In a few minutes, as Matthew finished off his drink, the door opened and Varney peered in. “Ann said you might be here. Is … um … everything in order?”

“Yes.” It was apparent Ann had been telling her husband that these men were not to be trusted. Well, some men had to be trusted whether you wished it or not. Matthew stood up and pulled the cravat out of Firebaugh’s mouth. “Tell Mr. Varney exactly what you have done, Sir Cunning,” he said, “and why you are on your way to stand before the docket in Bristol.”

Firebaugh didn’t reply.

The moment stretched.

Firebaugh gave a short, harsh laugh.

“Spill it, sir,” Matthew said. “Then we can get you a bowl of soup, a cup of cider, a chamberpot and a night’s rest. I’ll even sleep on the floor in here on guard, so that your bindings might be loosened. But only a bit, I will assure our gracious innkeeper, because our culprit here has three murders in his history. Isn’t that right?”

Firebaugh laughed again; the laugh turned into a grunt, and then became a heavy sign of resignation.

“Three you know about,” the doctor said, with a curl of his lip.

Thirty-One

Thirty-One

On the early afternoon of Christmas Eve, Matthew chose a slim volume from the shelf of books in the parlor of the Flying Dragon. The title did not matter, nor did the subject of the book itself. He paused for a moment to watch flurries of snow sweep past the window that looked out upon the road, and then he walked into the kitchen where Edmond Varney and Ann were at work preparing the evening’s holiday feast, which included the pheasant Varney had shot that morning on the moors.

“Some help, please,” said Matthew to his hosts. He held up the book. “Firebaugh wishes to do a little reading and he’s without his spectacles. Do you have anything that might suit?”

“Say no more.” Varney reached up into a cabinet and brought down a small canvas bag. He unlaced it and opened it wide to show Matthew its contents: an assortment of keys, two pocketwatches, three small knives, a compass, a little black book, and four pair of spectacles.

“People leave things here all the time,” he explained. “Wonder we don’t find a head or two in a closet someday.” Ann jabbed him in the side with a hefty elbow; it was an unwise remark, with a killer of three Bristol men in the house. “Take your pick,” Varney said, regaining his composure as well as his balance.

“I’ll let him decide.” Matthew took all the spectacles. “Thank you very much.”

“Supper at six o’clock,” said the woman of the house. Her face darkened. “Do you think he’ll be up to eating anything? Some beef broth, perhaps?”