ridiculously named the King’s Garden, was a bit more tasteful, but still not something Amy would ever patronize. They took seats at a table. This pub was more than half-empty. The woman who approached their table this time was older, with missing teeth in the front of her mouth. She was bosomy, cheerful, and relatively clean.

William asked his usual questions and got the same results. The woman had seen nothing and knew nothing. He was urging Amy to finish her ale—which she had no intention of doing, since the cleanliness around the rim of the glass was questionable—when a man approached their table.

He was no more than thirty years old, but it was obvious he’d lived a hard life. He dragged over a chair, turned it around, and sat, resting his forearms on the back. “I hear yer lookin’ fer a toff what stole your flask.”

William regarded the man with casual hesitation. “Yes. Do yer ’ave information about that?”

“What’s it worth to ya?”

“It depends on wot yer ’ave ter say.”

The man spit on the floor. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till I see a coin.”

William removed a coin from his pocket and placed it on the table, about halfway between the man and William. “Talk.”

The man edged his fingers toward the coin, but William moved it back. The man finally looked up at William and grinned, the few teeth left in his mouth brown. “There’s a toff wot comes in ’ere every couple weeks. I ’eard ’e drahn in the river.” He gestured toward the window that faced the water.

“Did ’e ’ave the flask?” William asked.

“Nah, but I thought ye might wanna know ’bout the toff—since ’e’s wahn of your kind—that ’e met people ’ere and they give ’im bread and honey. He wrote dahn information in a butcher’s book he carried wiv ’im.”

Amy took that to mean this “toff” had been receiving money from the people here on a regular basis.

Also, their apparent attempt to dress as though they could fit in and William’s attempt at cockney hadn’t worked. At least it hadn’t fooled this man, who had identified them as members of the upper class with no problem.

William leaned in closer to the man. “Go on.”

“The last time ’e was ’ere, there was a big ’rgument.”

“And?”

“Wif wahn of them ’igh-flautin’ dames.” He hitched his thumb at Amy. “Loike ’er”

Amy leaned closer. “What did she look like?”

“Tall, skinny, red Barnet Fair.” The man snatched up the coin, bit it, and dropped it in his pocket.

William and Amy looked at each other. “Miss Gertrude.”

CHAPTER 13

The carriage rumbled along to the next pub they planned to visit, both of them still in shock from what the man at the last pub had told them. William looked over at Amy when he finally found his voice. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I don’t believe Miss Gertrude killed Mr. Harding. No matter how many times I go over it in my mind, I don’t see it.”

“If the man was drunk, she would certainly be strong enough to do it.”

“William.” She sat forward and glared at him. “Think about Miss Gertrude, with the flowered dresses and straw hats. Pretending she’s a twin. In church. Every Sunday.”

He leaned toward her, coming almost nose to nose with her. “Think about Miss Gertrude suddenly interested in murder mysteries. And think about Miss Gertrude being blackmailed. There has to be something in her background scandalous enough to make her pay Harding for years.”

They had decided to continue with the last pub on their list. Just because it appeared that Harding had been meeting some of his victims in the last pub didn’t necessarily prove it was where he had met his fate.

Their third stop was an inn as well as a pub. Most likely because of the addition of rooms, this one was fairly decent. The Tiger and the Lion was a two-story building of undetermined years. A groom trotted up to them when they arrived and advised William’s driver where he could put the carriage.

The inside was clean, and wonderful smells came from somewhere in the back. “I wonder if it’s safe to eat here,” Amy whispered as they took seats at a table on the right side of the room.

“I have found in my travels that inns, as opposed to pubs, generally have excellent food. It’s what keeps the travelers coming back. When you’re on the road, it is not always easy to find a place with clean rooms and decent fare. Once an innkeeper has established himself, word passes among those who need accommodations when they travel.”

Amy grinned. “I’m assuming from my simple