“I know about Pertellis.” The constable’s face did not look so tired now. He had an alert look as if he had glimpsed something round and white inside his oyster.

“Very well, then. Overcoming the fluttering frailty and fears which belong to her sex, this intrepid young woman followed the Dissident through the dark and winding dockside alleys. And by the very waterside she saw Pertellis meet in a sly and sleekish manner with the captain of our river barge, and saw him offer him a purse of money, and depart with him. Clearly Partridge had some clandestine dealings with Pertellis . . . and perhaps he found out too much for the Vile Radical Conspiracy to let him live.”

“Did she mention none of this before?” The constable’s tone was sharp, but he seemed excited, not angry.

“Oh, she did,” Clent answered quickly. “But of course we were all far too interested in the Floating School to pay the rest of her story any mind, and for myself I had entirely forgotten it until she reminded me. She even went back to the captain’s barge herself the next day, so determined was she to uncover all evil doings, but he was not there.”

“Is all this true?” The constable looked directly at Mosca, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully, to show that he expected a response from her and not from Clent. Heat washed upward from the base of Mosca’s spine to the tops of her unconvincing eyebrows.

She nodded just once, and the deed was done.

“Then that’s a tale to gladden my heart indeed.” The constable’s battered face relaxed into a smile. “You’ll sit and have a tot of Kill-grief? Wait . . .” He left the room, returning a moment later with a jug and three pots. “The girl will have to identify him now, of course, and again in the trial, but it sounds like she has the right sort of mettle, so I don’t think she’ll faint at the task.” His eyes were far friendlier now when they fell upon her, and his voice was warmer and more confidential. “You cannot imagine the trouble we’ve had since we clapped the handcuffs on Pertellis. So many people seem to see him as some kind of hero, and we get stones thrown at the door of the watch house, or rotten eggs flung at the windows of our homes. And poor folks come by the jail with money they should be using to feed their families, and beg us to use it to make Pertellis a bit more comfortable. It boils me up inside. But once everyone knows he’s a murderer . . . well, no one will see him as a hero then, will they? No one will care if he lives or dies.”

Mosca took the offered pot, and sipped carefully. The gin stole the feeling from her tongue, and left the inside of her nose feeling stripped and cold.