Rogue's Home (24 page)

“I suppose it would be hard. He must have had most of his savings in that building, for property in this part of town comes high.”

The tailor snorted. “He didn't own the place; he was renting. All Thrope's money went…Well, let's just say that I value him high as a customer.” His eyes sparkled, and I had to laugh. But he went on, “It's Master W takes the loss for the building. Though he'll likely have been insured.”

“Master W?” I stifled an urge to grab his vest and shake him. “That'd be Benjamin Worthington?”

“Of course. He owns quite a bit of property around here—he's a good landlord, too. Made me a fair price when I saved up enough to buy. Not a cheap price, mind, but a fair one.” He looked around his little shop with pride.

It was no trouble to extract the information that Master Worthington had a manager who handled his rentals, a harder man than Master W, but honest. I couldn't think of a way to bring keys into the conversation without arousing suspicion, but the manager almost certainly kept duplicate keys to all the properties in his office, and Worthington would have access to that office. It wasn't proof, but the number of connections I was amassing should convince even Michael.

Passing over Trullsgate Bridge took me almost to the doorstep of the burned-out brothel. The neighbors all knew where Mistress Morna had relocated—she was just two blocks away.

The ramshackle, half-rotted buildings of the stews held memories I didn't want to examine, and the sour, musty smell of Morna's new place brought the past back even more sharply. She'd just awakened when I arrived, and her bed robe was her real one, warm and worn, not a working garment. “Bit early for a social call, isn't it, mate?”

“This isn't a social call, Mistress. I just want to ask a few questions.”

“Why?” Her gaze ran over me, placing my station and pricing my clothes as expertly as I could have done it. “You're no deputy.”

“Do you care why?”

She grinned at that. “Not at all, but I warn you, my time costs.”

“I'll gladly pay your usual price for half an hour, deservedly high though I'm sure it is.” I bowed, suppressing a wince at the thought of how thin my purse was growing.

“Ah, but questions are something special, and special, as everyone knows, costs extra.”

I gazed into the clouded mirror that hung over the mantel. “Have I suddenly started to look like an easy mark? I didn't when I shaved this morning….”

We settled on a gold roundel for the inconvenience and a silver one for each question, which was perfectly outrageous, but she was a shrewd bargainer. And even at a silver roundel each I didn't dare let her guess my purpose—if she scented further profit, she'd be on Worthington's doorstep in an instant.

Somewhat to my surprise she hadn't heard of Thrope until he became known as a hanging judicar. She knew nothing of Worthington. She'd never heard
of my imaginary folk either, though one of the tanners' councilmen was a regular.

I paid her off and left her to her breakfast, feeling amused, sad, and frustrated. No help there.

The Old Ropers' Home was only a few blocks away. Though I saw daylight through the window of the room that had been next to the burning parlor, the front door was still intact. I rapped hard and prepared to wait, remembering the elderly doorman from Calling Night, but the door was opened almost at once by Mistress Mapple herself.

“You!” She started to slam it, and I swiftly inserted one foot, which was promptly mashed into the door-frame with bruising force.

I yelped, shoved the door open, and limped, swearing, into the hall. Part of the parlor wall had burned away, and the gap was filled with wide boards. The scent of burning lingered, but the hall had been cleaned. Mistress Mapple, starchy as ever, folded her arms and lifted her chin.

“How dare you, Sir! I'm amazed—”

“How dare
you
, Madam. Of all the ungrateful…”

We wrangled for several minutes before she conceded that neither Michael nor I had had any opportunity to start the fire and that we had, in fact, helped fight it.

I, in turn, conceded that I shouldn't have tried to push my way in—though that didn't give her the right to assault me!

She liked confrontation, especially if she won, and soon we were on such comfortable terms that she was happy to sit on the steps beside me and gossip about the fire's aftermath. Aside from the deaths, which sent grief skittering over her stiff face, the damage could have been much worse. And Master Worthington had personally offered to help them rebuild since the Ropers' Guild wasn't in great revenue at the moment.

“I haven't heard there's anything wrong with the rope-making business,” I said leadingly.

“The guild lost a lot when the docks burned. Everyone did. Then that silly young man messed up the books, and the charity fund's been in dreadful shape ever since.”

It seemed that on top of their losses, the guild had been foolish enough to put one of their councilman's wastrel sons in charge of the charity fund's bookkeeping. Not an uncommon practice, for it was a soft job and paid well. The young wastrel, however, hadn't done even the minimal amount of work required. When he'd been promoted, and shipped off to wreak havoc on the ropers' bureau in Allenston, the books were a mess and the home had been on short funds
ever since. “Though Master Griffin says we'll be back on our feet within the year, and
he
is a very competent young man.”

“Not another wastrel son, then?”

“Oh, no. Master Griffin is Master Worthington's own secretary. A very respectful young man, though not married, which just shows you how blind girls are these days.”

I already had plenty of connections between Worthington and this fire, so my curiosity was completely idle when I asked, “So why are all the girls blind to Master Griffin?”

She snorted. “The most ridiculous reason imaginable. I mean, who cares if a man has hair or not? It's what's under the hair that counts. It's not his fault he's gone bald so young, poor lad. I swear, girls today…”

My own hair was still prickling on the back of my neck when I took my leave.

 

“So you think 'twas Worthington's secretary who warned folk not to speak with me?” Michael asked.

“And probably set the mob on you as well. It all fits.”

Nettie's Ma handed me a haunch of roast rabbit, which I accepted with a grateful smile. There was only one chair at her table and I sat there, while Michael perched on the bed and she sat on the tiny stool by
the fire. I appreciated the courtesy, but I'd have preferred to trade places with her—I was still half frozen from the journey across the marish.

When I left the Old Ropers' Home, the wind had acquired a raw bite that made the simple cold of the day look balmy, and I had only a few hours left before my promised meeting with Nettie's Ma. I hurried back to Max's house and slipped over the orchard wall with some caution. Sooner or later even the dullest deputy would figure this one out, but they hadn't yet. They were still at their posts outside Max's gates, and one had had the good sense to disguise himself as a seller of hot nuts, which gave him an excuse for a brazier on his cart.

Anna came in and sat on my bed as I changed into the warmest clothes my pack provided. She used to come and sit on my bed when I came back from a night of thieving, to assure herself of my continued well-being and, I sometimes thought, to assure me that my sisters cared, no matter how indifferent the rest of the world might be. The impulse to confide everything, as I used to, was strong. I steered the subject to the honorable Master Worthington and gritted my teeth as she exalted his kindness to everyone from his disgraced friends to “that worthless mutt he rescued”—which didn't impress me, as I've known several
villains who were kind to animals and even more who loved their mothers. Before I left, I borrowed Max's warmest cloak for Michael and took an old one of Lissy's to offer Nettie's Ma.

I was late reaching the marish, and spent the voyage through the chained ponds and channels telling Michael and Nettie's Ma what I'd learned and trying to keep my teeth from chattering. As we glided over the dark water, the wind died, and snow began to fall in thick, determined flakes. At least the mud hut was small enough that the hearth fire warmed it.

“Mayhap it does fit,” Michael replied now, “but all you have is a series of vague connections. Worthington has a good, no, an admirable reason for everything he's done. And he must be sincerely charitable, at least in part, for he befriended Ginny Weaver long before that poor girl was killed. If they laughed at your theory and hanged me on the spot, I couldn't blame them. He has no motive, Fisk, and you have no proof.”

“We just started asking the right questions. Look how much I learned in one day, once I knew enough to ask about Worthington.”

“But why? Master Maxwell is his friend. I'd swear to it.”

“Yes, that's another link. He's connected to Max, too.”

“So? He has no reason to destroy him.”

“He must have a reason. We're just not seeing it.”

Nettie's Ma had been quiet so long, I jumped when she spoke. “Were they connected in some other way? How did they become friends?”

“I don't know how they met,” I said. “But it was probably through the Ropers' Guild. Worthington got his start as a rope maker, and he's still involved with their charities. Such a charitable man.”

“Well, you can't condemn him for that,” said Michael.

“Oh, can't I? A cursed hypocrite is what he is. He's probably selling the orphan girls to brothels.”

Michael laughed. I didn't. I try not to hate people, because Jack Bannister taught me that hatred clouds your judgment. But with the honorable Master Worthington it was a hard fight.

“What's Maxwell's link with the ropers?” Nettie's Ma asked. “Nettie said he was a judicar.”

“He is,” Michael told her. “But he began his career as the ropers' law clerk. 'Tis likely how he and Worthington became friends, for they must have dealt together often.”

“Wait a minute!” I sat up so briskly the chair wobbled. “That's another connection! The fire in the Old Ropers' Home killed two old ropers. Maybe they knew something, or…or something.”

Michael snorted. “If they knew something, why didn't they go to the law?”

“Maybe Worthington bribed…No, I suppose not. No one with a fract to spare would live under Mistress Mapple's thumb, and…” The idea surfaced slowly, like a bubble through mud. The mud of my own stupidity, for watching the pieces click neatly into place, I couldn't imagine why I hadn't seen it before. Unlike Michael, I understand what motivates men.

Rough hands locked on my shoulders and shook me. “Fisk, if you don't tell me, I swear I'll—”

“All right, all right, let go. You're going to break the chair.”

“I'm going to break your head if you don't—”

“
Money
, Michael.”

“I don't have much. Why? Do you need—”

“No, money is the motive!”

“But Worthington's rich.”

“Maybe. Oh, all right. But it has to be money. The old ropers died by accident. If they hadn't been hiding, drunk, they'd have gotten out with everyone else. What's the other thing that fire accomplished?”

“Well, it—”

“It burned up the ledgers! The ropers' charity books that Worthington so generously offered his own secretary to keep. It was probably the ledgers he wanted to
destroy all along, and the other two fires were set to keep people from looking for a rational motive for the one at the Old Ropers' Home. His arsonist probably had the whole thing planned—they were just looking for someone to take the blame. Then you showed up, a stranger, and unredeemed to boot.”

Michael's mouth had opened and closed several times during this speech. “You think he was embezzling from the ropers' charities? But he's rich!”

Nettie's Ma stirred. “A lot of rich men got poorer last summer when the docks burned. You could see the flames from all over the marish. Did he have cargo on those ships?”

“He did,” I said. “But not much. He had too many ships out to invest heavily.”

“Or so he told us,” said Michael thoughtfully. “But I don't think a man like Worthington got rich by letting opportunities pass him by. My father would have borrowed, in a situation like that. Mayhap Master Worthington did too.”

There was a long, speculative silence. But…“Hard to believe the local bankers weren't suspicious when he paid off his note. Especially if he had ships out. Bankers pay attention to things like that.”

“He likely borrowed in Fallon,” said Nettie's Ma. “Everyone around here with a fract to spare had it on
those ships, including the bankers.”

“He owed money,” said Michael. “And he had no way to pay it. So he takes it from the ropers' charity fund, which he controls since his secretary does the books.”

“Mistress Mapple said they'd been short of funds since the dock fire.”

“And he plans to pay it back when his ships come in. But that will take months, and—”

“Maybe it occurs to him that if he scrambled the books well enough he might not have to pay the money back.”

Michael's gaze was fixed on nothing—I'm not even sure he heard me. “And then he learns his friend Maxwell is about to be appointed to the charity board.”

“What?”

“Don't you remember? They talked about it at dinner that first night.”

All I remembered about that dinner was seeing Becca and Thomas for the first time. But Michael went on, “Maxwell, who'd actually
kept
the ropers' charity books when he was a clerk. He'd have noticed the discrepancies. And he's not the kind to quit when he sees something suspicious. So Worthington had to stop Maxwell's appointment. Maxwell had just hanged two
men, and Worthington knew one of the witnesses personally, and the other was a gambler deep in debt…. You're right, Fisk. It fits.”