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“I’ve never seen him before,” Henry said. “I like to think it is my job to know most of the household staff, and I’ve never seen him.”
Fin sighed. This was not going to be easy, and getting information on this guy might prove to be more than a bit difficult. He couldn’t even get Marcus, a scared kid, to talk. Fin was not sure what made him think he was going to be able to get this man, a hardened assassin, to spill everything to him. But all he could do was try. And if he came up empty, he would have to go from there and rethink his position.
“Where is he?” Fin asked.
“Third gate on the right.”
Fin nodded his thanks and walked down the short corridor. Grabbing a small stool, he set it down in front of the man’s cell. Fin sat down and stared at the man in the cage. He was in dark breeches and a dark shirt. He wore no cloak, and he was barefoot. Fin assumed the guards had taken them away from him.
Outwardly, there was nothing truly remarkable about him. He was of average height and had brown hair, brown eyes, and was so plain, you would forget him five minutes after you met him. Which was probably advantageous if you were an assassin.
“What’s yer name?” Fin asked.
The man just stared straight ahead, his eyes boring into the wall across from him, and not even bothering to look over at Fin.
“Name,” Fin repeated.
Again the man said nothing. Did nothing. He just sat there, staring at the wall, looking like he was carved from the very same stone the cells were.
“Ye murdered a boy,” Fin said.
A low chuckle drifted out of the man’s mouth. “The lad was bound for the headsman’s block anyway,” he said. “Ye know it as well as I.”
So, he’s Irish. Twas not much, but twas somethin’ tae start with.
“Mebbe he was,” Fin countered. “But twas nae for ye tae take his life.”
The man shrugged slightly. “Tis nae me concern.”
“Why did ye dae it?” I ask. “Did somebody ask ye tae make sure he wouldnae talk t’me?”
“Not everythin’s aboyt yer.”
A wry smile tugged the corners of Fin’s mouth upward. The man was quick on his feet. Clever.
“Who asked ye tae kill the lad?” Fin asked.
“Maybe yer man asked me ter kill ‘im,” he shrugged again. “Maybe yer man did not want ter gi’ yer de satisfaction’ of takin’ his head off.”
The man was sitting down so Fin could not tell for certain, but he thought the Irishman looked to be of a similar build to the man he’d seen with Castor in the garden the night before.
“Why did ye try tae kill the Duke?” Fin asked.
“Maybe oi d’not like ‘im meself.”
“He dae something tae ye personally then?”
The man shrugged languidly. “Maybe.”
“There’s lots of mebbes with you,” Fin said. “Nothin’s ever certain, eh?”
The man finally turned and looked at him. “Dare is nathin’ certain in dis life ,” he grinned. “Yer a soldier. Yer should nu dat.”
“How dae ye ken who I am?”
“Oi’m a paddy whose profession relies on me knowin’ things.”
“Guess yer not so good at yer profession then,” Fin said. “If ye were, ye might nae be sittin’ in a cage right now.”
