“And you don’t want Missus to know you asked for it?” She rose and went to the desk, taking out pencil and paper.

Tremont followed. “I do not want to alarm her, but neither do I believe in coincidences. House-stealing is an audacious, dangerous crime. To pull it off takes nerve and cunning and isn’t the province of the average street thief.”

Mrs. Winklebleck’s sturdy hand moved over the paper in swift, graceful strokes. She created an attractively masculine face, all lean angles, tousled dark hair, a sweet smile, and eyes that conveyed humor and trustworthiness.

“Told you he were handsome, but…” She bent closer and added a few lines around the eyes. “He’d be older now. I knew him in my misspent youth. Mostly.”

“Your misspent youth was all of several years ago, Nanny.” The face on the page changed subtly, the trustworthy eyes taking on a hint of calculation. “When was the last time you saw this fellow?”

She considered her handiwork, then passed it over. “Just before I give up the game and turned respectable. I was enjoying a pint at the Drunken Goose, and in he walks, looking quite the dandy. The Goose was always too humble for old Harry, not one of his regular haunts. I calls a greeting to him, and he turns right around and walks out. Never seen him since that day, but good riddance, I says. Harry had a temper—angry at life, he was—and he fancied himself cleverer than anybody else.”

“You are quite the artist, Nanny.”

“Couldn’t make me living at it,” she said, finishing her drink, “but it’s a fine thing to be able to take a likeness. Helps keep a memory alive, if nothing else.”

Sadness lay in that observation.

“Sketch MacIvey playing his fiddle. That’s a happy memory for all of us.”

Nanny smiled and took out another sheet of paper. “Believe I will, sir. And maybe MacIvey and I will take the first patrol around the neighborhood tonight.”

That had certainly not been the plan twenty minutes ago. “Nanny, be careful. You are every bit as much a retired soldier as these fellows are, and we can lose our edge when we leave the battlefield behind.”

She snorted as MacIvey’s craggy, serious features came to life on the page, softened by a hint of sentiment in the eyes.

“You be careful, sir. If the Harry Merryfield I know has taken a notion to steal Mrs. Merridew’s house, you be very, very careful.”

“When did you say you last saw him?”

“Maybe two years ago. Certainly not more than that.”

“Thank you.” Tremont offered the company a polite farewell and made the frigid journey to his own quarters without much noticing the bitter cold. He was lost in thought, and dreadful thoughts they were too.

Chapter Twelve