"But I know you think my brother is involved in Yate's death."

I nodded. "And does that place a wedge between us?"

"I cannot enjoy seeing my brother accused of so horrible a crime, but that does not mean I am blind to the possibility he may be guilty. He is, in his own way, very good to me, and I love him, but if he did this thing, he should be punished rather than let an innocent man hang in his stead. I could feel no resentment toward you for being the instrument of your own vindication. You could do no less. Indeed"-she lifted her dish and set it back down again-"Indeed," she said once more, "indeed, I think he may be guilty as you suspect."

I felt a tingle across my skin, the sensation one feels just before something of import happens in a stage play. I leaned toward Miss Dogmill. "Why do you say so?"

"Because," she told me. She paused, looked away, and then looked toward me again. "Because Walter Yate came to visit my brother not a week before you were said to have killed him."

I had been, for some time now, proceeding on the near certain a.s.sumption that Dogmill had orchestrated Yate's death, so I cannot say why this revelation so surprised and delighted me. Perhaps it was because this was the closest I had yet come to being able to prove my a.s.sumption, and though it was true, as Elias had certainly pointed out, that proof alone would not save me, it was satisfying for all that. had been, for some time now, proceeding on the near certain a.s.sumption that Dogmill had orchestrated Yate's death, so I cannot say why this revelation so surprised and delighted me. Perhaps it was because this was the closest I had yet come to being able to prove my a.s.sumption, and though it was true, as Elias had certainly pointed out, that proof alone would not save me, it was satisfying for all that.

"Tell me everything," I said to Miss Dogmill.

And she did. She explained that, as I had already observed, she had a habit of peering in at who visited her brother, so she had been surprised to find a rugged, roughly dressed laborer in his parlor one day. He had refused to say much of himself, other than his name and that he had business with Mr. Dogmill. He had been polite but uncomfortable, clearly feeling out of place, which he well should have-seeing that he was but a dockworker sitting in the parlor of the wealthiest tobacco man in the kingdom.

"I thought it odd at the time that they should meet on such terms," Miss Dogmill said, "but I knew there were disputes on the matter of wages among the labor gangs, and that Yate was one of the leaders. It seemed to me likely that my brother had invited him to the house to make Yate uneasy by taking him out of his own world."

"And did you suppose more when you learned that Yate had been killed?"

"Not at first," she said. "I read that you had been arrested for the crime and thought no more of it than that you lived your life in a rugged fashion and there were bound to be incidents of violence. It was only when I discovered you to be hounding my brother that I began to wonder what role he might have played in all of this. It then occurred to me that what I took to be discomfort in the presence of money may have been another kind of anxiety. I cannot say what Yate wished to discuss with my brother, but I suspect that if you were to learn, it would help your cause greatly."

"Why do you tell me all this?" I demanded. "Why do you side with me over your own flesh and blood?"

Miss Dogmill blushed. "He is my brother, it is true, but I will not protect him in a matter of murder, not when another man must pay the price for it."

"Then you will help me to discover what I must do to exonerate myself?"

"Yes," she whispered.

For the first time since my arrest, I felt something like the swell of joy.

CHAPTER 20.

I HAD NOT THOUGHT HAD NOT THOUGHT to return myself so soon to Vine Street, but I went there that night, unwilling to waste any more time. I was close to something, and I knew it, and I felt that Yate's widow might have the answer. I found her with her baby asleep in her arms, hovering over the fire of the stove. Littleton was there too, looking not a little provoked to see me once more. He answered the door with a pewter dish of peas and mutton fat in one hand, a hunk of bread gripped in his mouth. to return myself so soon to Vine Street, but I went there that night, unwilling to waste any more time. I was close to something, and I knew it, and I felt that Yate's widow might have the answer. I found her with her baby asleep in her arms, hovering over the fire of the stove. Littleton was there too, looking not a little provoked to see me once more. He answered the door with a pewter dish of peas and mutton fat in one hand, a hunk of bread gripped in his mouth.

"For a man with a hundred and fifty pounds on his head," he observed, while clenching the bread with his teeth, "you find your way to this part of the city with an alarming frequency."

"I am afraid I must speak to Mrs. Yate," I said. I pushed my way in without waiting to be asked.

Mrs. Yate looked at her baby and cooed and rocked and kissed. She hardly looked up to glance at my face.

"That baby don't even know you're there." Littleton spat his bread onto his plate. "Set it aside and talk to Weaver that he might be out of here the sooner." He turned to me. "I don't want them cony-fumbles from the magistrate's office coming in here and saying we gave you shelter. It ain't personal, you understand, but you're not a safe man to be near these days. I know you got your business, so go about it and be gone."

I pulled a chair closer to the widow and sat. "I have but one thing I must know. Mr. Yate paid a visit to Dennis Dogmill just one week before he was killed. Have you any knowledge of why they met or what they discussed?"

She continued to coo and kiss and rock. Littleton kicked her chair, but she ignored him.

"Please," I said. "It is important."

"It don't matter to me, important," she said. "It don't matter as I can't tell you what I don't know, and they can't do nothing to me if I don't know."

"Who can't?" I asked.

"No one. No one can say I said nothing. I didn't say nothing because I didn't know nothing."

"What is it you did not say?" I asked, urgently but gently.

"Nothing. Ain't you heard me?"

"Aye, he heard you," Littleton said. "He heard the worst bit of lying that ever escaped from human lips since Eve lied to Adam. Tell him what you know, woman, or there will be more trouble for all of us."

She shook her head.

Littleton walked over to her and knelt beside her. He put his hands on the baby. "Listen to me, love. They can't do nothing to you for just knowing what Yate knew, but if you don't tell Weaver what he wants to know, they might come and take the baby away and put it in the workhouse, where it ain't going to live but another day or two before it dies, longing for its mother."

"No!" she shrieked. She pulled the infant to her chest and rose from her chair, quickly walking to the corner, as though she could defend the creature from any evil in the world so long as it was hidden.

"Aye, it's true. If you don't help him, he won't be able to help you, and Jesus knows what will happen to the baby there." Here Littleton turned to me and winked.

I opened my mouth to object, for as much as I wished to know her secrets, I could not countenance such cruel extortion. But before I could speak, Mrs. Yate had already surrendered.

"I'll tell you, then," she said, "but you must promise to protect me."

"I swear to you, madam, that if you should face any harm because of what you tell me here tonight, my life and my strength will be at your disposal, and I will not rest until you and your child are safe."

This declaration, romantical as it was, seemed to soothe her considerably. She returned to her chair. Silence once more descended upon us, and I saw Littleton begin to utter something, no doubt harsh, but I held up a hand. Her words would come, and I saw no need to terrorize her more.

My supposition proved sound, for a moment later she began to speak. "I told him," she said, "I told him it would come to no good, but he wouldn't listen to me. He thought what he had learned was like gold, and if he could but reckon how to manage it, we would be rich for his efforts. I knew he was wrong. I swear to you, I said he would be dead before he was rich, and I was right."

"What did he know?" I asked.

She shook her head. "He wanted to meet with the Parliament man. The blue-and-orange man."

"Hertcomb," I said.

She nodded. "Aye. Walter thought he was the one who should hear about it, but the fellow wouldn't meet with him. Dogmill would, though. Walter didn't trust Dogmill, not for a moment. He knew what Dogmill was, but it was clear that it was talk to Dogmill or talk to no one, and he couldn't let his dream of getting rich slide. So he went to talk to Dogmill."

"What did they speak of? What did he believe would make him rich?"

"Walter said he knew of someone who was not what he was supposed to be. That there was one of the orange-and-blue fellows who was really with the green-and-white side. He knew the name, and he figured Dogmill would want to know the name too."

I rose to my feet. If I had understood correctly what I had just heard, I could not remain still for long. "Do you mean to tell me that Mr. Yate knew there was a Tory spy among the Whigs?"

She nodded. "Aye, that's right."

"And Mr. Yate knew the name of this spy?"

"He told me he did. He said it was an important man, and the orange-and-blue fellow would s.h.i.t himself to death if he knew there was a Jacobite among them."

Littleton put down his pipe and stared. "A Jacobite?" he asked.

She nodded. "That's what he said. That there was a Jacobite that was one of them, and he knew the name. I can't claim to know much about things of the government, but I know being a Jacobite will get you hanged, and I knew that if a man pretends to be one thing and is a Jacobite instead, he'll do a lot worse than kill a porter on the quays to keep his secret."

Littleton and I stared at each other. "Not merely a Tory but a Jacobite spy," I said aloud, "among the Whigs."

"An important Whig," Littleton said. He turned to Mrs. Yate. "I wish I'd listened to you, love, for some things are better not to know."

"Aye," she said. "And after Mr. Dogmill come here himself, I thought I should never say a word of this to anyone."

"What is this?" Littleton spat. "Dogmill come here? When?"

"Just after I laid Walter to his rest. He come and pound on my door and tells me that he can't say if I knew what Walter known or not, but if I do and speak of it to anyone, he'll see me in the ground next to my husband." She stared at Littleton. "He grabbed me then in a place that's none of his business and told me that a poor widow belonged to any man that wanted to take her, and I should remember that if I wanted to stay alive."

I expected to see something more of a rage in Littleton, but he only looked away. "The laws belong to those which have the money," he said softly. "They can do what they please and they can take what they want-or at least they think so." He rose and walked over to Mrs. Yate and planted a kiss on her cheek. "You've been hardly used, my love. I won't see it happen again."

If I found Littleton's calm impressive, I could not say I shared it. With each pa.s.sing day, the idea of fleeing the country appealed to me more.

No amount of questioning revealed more information. Mrs. Yate knew neither the name nor the station of the spy, only that he was an important Whig. After I had fully interrogated her, she retired to bed and Littleton uncorked a bottle of surprisingly drinkable claret. The need to drink wine exorcised all earlier needs to rid himself of my company.

"How could Yate have learned of this?" I asked.

Littleton shook his head. "I don't know. There's plenty of boys on the quays that raise a gla.s.s to the king across the water, but that's all talk that comes from the bottle. I can't think that Yate had any great connections with the Jacobites that he could learn a secret like this."

"But it seems he did."

"Aye," he agreed. "And now what? What will you do with this knowledge that you wrung from me woman?"

I shook my head. "I don't know, but I will do something. I knew that I would have to find something to frighten Dogmill, and I believe I have discovered it at last-at least I have discovered what it would be. I am close, Littleton. I am very close."

"You're close to death is what you are," he said. "I just hope you don't take the rest of us with you."

CHAPTER 21.

ON RETURNING HOME, I drank the better part of a bottle to port to calm myself and went through the letters that had collected that day. I had begun to receive invitations to outings and parties and gatherings. People who read the name Matthew Evans Matthew Evans in the paper wished to make my acquaintance, and while in some odd way I could not help but be flattered, I declined them all. I had achieved what I wished with Mr. Evans's reputation, and I had no desire to make him more conspicuous than I had to. in the paper wished to make my acquaintance, and while in some odd way I could not help but be flattered, I declined them all. I had achieved what I wished with Mr. Evans's reputation, and I had no desire to make him more conspicuous than I had to.

Of far more interest was a note from Griffin Melbury, saying that he would be by at ten to pay me a visit. Here was good timing, I thought. Or perhaps bad; I could hardly say which. My mind was already muddled with drink, and I did not know whether I was equal to formulating the questions I wished to ask.

Melbury's equipage pulled up precisely as the clock struck ten. The man came inside and greeted me warmly but refused to take any refreshment. "Have you heard today's tally?" he asked. "One hundred ninety-nine for Hertcomb and two hundred twenty to our side. We lead by nearly a hundred votes, and the election is but five days old. I taste victory, sir. I taste it. I tell you, the people of Westminster have had enough of corruption, of these Whigs who sell the soul of the nation to the highest bidder. But there is no time to rest. There's work to be done, Mr. Evans, and as you are eager to aid the Tory cause, I thought you would care to join me in it."

"I should be honored," I told him, attempting to hide my confusion. It was not the suddenness of the offer that put me off my balance, but the familiarity Melbury showed me. I had wanted him to like me, and now he appeared to do just that. I had wanted to make him my ally, and he was becoming so. But my feelings were uncertain. I disliked him, but not nearly as much as I wanted to. Melbury was stiff in the way of old-money men, but not hard or cruel or insufferable, and though his politics were not mine, he appeared to believe them with great pa.s.sion.

I could only tell myself that the fates had shown Melbury their kind faces, and he did seem poised to win Westminster. I flattered myself that when I revealed my true name, and when I told him all I knew of the Whiggish corruption, he would do all in his power to aid me. That I found him too superior (or too married to Miriam) for my tastes hardly signified. And so the two of us entered his equipage, which began to roll noisily toward Lambeth.

Melbury hummed a few times and then coughed and snorted. "Look here, Evans. I like you tremendous or I would not have asked you to come with me tonight, but there is something I must say to you."

"Of course," I replied, not a little uneasy.

"I know things are oft different in the colonies, so I understand fully well you meant no harm. You must understand that I am not for a moment insulted or angry. It's just a bit of friendly advice, you see."

"I should be honored," I a.s.sured him.

"It's just not the thing to dance with another man's wife, you understand."

I felt my guts turn sour. "Mr. Melbury, you must not think that I mean-"

"Please," he said, with forced cheer. "I will not have any explanations or apologies. I only tell you this to keep you from perhaps finding yourself in an unpleasant situation with a less liberal gentleman. Or perhaps, if I may be so bold, a less uxorious one. I surprise you? Well, I think it no crime for a man to dote upon his wife."

"I should not think it was," I said stiffly.

"I presume one of the reasons you have come to London is to search for an appropriate wife?"

"Perhaps," I said.

"I tell you, marriage is a fit and proper state for a man. I have no regrets of it, but rather rejoice each day. But you'll get nowhere dancing with Whig harlots like Grace Dogmill or other men's wives. Perhaps it is the wrong thing to have spoken to you, I don't know. I only mean to aid you-though I admit to being of a slightly jealous temperament when it comes to my beautiful Mary," he said with a laugh.

"I do beg your pardon-" I began.

"No, no, I need no apology. Now, we shall say no more of it. It is forgotten. Are we in agreement?"

Here this villain wished to chastise me for dancing with Miriam when he had all but stolen her from my arms. I would have loved nothing more than to run my blade through him-if I were not depending on him to save my life. "We are in agreement," I a.s.sured him, grateful he could not see my face in the dark of the coach.

He said nothing for some minutes, and while I was glad not to have to make chatter with him, I began to find the silence oppressive. "May I inquire as to why I have been thus honored with an invitation?" I asked at last.

"You did express a desire to involve yourself in this race," he reminded me.

"I did, and earnestly too, but I doubt that every man who expresses such a desire receives the honor of an outing with Mr. Melbury."

"Well, there can be no doubt of that, but most men who wish to involve themselves in politics have not saved me from a Whiggish brute, so I am not as inclined to like them as I am you, Evans. Have you an engagement for two nights hence?"

"I believe not," I said.

"Then I shall provide you with one. I host a small dinner gathering where you will, I hope, meet some men of mutual interests. I beg you to join me."