Scholar's Plot (22 page)

“He’s a creep,” I said. “But not a murderer.”

“I’ve never seen a worse liar,” Michael agreed. “The thought that we might consider him guilty of murder never even crossed his mind.”

“Which it would, if he’d done it,” I agreed.

And unless Professor Bollinger could commit murder with his own hands, and then sit through a lecture chatting with his colleagues as if nothing had happened, or one of the others had crept into town without anyone seeing him just to commit this murder — neither of which was likely — then all my suspects had alibis. Which not only meant that I had no idea who’d killed Master Hotchkiss, it meant Michael was now in charge.

Curse it.

“So, is there any difference between a bandit and a chemist?” I asked only to draw Fisk out of his silence. He’d been sullen ever since his last suspect turned out … not to be.

“Not that I’ve heard. The profession’s probably too new. But I can tell you the difference between a bandit and an alchemist.”

“What?”

“Even a bandit knows you can’t turn lead into gold.”

I snorted, and Fisk began to look more cheerful. ’Twas well past midday, and we’d not eaten since break-
fast, so I added to his cheer by stepping into a nearby tavern for sandwiches, and ale cold from the 
cellar. ’Twas pleasant enough to walk about town in 
the morning but the afternoons were hot. Even fortified with food and drink, the walk back to the lodging house where Professor Stint had rooms proved as 
tedious as I’d said ’twould be.

“He’s out now,” the landlady told us. She was a stout dame, in that indeterminate age where women are no longer young but not yet old. Her cap and apron were clean, but there was no lace on cap or cuffs and her hands were rough. A woman who worked in the building she owned.

“I thought he might be teaching today,” I said. “In fact, I hoped I might talk to you. What kind of tenant is he? Does he pay his rent regularly?”

What I really wanted to know was whether Stint was short of coin, and thus had reason to take a bribe to sabotage the project — particularly a project where he might well think that he should be in charge. But I don’t care to lie, and unlike Fisk, I hadn’t enough money for bribes.

When I planned my approach, Fisk had pointed out that Stint, above all others, knew that getting Benton fired would do the project no harm — at least, until the papers were burned. And he didn’t see why Stint would choose to sabotage the project by destroying his own research.

I countered that Stint could easily have made a secret copy of his formulas before he burned them. Destroying his own work would keep anyone from suspecting him, and he could have assumed that Benton would be so bitter over being fired that he’d refuse to 
give them his research a second time … though ’twas hard to imagine anyone who knew Benton would believe that. Whatever the case might be, losing those formulas had set the project back by weeks, mayhap months. That might be all that was needed.

I had thought my questions harmless, but the landlady’s eyes narrowed.

“Why do you ask? Is he looking to rent from you? He hasn’t said a word about leaving!”

“No, nothing of the kind.” And I dared not have her report this conversation to Stint, or we might find ourselves barred from the project. Again.

“No,” I went on desperately. “I’m working for … for someone Stint asked to invest in … in a project of his. Chemical research. Secret chemical research. My employer wants to inquire into his habits and character, but quietly. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell the professor about this. Very much.”

I reached behind me and dragged Fisk forward. I could feel him laughing, even though his face showed nothing. He was already digging into his purse for a brass quart.

There was a time, before I met Fisk, I’d have refused to lie. But just as I’d sparked his conscience, it seemed that he’d rubbed off on me. And curse it, I needed to learn about Professor Stint’s finances. His landlady was the best place I knew to start.

She looked at the coin, shrugged, and tucked it into a pocket.

“What do you want to know?”

“Does he pay his rent in full, and promptly? And has he always done so?”

“He has since he moved in, several years ago now. I know he gambles a bit, but he’s never missed a payment.”

“He gambles? He didn’t tell my employer that.”

Fisk stopped smirking. A gambling habit could leave a man with a serious need for money. “What’s his game?”

“How often does he play?” I added.

“Moon’s Bane. And he plays most Scaledays. But Moon’s Bane isn’t a bad game if you’ve a head for cards, and he seems to. He wins more than he loses, as far as I can tell.”

She might not be able to tell. I could think of a number of reasons not to inform your landlady that you’d lost the rent. But ’twould not do to show the excite-
ment coursing through me.

“Where does he play, do you know? Does he have a regular group, or pickup?”

She told us that Stint usually played at a tavern near the river, the Fighting Fish, and that while he had several partners he preferred, the others at the table were usually pickups.

“But he’s good,” she insisted. “At least half the time, when I see him come in, his purse is heavier than when he left.” I asked a few more questions, thanked her, 
and departed, ignoring Fisk’s sour expression. His investigation had been snuffed out, but mine was ablaze! “He gambles! ’Tis a perfect reason for him to need money badly enough to sabotage the project!”

“You can win at Moon’s Bane, if you’re good.” Fisk strolled beside me, hands in his pockets. He was beginning to look interested, despite himself. “In fact, 
if he racked up a big debt and Hotchkiss found out about it, that could have led to blackmail!”

“Then why wasn’t he mentioned in Hotchkiss’ records? Besides, the university might not approve of deep gambling, but as long as it didn’t affect his teaching no one would care. None but those he owed, and if they pressed hard for payment…”

“Yes, and we might be able to find out who they are. I suppose we’re going to that tavern, next?”

I took an unworthy pleasure in this tacit acknowledgement that ’twas I who was now in charge. But I had a better idea.

“Have you ever met Professor Stint, Fisk? When you visited the jeweler, mayhap?”

“No. I looked into his laboratory, but he didn’t see me. You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking. Are you?”

“Why not?” I said. “If you were to win a large sum of money from him, ’twould not only prove he was vulnerable, you could then demand information to settle the debt instead of coin. ’Tis a bribe he’d be hard put to resist and costs us nothing.”

“That’s silly. He’s not going to confess to murder to clear a gambling debt. The worst a judicar would do is set up a payment schedule, and forbid him to gamble till he’d paid it off.”

“Not the murder, of course. But if we pretend to want the name of his contact at court, the man who paid him for the sabotage, he might confess to burning the papers and framing Benton.”

“Assuming he did frame Benton,” Fisk said.

“Even if he only burned the papers, learning who paid him might be the loose thread that unravels the whole stocking!”

Fisk looked skeptical. But then, he was losing.

“If you’re that certain I’m going to win, then you’re proposing that I cheat. You do know that, Noble Sir?”

“’Tis for a worthy cause,” I said. “And ’tis not as if we’ll keep his money. We only want to persuade him to talk.”

“What about his partner? If Stint loses, his table partner will too. And that’s assuming a two couple game — what if there are six players?”

This stopped me. I could see my way to cheating Stint out of some information, particularly if he proved to be guilty. I couldn’t cheat the other players.

“You can slip me the money after the game breaks up,” I said. “I’ll go after the losers and give back their stakes, in exchange for their promise not to tell Stint we did it.”

“And they’ll promptly return to the tavern, and beat the crap out of me for cheating,” said Fisk. “Moon’s Bane players take the game seriously.”

“By then, you and Professor Stint will be gone,” I said. “You can offer to set up a payment schedule, and discuss it as you walk him home. If he’s played deep, he’ll be interested. I’ll catch up with you as soon as 
I’ve restored the other players’ money.”

“All right,” said Fisk, who didn’t really care about the other players anyway. “That takes care of Stint’s partner. What about mine?”

“I’ll partner you,” Kathy said. “I’ve played at court enough to be pretty good.”

Benton and Kathy had gotten back too late last night for much discussion, though they did report that the jeweler had settled in reasonably well. The farm family welcomed the money and Kathy, who’d shelled out that money, agreed with Benton that they’d be kind. Now we were eating breakfast together, while Michael told them how little we’d accomplished yesterday. 
Including the elimination of my best suspects.

The morning sun that was so warm on my back made Kathy’s fair skin look almost translucent. Her innocence shone even brighter. Which might be a useful, in a con.

On the other hand, when things go wrong in a con they tend to go fast and bad. The memory of that club swinging toward her still made me cringe, whenever I thought of it.

“The question isn’t ‘can you play?’” I told her. “It’s ‘can you cheat?’”

The answer was plain on her disappointed face, but she wasn’t a quitter. “Then teach me! We’ve got till tomorrow night — two full days. And you have to admit, I’d be less suspicious sending you signals than Michael would.”

“It takes more than two days to teach someone to cheat at cards,” I said. “A lot more.”

“Two days is all we have,” Michael said firmly. “Stint plays on Scaledays. With the final applicant on his way to town, we can’t waste over a week before we strike.”

“I’ve almost got my notes ready for Stint,” Benton said hopefully. “Mayhap you could use those to bribe him, instead of—”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “You won’t talk Michael out of it. I tried.”

There are two ways to cheat at Moon’s Bane. 
It’s played with a partner, and most of the arguments afterward aren’t between losers and winners, but between the two winners about who really carried the team. Even if Kathy was a good estimator, which she might be, or could count how many royal cards had fallen, which most couldn’t, I had no doubt that I’d be carrying Kathy.

She’d been watching my face too. “Oh, good! Benton and Michael can make up a table so we can practice. Though we’d better keep Benton out of the tavern. Stint’s bound to recognize him, even across the room with his hat pulled down.”

“And what will I be doing in the tavern?” Michael sounded resigned. “Across the room with my hat pulled down. Which will look curst suspicious, indoors.”

Mistress Katherine waved this quibble aside. “Fisk will disguise you. And you’ll be sitting by the door, 
so when we get caught and have to run for it you can trip our pursuers.”

“Hey! Have a little faith,” I said, stung.

If it came to that, I could distract everyone into chasing me while Michael got her out. But if I was competent, it wouldn’t come to that.

“I do have faith,” said Kathy. “In backup plans. I’ve got four older brothers. There’s no way this isn’t going to fall apart.”

Moon’s Bane is a trick-taking game. If you’re playing honestly, most of the game consists of correctly estimating your likely points. You bet the number of fracts you think you’ll score that hand, and whoever’s score is closest to his bet wins two-thirds of the pot, with the other third going to his partner.

Of course not everyone is playing honestly.

The simplest way to cheat is for one partner to send the other signals about what’s in his hand. But it’s also the easiest cheat to catch, as I explained to Kathy when she demanded I teach her signals.

“How can you be sure of winning if we don’t cheat?”

“Watch. Closely.” I said it with more confidence than I felt, for I was years out of practice. And the subtler forms of cheating
require
practice. But I’d learned them in a hard school, and over the next two days, as Kathy and I learned to judge each other’s play — and Michael’s and Benton’s, too — I slowly, steadily, and with increasing frequency, won.

And not one of the Sevensons detected the slight roughness that thickened the edges of the royal cards.

At first I only marked the long side of the green cards, and the short side of gold. But as my fingers remembered the moves, I was able to mark all four suits in different places, and read the markings when I dealt. It was a slight advantage, but over a long night’s play, it would be enough.

After luncheon on Scaleday I called a halt to give my hands a rest. Michael took the dog and promptly vanished to exercise the horses. Benton, who was a lousy player, went back to putting his research together for Professor Stint. He was almost finished, and claimed he’d be glad to be done with it.

But that was a lie. His face was alight with absorbed contentment, as he thumbed through books and notes with ink all over his fingers.

Michael and Kathy were right. If we couldn’t restore him to some academic position… Well, saying he’d never be happy again was an exaggeration. But he’d go through the rest of his life knowing this was what he was meant to do, and that he wasn’t doing it.

As my father had.

“You’re awfully somber.” Kathy had remained at the table with me, running the deck from hand to hand. And she still hadn’t noticed those roughened sides. I’d marked six decks in the last day and a half, and though I’d seen all of them looking at the backs of the cards for marks, none of them had thought to feel the edges.

“You’re really not going to tell me how you do it?”

“If I don’t tell you, you’re less likely to give the game away. And the problem with signals isn’t just that it’s easy to catch someone at it.”

I left it there, curious to see if she’d figure it out.

“All right, I yield. I don’t know what you’re fishing for.”

“What does Benton do when he has a good hand?” A child would have picked up on that one.

“He pinches his lower lip to keep from smiling. And Michael’s expression goes blank, which wouldn’t be so bad expect that he only does it when his hand is good. I haven’t seen any tells from you, though.”

My tell had been to click the edge of a good card with my fingernail. Jack had brought a switch to the card table and put a welt on the back of my hand whenever I did it. I had no tells now, at least none Jack could see.

Kathy’s was a rather adorable quirk of one brow, followed by pushing her spectacles up. I saw no need to warn her about it.

“But those are tells,” she went on. “I still don’t see… Oh. Dear. Really?”

“Tells only let you know if they’ve got a good hand, or a bad one. After a few hours watching someone signal, you’ll know as much about their hand as their partner does. You have to let a fair number of hands play out, before you’re sure that when they’re strong in horns they tug an ear, or rounds is patting a pocket. But once you get their signals down, they’re all yours.”

“And they’d never have been that vulnerable if they hadn’t tried to cheat,” Kathy said. “I find that satisfying.”

She was Michael’s sister, after all.

“So that’s why I won’t teach you signals. But I can teach you what to look for.”

Michael departed for the Fighting Fish half an hour ahead of us, to get a table near the door and establish his presence before we arrived.

I’d disguised him by the simple expedients of a few days stubble, pulling his hair into a short queue, and darkening the hollows under his eyes, which made him look not only tired, but several years older. Combined with rough, dirty clothes, and keeping his mouth 
shut so no one would hear his accent … well, it wouldn’t confuse someone who knew him. But someone who’d only met him once, in a different setting and circumstance, wasn’t likely to recognize him. People almost always see what they expect to see.

Lady Katherine, currently wearing what was probably a modest afternoon dress for court, had demanded a disguise too. Instead, I’d come up with the cover story of a wicked friend of her brother’s, taking an innocent maid out for a
moderate
adventure on the rough side of town.

Kathy pointed out that that was true. But being true is what makes the best lies stick. The way her eyes widened as we stepped into the tavern, boisterous with deep male voices and a few shrill female ones, couldn’t have been bettered. But I didn’t want her to be too intimidated. Not even if it was good for our cover.

“What’s the difference between a bandit and a gambler?”

“I don’t know,” she said automatically. “What?”

“A gambler gives you a good game while he takes your money.”

She relaxed into laughter, and was still snickering as we passed Michael. I had to give her credit — her gaze swept over her brother as if he was part of the furniture.

He’d found a seat at a table by the door and was picking at his dinner. He looked sufficiently rough and surly to keep people from wanting to join him, but a long card game might tax his ability to drink slowly enough that he could stay sober. I hoped we wouldn’t need him.

Kathy had tucked a hand in my arm and was crossing the room boldly … until she stepped onto the slightly sticky floor, and pulled her skirts aside to see why her soles made that popping sound.

I gave her a grin that felt as authentic as her reactions, and put a reassuring arm around her. The limber body under her stiffened bodice almost distracted me from scoping out the potential players.

One large round table was already set up, but people there were playing Fox Hunt — which was probably why Stint, and an older man with spectacles thicker than Kathy’s, were sitting at a smaller table with a pot of tea between them. Not drinking as you play is the mark of a serious gambler. I made a mental note to order ale when I sat down … and then to drink it very slowly.

There was no point in dallying, and it would have been out of character, so I went straight up to the tapster.

“I’ve promised to show my young friend here how Moon’s Bane is meant to be played, and I’m told this is a good place to pick up a game. Any chance of that tonight?”

“Why, yes sir, there’s a pretty good chance. Master Stint and Master Carmichael were just hoping another pair of players would happen along. They’re over at that table by the wall.”

They both introduced themselves as “Master,” and I noted that Stint wasn’t a professor tonight and wondered if Carmichael might be one too. The thick spectacles gave him an otherworldly air, but the eyes behind them were keen.

We agreed to play for brass points — a modest stake, though it would add up as the play went on — and settled ourselves around the table with partners opposite each other. My ale and Kathy’s tea pot arrived. Stint claimed he’d rather be drinking ale, but it troubled his digestion. Carmichael, with a dry twinkle, said that he simply preferred tea.