Page 60 of The Trick of the Treasure
Constance stopped, peering into the gloom. “Morning, missus,” she said cheerfully. “Looking for a sailor called Jackson. He does live here, don’t he?”
“Now and again. Next landing, second door, but he’s out.”
This suited Constance, but she just said, “Maybe he’s come back. Thanks, missus!”
There wasn’t even a lock on the door. She lifted her hand and knocked lightly, then louder. No one answered, and when she held her ear close to the door, she still heard nothing. It was too good an opportunity to resist.
She was aware, as she pushed open the door and called softly, “Hello, anyone home?” that Solomon would lambast her for endangering herself. Curiously, this made her bolder, as though the very thought of him protected her.
The room did not smell pleasant. A small family of mice, feasting on some crumbs on the floor, regarded her somewhat insolently without fleeing. Clearly, they were used to living here untroubled. There were four cots in the room, none of them occupied—fortunately—and only one of them had the blanket pulled up. Odd bits of rough clothing were scattered across a couple of the other beds. On the rickety table in the center of the room stood part of a loaf, a couple of dirty mugs, and a half-finished wooden figure of a ship with a knife beside it.
Leaving the door slightly ajar, she moved closer to the table and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from beneath one of the mugs. On one side was an official, printed form of some kind, in a foreign language she couldn’t read. On the other, a pencil sketch of a face she instantly recognized as Jackson.
The door of the room swung open and Solomon walked in.
Solomon, wearing rough seamen’s clothes, at least a day’s stubble on his chin, and his hair miraculously grown by several inches since last night.
Her heart lurched.David.
It could only be David, Solomon’s twin.
He stopped at sight of her. “Who are you?”
His voice was enough like Solomon’s to give her gooseflesh. But the accent was wrong.
“My name is Constance Silver,” she said, since he seemed only mildly surprised by her presence. He certainly didn’t object to it.
“Jackson and Squibbs won’t be back till tonight,” he told her.
“That’s fine. It was you I came to see.”
His eyebrows flew up. “Me? I don’t know you.”
“I know your brother.”
He scowled. “I don’t have a brother.”
Oh, Solomon, what happened between you?“He sent you his card, via Jackson.”
Thrusting his hand in his pocket, he pulled out a familiar Silver and Grey card. So Jacksonhadgiven it to him. “You are Silver. What do you want with me?”
“I want you to go and see Mr. Grey.”
“Does he have a ship?”
“I believe he has several. Just go and talk to him.”
His gaze dropped to the sketch in her hand, but he said, “Why do you call him my brother?”
“You’ll know when you see him. He looks just like you.”
His eyes flew back to hers, alarmed and searching. Then he smiled, a cynical, sardonic kind of amusement. “Really.” It wasn’t a question of any kind. “I’ll think about it. Was there something else?”
“Yes, as it happens.” She set the sketch of Jackson back down on the table. “Do you know who drew this?”
“I did. Why?”
“It’s very good. You have talent.”
