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BEFORE DEVOURING HIS provisions, Garty beckons for the first person to come over and share her information. Everybody’s eyes follow her process.
This is not how he wants the interviews to progress. He smiles and stares at the folk squinting at him. They look elsewhere.
“Mrs. Bouchée, give all these people a hot drink and some of your wonderful bread and honey?”
She is staring, listening; he notes.
“I shall fit the bill.”
There were times when miracles happened around him. He needs one now!
A happy buzz erupts and then silence as Mrs. Bouchée glances sternly at the crowd. She hasn’t had many people here since the flood. Her lips are a straight line.
For this moment, she was born.
“Garty Musdo, Commander.”
She introduces him as a star.
“Hot drinks, apple juice or wine for all.”
She speaks to the head of staff, Ellie.
“Add everything to the Commander’s tab.”
A lady sits with Garty.
Garty sips hot, dark, strong coffee.
The woman slurps her wine as if she is parched with thirst. She rubs her mouth and smiles, showing gaps. Folk are hungry and poor. To gain information, he understands mouths must be fed.
“I appreciate anything you can tell.”
She leans in. Grit has taken hold of Garty.
The woman relates information about voices she heard in the month the child disappeared.
Garty records her details. A confit is scribbled by her information.
She accepts the groat he slips into her bony hand.
The queue diminishes.
By lunch time Garty is stooped. He had distributed his florins, groats and shillings. The proprietor will require a dozen guineas for service.
Lunch was a relief, but short-lived. Mrs. Bouchée presented Garty with fresh bread and homemade jam.
Bakers at the wood ovens bake bread all day.
Mrs. Bouchée insisted he take a break to refresh.
Garty’s head was spinning. He pops in to see Brill. He nudges Garty.
“You will ride yonder and let your mane loose.”
He strokes the horse on its sturdy neck. He prances.
“Tomorrow, but who can tell?”
More informants may flock here. No time to ride.
What a fool I am, he thought. I should never have had the word ‘reward’ printed. Why didn’t I learn.
I am a dismal failure!
He walks back from the barns through the laneway at alongside the establishment and takes stock of the front entrance, where people are still milling about, sitting on bench seats, drinking wine, swilling tea in expensive porcelain, and thick brown coffee in miniature cups.
Mrs. Bouchée’s best presentation crockery, fit for royalty, is on display. How much could one of these cups cost me?
She may have sent informants packing for fear of thieving.
If he gleans one nugget, the cost would be justified. About ten people are waiting. He resumes his seat. And so the afternoon progressed until late afternoon. Nobody is waiting. The place is deserted. Mrs. Bouchée and her helpers clean up.
Whilst gathering his papers, a dark shadow flits near the door. The figure slips into the room. His guard shoots up in case of robbery. The person glides forward. Akin to a china doll gliding on a smooth surface.
A woman wearing a shroud over her face, gloves, shawl and flowing skirt with boots, stands before him.
Garty holds his breath and rests his thumb on his pistol hidden on his hip as he studies her darkened face, shielded by her and ornate lace covering. He moves his arm to the mahogany desk, relieved.
Beyond the veil, he sees her troubled soul. He feels compassionate.
A widow, perhaps.
But she does not sit down. She glances around and then moves closer, looming over his space.
Is she hypnotizing me? I must stay calm!
He holds a florin in his fingers with his other hand. He listened as her index finger moves alongside her lips to keep her words very private.
“Tomorrow, noon.”
Lips are drawn. He can work that out between woven patterns shielding her face. She presses something underneath his fingertips that touched his pistol a moment earlier. Before he may ask anything of her, she turns, and with head bowed low, exits. Garty still has the silver florin between his forefinger and thumb.
“That was a surprise!”
She gave me something and took nothing! Who was she? Nobody got her name or address.
Does she have a vital clue I cannot yet fathom? Will the sky fall at twelve noon tomorrow?
“That’s it then!”
The proprietor says. Now marching towards his table.
“Clean up time at last.”
Overjoyed, to see the heels of his last visitor.
“Thank you, Madam.”
He now must check all bits of information without exception.
The paper with a map drawn in lay underneath his thumb.
“Refresh. Supper is set for about one hour.”
He noticed beads of perspiration on her crinkled forehead. He was her special project. Her face beams with joy as the many visitors splurged in her establishment. Some booked rooms ahead.
“Business is booming.”
Her cash register was overflowing with coin.
“Congratulations on your success.”
Garty gave her all the glory and praise.
He retired to his room.
The little piece of paper with the charcoal drawn map is his first task. He lit the lamp to scrutinize it. An X marked one corner, a few ‘v’ shapes along with a line.
“Is this a cryptic warning.”?
Exhausted, he stared at the small, grubby piece. He moved to sit in the most comfortable chair and almost dozed off.
He snatched the jug of water near the basin and splashed some on his face, drying it with the fresh towel supplied. He awakened his senses somewhat.
“That’s better. Wake up, knight!”
He strolled around the yard, smelling apples that made his mouth water as he passed fruit trees.
He plucked a fine, blushing pink apple and tucked it into his trouser pocket, feeling somewhat like a thief in a garden. But nobody saw him, so taking a last breath of the invigorating aroma, he took an alternative route. Garty sighted a young man in livery, sweeping the floor of the stables. Tall, thin, with a knockout smile. Tawny-brown hair fell onto his face when he moved. Garty imagined his own youth being like this young lad, innocent and garish, awkward and full of life’s expectancies. Weariness would not come near him at this age, he mused, with a tinge of jealousy over his lost youth.
He loitered nearby, thinking about the message in his fingers. The young man stares at him with a quizzical expression. Garty reaches out his big, manly right hand to the young man,
“Garty Musdo on the king’s service.”
“Ted Bingy. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Musdo.”
He wipes his hand on baggy breeches.
Following a manly handshake, Ted leaned both hands across each other on the tip of his broom handle and waited for Garty to continue the conversation.
“Are you from Scatt?”
“Born and raised here, beyond the hill.”