Gibbous House 18

Raising an eyebrow, I took his hand. Considering any inquiry as to the mystery of his materialisation - at the very inn I had chosen as the least likely to be found in - to be nugatory, I kept my counsel. His grip was firm and the hand calloused, though his clothing had never been worn whilst performing manual labour. It was immaculate, of the very best of quality -and some fifty years out of date, to my eye.

‘The coach driver.’ He said, ‘He drinks in the Bell, by the Hotspur Tower. He’s a renowned conversationalist and a shilling buys a lot of gin, does it not?’

It was said with a smile worthy of beatification, although the name he had given me made that somewhat unlikely.

‘Indeed, it does Maccabi. Though I believe that you have wasted it even so, I would have met you at the staging post on the 31st, I assure you of that.’

‘Why tarry, Moffat? Why put off your inheritance, and a change of clothes?’

Why, indeed? An opportunity to lie low for three days and scour the Northumberland Gazette for news of Parminter, to savour accounts of Thuggee gangs terrorising the Tyne and to ensure that I was quite clear of any taint of suspicion was now gone. I considered my answer before replying:

‘It has ever been my custom to check the mouth of any horse, gift or no.’

Maccabi threw back his head and laughed, a harsh and dissonant sound, and I concluded that, quite possibly, it was the only unattractive thing about him. It pleased me that there was something I might despise him for, aside from his religion.

‘Well said, Moffat. But John Brown is a by-word for scruple in Northumbria. Would you dine with me? The Olde Cross has a passable table, I believe.’

Who was I to gainsay him? Besides, he had invited me, and I presumed all would be to his account.

The room was dark; candles in sconces and oil lamps few in number provided such illumination as there was. Dark heavily varnished beams, and the woodwork in the walls sucked this light in rather than reflect it. Perhaps the patina of dirt was deliberately maintained to lend credibility to the preposterous – and still fairly youthful – legend of the dirty bottles. To me it just seemed another grubby inn, but I never saw anyone touch the glassware, though many seemed drunk enough to brave more dangerous feats. The table too was darkly varnished, marked with the initials and sundry scratches of the idle drinker. Some may have been the tally marks of the less trusting; of the landlord or themselves, it mattered not. Robson apologised for the paucity of fare available; veal and ham pie, one leg of lamb, a hasty pudding and sundry vegetables, he gave an excuse which I did not register beyond the word ‘late’. I cared not if it were the lateness of the hour or his mother, I confess. We spurned the hasty pudding, I because I had not eaten porridge for 25 years and never would again, and Maccabi, I presumed, because of the arcane dietary restrictions of his creed.