Fly Up into the Night Air (14 page)

* * *

Caleb Stowe was Harte's age, but already getting thick. He had a brown mustache that partially obscured his mouth. "What's this all about?" he asked Harte as he lowered himself with a grunt into the chair that Griff indicated. Harte was already seated next to the clerk who prepared to take notes. Harte made no response.

Griff sat down across from Stowe. "My name is Patrol Leader Tarren. We understand that you often keep company with--" He stopped to consult his notes. "Miles Groat, Brin Greer, and Silas Horner."

"Those are my friends, sure. What business is it of yours what we do together?"

"That depends," said Griff. "Did you visit Dock Street together on six December of this year?"

"I said I know those men. I did not say that we visit Dock Street together."

"Oh? What
do
you do together?" said Griff.

Stowe shrugged. "We go to the horse races on Saturdays."

"I see, and at night?"

"I really don't know why I should answer your questions." Stowe's gaze shifted between Griff and Harte.

Harte sought and held Stowe's eyes. "You are here at my request, Mr. Stowe. I am Presenter Advocate Walford."

"I know who you are."

"Then I expect you know that I have the authority to compel testimony from witnesses to a crime," said Harte.

"Has a crime been committed?"

"Yes."

"We were discussing how you spend your evenings with Messrs. Groat, Greer, and Horner," said Griff.

"We like a drink, cards--that sort of thing. Nothing unusual in that, is there?"

"Where do you drink and play cards, Mr. Stowe?"

"The Ragged Crow."

"Were you in the Ragged Crow on six December?" said Griff. "That would have been Saturday, December sixth, if it helps."

"Well ... no."

"Where did your company go on six December?"

Stowe folded his hands on his belly. "I don't recall."

"So you
were
with Messrs. Groat, Greer, and Horner that night."

Stowe's eyes narrowed. "I suppose I was."

"Where did you go with them?" said Griff.

"I told you. I don't recall."

"Perhaps we can refresh your memory, Mr. Stokes." said Harte. "Mr--" He consulted the notes. "Mr. Horner said you went to Truman's on that night. On Dock Street."

"I suppose we did," said Stowe.

"And you went there to drink and play cards?"

Stokes rolled his eyes. "Yes, we drank and played cards."

"But that wasn't your only reason to go to Madam Truman's, was it?"

"I didn't say that."

Harte cocked his head to one side and smiled. "Are saying you went to a well known, expensive brothel, but without the intention of visiting the ladies? That would be somewhat unusual. Perhaps you prefer men?"

"You are outrageous! How dare you question my--"

"We are only trying to ascertain what happened that night. It would go faster--you could go home to your wife and family sooner--if you would answer our questions candidly," said Griff blandly.

"So, after the four of you visited the ladies, you left Truman's at about what time?" said Harte.

Stowe looked down at his hands. "It was two bells. I heard them ring as we left."

"Two bells." Harte made a note. "How did Mr. Greer behave after you left? What was his mood?"

"I don't know. He was quiet."

"Was that typical after a visit to Truman's?" asked Harte.

"He was probably just tired."

"That wasn't normal for Brin."

"I didn't say that," Stowe stared.

"How, then, would he usually behave after a visit to Truman's?"

Stowe rolled his eyes. "Relaxed, I suppose." Harte exchanged a look with Griff, both their faces unnaturally stiff.

"Was he
relaxed
that night?" asked Griff.

As Griff questioned Mr. Stokes, Harte returned to his contemplation of the notes in front of him.

"I told you, he was quiet."

"So, he was not relaxed."

"You are putting words into my mouth." Stowe's voice showed his irritation.

"Am I?" said Griff. "You walked back along Dock Street. Did anything happen as you walked back along Dock Street?"

"Not that I recall," answered Stokes.

Without raising his head, Harte said lightly, "That's strange. We had a report of a boy being beaten in front of the Red Rooster about that time. You didn't hear anything?"

"Things like that happen all the time down there."

Griff took up the questioning again. "You are familiar with the neighborhood."

"I suppose."

"How far do you suppose it is between Madam Truman's and Hill Street?"

"About four furlongs, I sup--"

"Four furlongs. That's not really very far. According to our witness, the boy was yelling loudly, at least until he was beaten unconscious. It's hard to imagine that you wouldn't have heard something," said Harte.

"Well, we didn't."

"Where along Dock Street is the Red Rooster situated?" asked Griff.

"It's about half way between Truman's and Hill Street."

"So, by your estimation, if you were on Dock Street just after two bells, you would never have been more than two furlongs from the Red Rooster, yet you heard nothing?"

Stowe was dismissive. "There's always someone making a commotion on Dock Street. You don't pay any mind."

"I see. You are saying that a boy yelling for his life did not attract your attention?" said Griff.

"I said we didn't hear anything."

Harte looked up again. "The Red Rooster. Do you know what kind of tavern that is?"

Stowe sniffed. "Everyone knows about the Angry Cock. We don't go there."

"No? I should think it would be a convenient stop on your promenade."

Stowe stared at Harte, his face darkening. "We've no interest in cock-suckers."

"There are quite a few of that sort who loiter around that area, are there not?" said Harte.

"Plenty enough offering their wares, if that's what you mean."

"One of those
cock-suckers
ever offer his services to you?"

"They know better."

Harte noticed that Stowe's interlaced fingers were white at the knuckle. "They do? Oh, I see. They have offered, and you have declined."

"You bet I have."

"Did any of them try you that night?" said Harte.

"I don't remember."

"I should think that would be memorable for a--" Harte waited a beat. "--lady's man such as yourself."

"I told you. I don't remember."

"So you did. Griff, is there anything more you wanted to ask? No? Oh, before you leave Mr. Stokes, would you please list for the clerk each item of clothing you were wearing that night?"

"Everything?"

"Yes. Everything, please." Harte gathered his notes.

"Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Stokes. You were most helpful," said Griff. Harte stood and left.

* * *

"Brin's friends are lying, of course," said Griff, from his chair in the ready room. "But we've made some progress. We can place them on Dock Street at the right time, and we can put them within two furlongs of the Red Rooster. But none will admit to being stopped, insulted, or propositioned, or of having any knowledge of the beating."

Harte nodded, watching his friend's tight face. "I think it's time we spoke to Mr. Greer. Let's do it tomorrow morning--and use the clock room."

Griff grinned. "Yes, Mr. Walford."

"You know I dislike it when you call me that."

"Yes, Mr. Walford."

* * *

Griff put his head into the clock room at Watch House. "Are you ready, Harte? Brin Greer is here."

"Ready, heady, and made of cheese. Shall I stink for thee?"

"Harte?" Griff stepped back and narrowed his eyes.

"Never fear. I am merely delirious with power. Or so I am accused, in this morning's broadsheet. Did you know, I am also accused of conspiring with the Canny to corrupt our justice system and unfairly persecute the flower of our youth."

"Yes, but are you ready?"

"I suppose."

"Harte!"

"I am ready, Patrol Leader Tarren."

Griff hesitated. "We could keep him waiting for a while, if you need to compose yourself."

"Am I dis-composed? I hold together well enough. Please get your man and bring in the witness."

Griff left the room, returning a moment later with Brin Greer and his clerk. Brin was stocky, well muscled, with dark hair and a full beard that projected stiffly outwards from below his large mouth. He had the red-rimmed eyes of a man who has spent too much time drinking in smoke-filled rooms. His cloak was dark and
fur-lined
.

"Please be seated, Mr. Greer." said Harte. "Patrol Leader, if you would?"

"Mr. Greer, we have asked you here to inquire about an incident that occurred on the night of six December, this year," said Griff.

"So my friends tell me." Brin pushed his chair back and placed an ankle on one knee.

"Do you recall the night?" asked Griff.

"Not particularly."

"Perhaps we can refresh your memory. Our witnesses state that you, along with Messrs. Stowe, Horner, and Groat, visited Madam Truman's on that night. You left about two bells, then proceeded back along Dock Street towards Hill Street." Griff cocked his head, expectantly.

Greer shrugged. "We went to Truman's."

"Please describe what happened that night."

"At Madam Truman's?" Greer laughed loudly. "I would have thought the watch would not need a picture, although Harte here has always made me wonder. Perhaps your mother could help you with the mechanics, Harte."

Harte raised his head slowly from his notes. "You are crude, sir. I believe Patrol Leader Tarren was more interested in what happened
after
you left Madam Truman's. Please start there."

Greer shrugged. "We walked back. What's there to say?"

"Did you speak to anyone between Madam Truman's and Hill Street."

"Just my friends."

"Did you encounter anyone in the vicinity of the Red Rooster?"

Brin stared at Harte as he answered Griff. "No."

"No one stopped you?"

"No."

"Have you ever visited the Red Rooster?" asked Harte.

Brin opened his eyes and glared. "That place! Certainly not. That place is for arse lickers and cock-suckers."

"You do not count yourself among that crowd?" said Harte.

"You are trying to bait me."

Harte laughed. "I return the favor. But you are already on the hook. I shall throw you back for the moment. You may go. Ah, but on your way out, please provide the clerk with a complete list of each article of clothing you were wearing that night."

"My clothing?" Brin frowned.

"Yes." Harte spoke lightly as he gathered his notes. "Describe each item you were wearing on December six, for the clerk." Harte rose, left the room and went down the hall to the next room, where he tapped lightly on the door and entered. The room he entered was small and dark. Turning so his face could be seen in the light from open door, he put his finger to his lips, then motioned for the small cloaked and hooded figure seated on a stool by the wall to follow him. They went down the hall to the ready room, where a fire was blazing and comfortable chairs were arranged around the table.

"Well, Peli, how did you like playing spy for me? Did you get a good look?"

"Yeah. What's on the other side of the wall?"

"There's a fancy clock with openings where the numbers would be. An arm moves around behind the face to show a picture of a bell in the opening for the current time." Harte grinned. "We never schedule interviews at six bells. Was that the man who threatened you, when you were bathing?"

Peli nodded. "Yes."

Harte smiled. "Are you sure?"

"It made me shiver, looking at him again."

"Well done. Stay here a moment, while I check to see if he has left. Then I'll show you the clock, if you'd like to see it."

* * *

After Griff escorted Greer out, and Harte took Peli to examine the clock, Harte and Griff walked Peli back to the hospital. It was snowing again, and the square had faded to white. Stopping in the middle where the snow obscured the buildings surrounding the square, Harte imagined they were alone on a vast plain. He was shocked to hear Griff whistling an old sledding song as walked along side.
Where is Peli?
The thought no more than formed, he was hit on the back of the neck with a snowball.

"Ow! Aye, run, you rascal! If I catch you, I'll roll you into a great, frozen snowman." Harte leaped to chase Peli, but landed face first into the snow. Griff withdrew his leg and continued to whistle innocently, until Harte grabbed an ankle and upset him. Peli pelted them both with snowballs, yelling like a banshee. They arrived at the hospital, red-faced, wet, and laughing merrily.

"I surrender the boy to you on 'very important watch business' and you bring him back soaking wet and covered with snow--in the dead of winter?" scolded Sister Grace, even as her lips flirted with a smile. "Griff, stop dripping this instant."

"Directly, Sister Grace."

"Peli, please go dry yourself by the fire in the kitchen. I want to talk to these ruffians." She waited until he had left. "So? Report please."

Harte suppressed a grin. "He identified Greer as the man who threatened him. Greer admits nothing, but he wouldn't, would he? He did give us one thread to pull. Griff, did you see his description of the cloak he wore that night? He described the
fur-lined
one he wore today. We know that description to be false. With that untruth, I think he may have kicked over the slop bucket. I want to talk to the servants at Greer House. Preferably, without Greer's knowledge. Do you think you could arrange that, Griff?"

Griff hesitated. "He'll know afterwards and pity the poor servants who say anything. But I will try."

"Thank you. How's Peli doing, Sister? He seemed in good spirits today."

"He is a good boy. He works without complaint in the wards. But he has not confided in me. I hope, in time, he will come to trust me. He asks of
you
every day. You'd have thought he'd found a pearl in his oyster, when he heard your voice in the foyer this morning."

"I take it he has forgiven me for failing to warn him of his starring role our
arresting
drama. You must break him of this habit of latching onto every rogue he meets."

Sister Grace drooped uncharacteristically in her hard chair. "He wants a father."

"Have you none handy,
Sister
?"

"Jest if you must. I am serious."

"Maybe Griff could help." Harte placed a hand on his breast. "I am unsuited to the job."

"Parents rarely have the option of choosing their children, and children even less often their parents. You should consider the gift he offers."

"Sister, my prospects are uncertain at best. I know not what my future holds."

"None can know that. We act, regardless." Sister Grace tapped a booted toe on the stone floor. "For now, visit when you can. That is all I ask."

Harte sighed. "I like the boy well enough--"

"Good. Now, I have rounds to make." Sister Grace rose to her feet. "If you'll excuse me."

Harte watched her leave, her whites billowing around her. "Griff, does she also hire paupers to watch her gold, and kings to empty her bed pans?"

"She's a good judge of character."

"I think she thumbs the scale."