“He might be a good fighter, too.”
“And kill me. Very true.” Arthur began to wonder how things had come to this in his ordered, settled life. A harsh inner voice noted that Señora Alvarez had no doubt felt the same—no, far worse—when hers had fallen into ruins.
“Well, I don’t think he would kill you, ’cause then he’d have to scarper, and he don’t want to do that. But I can see it ain’t the best plan.” Tom gazed at the Turkey carpet, rubbing his hands together as if the motion promoted thought. “Ah.”
“You’ve thought of something?”
“Somebody. Who might be able to help.”
“We don’t want word of this to spread.”
“He knows how to keep mum.”
“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.”
Rigby frowned. “Come along in here,” he said and led them into a small cluttered chamber behind the bar. Bottles and crates crowded shelves on three sides. There was one straight chair behind a chipped table and barely room for the three of them in the windowless space. No one sat down. Rigby faced them. “Did he lay his hands on her?” he asked with a scowl.
“No,” answered Arthur. Judging from the expression on their host’s face, the newcomer was fortunate that he had not. “He’s threatened her, however.” Arthur saw no need to explain what kind of threat. That was none of this man’s business.
“We want to do something about him,” Tom continued.
“Something?”
Rigby was clearly wary. Arthur wondered if he had been in trouble with the law. “I want to send him out of the country,” he said. “Far enough that he cannot easily return.”
The pub keeper surveyed Tom. “You’re a good friend of the lady.”
The lad nodded.
“And you as well?”
Under other circumstances Arthur might have been offended by a glowering inquiry from such a man. Now he simply said, “I am, and I wish to help her by removing this fellow.”
Rigby considered this for so long that Arthur grew impatient. “Tom thought that perhaps you could put us onto the right sort of ship,” he began.
“She asked me to find her a pistol,” Rigby interrupted.
“What?” exclaimed Arthur and Tom at the same moment.
“Just a precaution, she called it. Now, I’m wondering what she means to do with it.”
“So you procured a gun for her?” asked Arthur.
The scarred man nodded.
“You think she means to put a bullet into this conday?” asked Tom.
“That’d bring her a world of trouble,” replied Rigby. He looked as if he knew about such difficulties.
On the one hand Arthur could understand the satisfaction of eliminating an enemy. On the other, the pub owner was correct. “I shall see that she does not require a pistol,” he answered.
Someone in the taproom called for ale. Rigby went out to serve him.
“Would she really shoot him, do you think?” Tom asked.
“Only to defend herself, I imagine.” The sooner they could be rid of this Spaniard, the better.
Rigby returned. “So what is it you’re asking of me?”