‘I might seeonehere, yes,’ retorted Sturridge, turning his gaze on Daizell in a meaningful fashion. ‘And who’s paying for this, I’d like to know? Paying with more than cut paper, I mean.’
‘I am,’ Cassian said, sounding rather faint.
Sturridge gave a grudging nod. ‘Well. As for a room – if you’ll share, there’s the front room. Best I can do.’
‘Then I suppose it will suffice,’ Daizell said. ‘If the sheets are damp, I shall personally wrap your head in them till you resemble the turnip you are.’
‘Sweetbreads and collops,’ Sturridge snarled, making it sound like a particularly filthy oath, and departed.
Daizell caught Cassian’s astonished expression. ‘Old friend,’ he explained. ‘Acquaintance, anyway. Well, he’s a shocking fellow but his good lady is an excellent cook. Now, tell me about this thief of yours.’
Cassian actually blushed, as if Daizell had said something embarrassing. ‘Er. Well.’ He launched into a tale of a chance meeting, an invitation to dine and gamble, excessive drink. It was all very plausible, except that he told it with a certain amount of care, and the rather charming red stain over hischeekbones persisted. Probably whores had been involved, and the inexperienced Mr Cassian didn’t want to admit it, as if Daizell gave a curse.
He wrung out a description of the thief John Martin – medium height, dark hair, hazel eyes, mulberry coat. It wasn’t much to go on, although Daizell liked the sound of mulberry. Perhaps he should spend some of his fifty pounds on a new coat. Once he lost the remnants of a gentlemanly appearance, he’d be in deep trouble.
They discussed strategies for finding the thief’s destination over dinner. Daizell thought they might as well throw darts at a map of England but the discussion seemed to make Cassian happy and they had a very pleasant meal, since Mrs Sturridge was indeed a fine cook, and had liked her profile. Wider conversation was a little stilted at first, since Cassian wasn’t very forthcoming. He lived somewhere in the country to the west of Gloucester but not actually Wales, and that was about as much as he wanted to say of himself.
Daizell didn’t press. He wouldn’t have wanted to rehearse his own circumstances and recent history, and probably Cassian was aware of that, since he didn’t ask. So instead they talked about the news, politics, and anything that didn’t address awkward questions such asWho are you? What’s your life like?
They were to share a room that night. That didn’t trouble Daizell, who frequently found himself sharing sleeping quarters or even beds with strangers. A room with two people and two beds, paid for by somebody else and shared with someone who didn’t look louse-ridden and wouldn’t rifle through his pockets in the night, was luxury. Cassian might even be too refined to snore.
The room was quite adequate, considering. He checked under the beds all the same.
‘Er, what are you doing?’ Cassian asked.
‘I once found a fellow lurking under the bed. No idea if he wanted a free night’s sleep or to cut my throat and rob me, but it stays with you.’
‘I should think so!’ Cassian looked alarmed. ‘Is that usual? Ought one always check?’
‘It rather depends the sort of inn you frequent.’ Daizell had many stories of inns he’d frequented, ranging from absurd to alarming, and he deployed a couple of them now. He wanted to make friends, since he liked to be friends and the next month would be more pleasant that way, but he also had an urge to make Cassian laugh again, because he had a delightful laugh. It was a sort of surprised gurgle, as though he was startled and even a touch embarrassed by his own amusement, and Daizell thought it was charming. So was the smile that lingered after his laugh, keeping those expressive lips in a curve that took a moment or so to fade. One wouldn’t call him handsome, exactly, but it was an endearing smile.
Not to mention that he was rather amusing too, offering an account of hostelries in France and Switzerland which had Daizell in stitches, even as he filed away that Cassian had made a Grand Tour.
They chatted very pleasantly as they both got ready for the night. Cassian did so with an odd combination of carefulness and carelessness, including dropping a perfectly good shirt on the floor, as if he expected someone to pick it up for him and to have a clean one waiting tomorrow. Daizell also couldn’t help noticing that Cassian’s bare torso in the candlelight was perhaps a little more impressive thanexpected. He was slender, but he had a rider’s or a fencer’s body, with gentle lines of muscle showing as he moved. Trim, Daizell thought appreciatively, and stopped looking on that thought. He had fifty pounds to earn. Now was not the time to do something rash.
The next morning they got down to business bright and early over a slapping breakfast. Daizell felt he could get used to someone else paying: the knowledge he wouldn’t have to argue about the bill added savour to his sausages.
‘If we go back to Gloucester and try the pawn shops, we may find the ring,’ he said. ‘But we have no guarantee it was pawned rather than fenced, or indeed if Martin has disposed of it at all. It will take a couple of days to go through them all, and if that fails, we will doubtless find it more difficult to pick up the fellow’s trail. I suppose we could split up,’ he added, with a little reluctance. He’d woken with pleasant anticipation of companionship for the day.
Cassian looked torn. ‘I suppose perhaps we could, but then, how would you find me again if you did locate the ring?’
‘You could give me your address?’
‘Oh. Yes.’ He didn’t leap on the idea, which was fair. He naturally wouldn’t want Daizell Charnage turning up at his home claiming acquaintance and a bed for a week. ‘It’s very hard to know what to do for the best. As you said, I can’t simply ask at every coaching inn for an ordinary man in a mulberry-coloured coat.’
‘No, although . . .’ Daizell stopped. ‘Just a moment. Is that what you’ve been asking?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘In those words?’
‘Yes.’ Cassian looked a little alarmed.
‘What colour is mulberry?’
‘Darkish purple with a touch of pink.’
Daizell snapped his fingers at Sturridge, who was walking by. ‘Rogue. What colour are mulberries?’
