Page 16 of Her Majesty's Necromancer
"P'haps she heard the company's good." The other man chuckled.
The tavern keeper emerged from a door behind the bar. He raised his brows, searched the rest of the taproom, and upon seeing no one with me, arched his brows higher. "You lost, miss?"
"No." I allowed my smile to slip into a wistful, worried one. "I'm looking for my brother. He hasn't come home for several days and our mother is concerned. I believe he drinks here some evenings and plays dice." I looked at all three men in turn, blinking owlishly. I'd never had to use my femininity to get what I wanted, and I hoped I looked the part of sweet, worried sister and not like the liar I felt.
"Brother, eh?" The man beside me wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "You should come back in the evening when it's busier. Your brother might show up then."
"Tosser," said the other drinker with a shake of his head. "She can't come back at night. Only doxies come in here after dark, and she ain't no doxy."
That seemed to be an invitation for all three men to appraise my form openly. My face heated and I resisted the urge to slap one of them. At least they didn't mistake me for a harlot.
"My brother's name is Jimmy. He's older than me by a few years, has brown hair and a solid build." I'd seen the grave robbers the first time they dug up a body two months ago. They'd not had any remarkable features, and I wasn't even sure I'd recognize either of them again, but I did recall their strong builds.
"Many Jimmys come in here reg'lar," said the innkeeper, moving away. "It's a common name."
"Weren't that fellow asking about a Jimmy last night too?" said the man on my left. "Tall cove, black eyes, longish hair."
Lincoln. I affected a gasp. "Oh no! Is my brother in some sort of trouble, do you think? Mother will be so upset." I clicked my tongue and shook my head. "Jimmy is forever getting himself into difficulty. We were worried he was in over his head this time and was too ashamed to come home. My poor, fool of a brother. I must find him before this other man does."
"You be careful, miss," said the innkeeper. "The black-eyed fellow is dangerous. He fought off several fellows. I only just finished cleaning up the mess they made." He picked a hessian bag off the floor. Broken glass clinked inside.
"How did the fight start?" I asked.
"Some folk didn't take too kindly to him joining their game of dice, then winning every time. When they all owed him money, he said he'd wipe their debts if they answered his questions."
"That sounds like a fair exchange to me."
One of the old drinkers chuckled. "Aye, but they suspected him of cheating."
"Could they prove it?"
"No," said the innkeeper. "And that only riled them more. They were sure he cheated. No one wins every round of dice unless they’re weighted."
"Had the luck of the devil, the cur," muttered the man on my right. He downed the contents of his glass.
I bought him another, and the second man too. They thanked me with yellow-toothed grins.
"So the dice players attacked him?" I asked as the innkeeper handed them full tankards. "That doesn't sound very fair when they couldn't prove he cheated."
"He had a look about him." The man on my left wrinkled his nose. "Reminded me of a gypsy I once met in Cork. Black-eyed snake he was, always cheating and lying. Couldn't trust him."
A gypsy? That was rather extreme. Lincoln did have the black hair and eyes of that kind, but his bearing was that of a gentleman, not a carnival trickster.
"And he was asking too many questions," said the other fellow. "If he just took the money and left, he might have got away with it. But he had to go and ask questions."
"The wrong ones, by the look of it," said the innkeeper. "And of the wrong people."
"Was one of the dice players Jimmy, do you think?"
"P'haps." The innkeeper shrugged then edged away. I got the feeling he was hiding something.
The man on my right slapped his palm down on the counter. "Jimmy Duggan!"
The innkeeper glared at him, but the man was too busy grinning at me to notice.
"Jimmy Duggan was one of the dice players. I remember now. He wouldn't answer the gypsy when he asked if he'd been to the cemetery recently."
Lincoln had asked a direct question like that? Good lord, his interrogation technique was worse than I thought.
