“How did it go?” Toby studied their faces. “Do you think he’ll run off to his source?”
“I think,” Ellen smugly replied, “that we can count on Mrs. Rollins to ensure he does. She got stars in her eyes when I asked for twenty yards of lace.”
Christopher nodded. “I can’t see Rollins being allowed to dally for too long—Mrs. Rollins will be at him to contact his source and get an answer as soon as possible. So if the source of that lace is anywhere near, Rollins will go to speak with him, if nothing else to escape the edge of his wife’s tongue.”
Toby looked at the shop. “While you were inside, I took a quick look down that alley. There’s definitely no way out other than via the lane.”
“Good.” Christopher settled beside Toby. “So now we wait and see whether we were, in fact, as successful as we think.”
Ellen shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Time ticked past—a minute, then more.
She’d almost attained a somnolent state when Rollins appeared at the mouth of the alley. He barely paused to check the lane was clear before striding across it, heading to his left.
Toby straightened. “He’s heading for the inn.”
Christopher frowned. “For lunch?”
“Or because his ‘source’ is someone who works there?” Toby glanced at Christopher in question.
“It’s too early for lunch,” Ellen pointed out.
Meeting Toby’s gaze, Christopher tipped his head toward the inn. “Rollins might get suspicious if he sets eyes on us. You’ll have to go and see who he speaks with.”
Toby saluted, stepped out of the shadows, and swiftly strode for the inn’s front door, which faced the lane.
Ellen frowned, then wrinkled her nose. “I don’t suppose we can go and peek through the front windows?”
“No.” Christopher grimaced as well. “We’ll have to let Toby play this hand alone.”
Inside the inn, Toby glanced around the deserted entry hall, then ducked under a low lintel and entered the taproom. After a cursory glance around the long room, he ambled to the bar.
Rollins, thank God, wouldn’t know him from Adam. Confident in his anonymity, Toby walked up beside the man and lounged on the bar a few feet away, patently waiting to be served.
He was in time to hear Rollins ask the barman, “Where’s your father, Shep?”
“He’s in the office.” Bending to lift bottles from a crate he’d just carried in, with his head, Shep indicated some area deeper in the house. “Want me to tell him you’re wanting a word?”
“Yes.” Rollins was nervously tapping a finger on the bar. He glanced sidelong at Toby, then leaned back and surveyed the other occupants of the taproom—three laborers gathered about a table and two old codgers in the inglenook. Rollins turned back in time to catch Shep’s eye as he moved toward the swinging door giving access to the inn’s nether regions. “Tell him I’ll wait at the front desk.”
Shep saluted, then said to Toby, “Back in a moment, sir,” and lumbered off.
Toby leaned on the counter; he didn’t look as Rollins left the taproom, presumably to wait at the reception counter at the rear of the entry hall.
Toby was grateful that Shep didn’t dally on his errand. He was back in less than a minute and happy to provide Toby with a pint of ale.
After handing over the required coins, Toby picked up the tankard and turned; he pretended to survey the available seats before heading for the table by the window just inside the taproom’s doorway. He slid onto the bench seat fixed to the wall separating the tap from the entry hall, then raised the tankard and sipped.
From the corner of his eye, he could just glimpse Rollins, obviously nervous, still waiting before the reception counter.
Toby was careful to keep his head bent, his gaze apparently on the tankard.
Then the door behind the reception counter swung open, and a tall, heavyset man walked through. He nodded at Rollins and halted behind the counter. “’Morning, Rollins. What can I do fer you?”
Rollins leaned on the counter and lowered his voice. “It’s about that last shipment of lace.”
Toby blessed the acoustics of the entry hall; he could hear Rollins well enough to make out his words.
Behind the counter, the publican’s expression grew stony. “Yes?” Wariness had seeped into his tone. “What of it?”
“My wife has a customer who wants to buy a ruddy great amount of it—twenty yards! That’s more than double what we got last time.” Rollins paused, apparently searching the publican’s face. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you laying your hands on more?”
The publican visibly relaxed. “Well, old son”—the man smiled as if at some private joke—“as it happens, you’re in luck. I had another shipment come through just last night. A big one. I checked it over, and to my eyes, the stuff’s every bit as good as the last batch. Might be a different pattern, mind, but you know I know next to nothin’ about lace.” He paused, as if debating, then said, “I’m supposed to move most of it on to London, but I can let you have what you need, I’m sure.”
Rollins all but slumped with relief. “Good.” His voice gained in strength. “Excellent!” Then he recalled this was business and belatedly asked, “The same price?”
The publican pursed his lips and tipped his head from side to side before saying, “Well, this is between friends, right? So yeah—I can let you have it at the same price per packet as the last lot.”
Rollins straightened. “In that case, I’ll take however much you can give me.”
The publican thought, then said, “How about I let you know tomorrow how many packets I can slide your way, heh? I can tell you that it’ll be something like three times the last load. Like I said, it was a large shipment.”
Rollins was so delighted he forgot to lower his voice. “Excellent! Mrs. Rollins and I appreciate your help, Hardcastle.”
Hardcastle shot a glance toward the taproom; Toby felt it and kept his head down, staring into the tankard he was cradling between his hands, for all the world as if his thoughts were fixed on some far-distant imagined vista.
When he sensed Hardcastle’s attention leave him, Toby glanced sidelong and saw Hardcastle lean over the counter and quietly tell Rollins, “Just remember, old son, keep everything about our arrangement to yourself.”
A menacing quality had insinuated itself into Hardcastle’s tone.
Rollins took a step back, hands raised and waving in assurance. “Of course. Of course! I haven’t even told my old lady where I come by the goods.”
Hardcastle studied Rollins for a second, then nodded and straightened. “You come back tomorrow, afternoon sometime, and I’ll tell you how many packets I can let you have.” He started to turn toward the swinging door, then paused to tell Rollins, “One thing—this’ll be the last shipment, at least for a while. I haven’t heard anything about another but”—Hardcastle shrugged—“who knows, heh?”
Rollins didn’t look happy at that news, but having unexpectedly had his most pressing need met, he raised a hand in farewell, turned, and walked out of the inn.