When Maidens Mourn by C. S. Harris Page B

of his fashionable coat. A sheath in his boot concealed the dagger he was rarelywithout. He waited until the man had crossed to the cart, then said, “Mr. Jamie Knox?”
    The man froze with his hands grasping a cask, his head turning toward the sound of Sebastian’s voice. He appeared wary but not surprised, and it occurred to Sebastian that the comely young woman behind the bar must have run to warn her master to expect a visitor. “Aye. And who might ye be?”
    “Devlin. Lord Devlin.”
    The man sniffed. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he had a compact, muscular body that belied the heavy sprinkling of gray in this thick, curly head of hair. Far from being dressed all in black, he wore buff-colored trousers and a brown coat that looked in serious need of a good brushing and mending. His face was broad and sun darkened, with a long scar that ran down one cheek. Sebastian had seen scars like that before, left by a saber slash.
    The man paused for only an instant. Then he hefted the hogshead and headed back to the stairs. “I’m a busy man. What ye want?”
    The accent surprised Sebastian; it was West Country rather than London or Middlesex. He said, “I understand you knew a woman named Miss Tennyson.”
    The man grunted. “Met her. Came sniffin’ around here a while back, she did, prattlin’ about Roman walls and pictures made of little colored bits and a bunch of other nonsense. Why ye ask?”
    “She’s dead.”
    “Aye. So we heard.” The man disappeared down the cellar steps.
    Sebastian waited until he reemerged. “When was the last time you saw her?”
    “I told ye, ’twere a while back. Two, maybe three months ago.”
    “That’s curious. You see, someone saw you speaking to her just a few days ago. Last Thursday, to be precise. At the York Steps.”
    The man grasped another hogshead and turned back towardthe cellar. “Who’er told ye that didn’t know what he was talkin’ about.”
    “It’s possible, I suppose.”
    The man grunted and started down the steep stairs again. He was breathing heavily by the time he came back up. He paused to lean against the cellar door and swipe his sweaty forehead against the shoulder of his coat.
    “You were a soldier?” said Sebastian.
    “What makes ye think that?”
    “It left you with a rather distinctive face.”
    The man pushed away from the cellar. “I was here all day Thursday. Ask any o’ the lads in the public room; they’ll tell ye. Ye gonna call ’em all liars?”
    Sebastian said, “I’m told Jamie Knox has yellow eyes. So why are yours brown?”
    The man gave a startled laugh. “It’s dark. Ye can’t see what color a man’s eyes are in the dark.”
    “I can.”
    “Huh.” The tavern owner sniffed. “They only say that about me eyes because of the sign. Ye did see the sign, didn’t ye? They also like t’say I only wear black. Next thing ye know, they’ll be whisperin’ that I’ve got a tail tucked into me breeches.”
    Sebastian let his gaze drift around the ancient yard. The massive flint and tile rampart that ran along the side of the court was distinctly different from the wall that separated the yard from the burial ground at its rear. No more than seven feet high and topped by a row of iron spikes designed to discourage body snatchers, that part of the wall lay deep in the heavy shadows cast by the sprawling limbs of the graveyard’s leafy elms. And in the fork of one of those trees crouched a lean man dressed all in black except for the white of his shirt. He balanced there easily, the stock of his rifle resting against his thigh.
    To anyone else, the rifleman would have been invisible.
    Sebastian said, “When he comes down out of his tree, tell Mr. Knox he can either talk to me, or he can talk to Bow Street. I suppose his choice will depend on exactly what’s in his cellars.”
    The stocky man’s scarred face split into a nasty grin. “I don’t need to tell him. He can hear ye. Has the eyes and ears of a cat, he