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“He being?”
“Mr. Rigby. Runs a pub down near my lodgings.”
“I’m not sure a barkeep…”
“Used to be a bare-knuckle fighter,” Tom interrupted. “And more besides, I reckon.”
“More in what sense?”
“Late at night, when the street’s gone to bed, there’s some hard men visits that pub. I’ve seen some of ’em, when I was coming home late from the theater.”
Arthur frowned at him.
Tom waved off his concern. “I steered clear. And Mr. Rigby is all right. We’ve had some chats. He helped the señora get rid of Dilch.”
“She trusted him?”
“Aye.”
“I suppose we could speak to him,” Arthur said.
“Be best if I go alone, my lord.”
“Easier, perhaps. But I insist on coming along.” Responding to Tom’s expression, Arthur added, “There may be points only I can, er, reassure him on.” Mainly involving available funds. He also wanted to make his own assessment before bringing in the man.
Tom thought this over, then shrugged. “I reckon. When would you wish to go, my lord?”
“What about now? Presumably a pub keeper is generally available.” And Arthur didn’t feel able to sit still. He craved action.
“That’s true.”
They walked, as this was less likely to draw attention than a fine carriage in Tom’s neighborhood. “And we should take care when we come closer,” Arthur said. “I would not wish to meet Señora Alvarez.”
His young companion looked dubious. “She’s not to know?”
“Once all is over. Perhaps.” He was not sure how to face her right now, with their ravaging conversation still fresh. And his mind had focused on one goal.
Tom considered this. “I don’t think the señora is overfond of surprises.”
“This is a gift,” replied Arthur. Nothing could make up for what she’d suffered, but he could provide a weight on the other side of the scales.
“But she…”
“I know her better than you.” As soon as he spoke, Arthur saw this for what it was—wishful thinking. But he would not be deterred.
Tom appeared to accept it, however, and they walked on.
Reaching the lad’s home neighborhood, they slipped along the street and into the pub. It was low and small but clean. There were only a few patrons.
“Afternoon, Mr. Rigby,” said Tom to the man behind the bar. “This here is Lord Macklin. Might we have a word?”
Rigby was probably past fifty, Arthur thought. Still well muscled, his receding red hair was cut close to his head. His face and knuckles showed the scars of his former profession. One ear had clearly been smashed by more than one fist. “What about?” Rigby asked. His voice was even. Not hostile, but not particularly welcoming either.
“Private matter,” said Tom. He leaned forward and spoke more quietly. “You remember that fella came in asking about Señora Alvarez?”
“The foreigner?”
“Aye, that one. It’s about him. He’s been bothering the señora.”
