who borrowed from whom, and unlike Miss Tolerance, he did not scruple to share this information for a price.
Boddick drank the last of his coffee-and-rum, looked wistfully into the tankard, and allowed that Mr. Glebb was likely to take up his usual place in the back of the room within the hour. As the fire was warm and the coffee drinkable, Miss Tolerance greeted this
news without dismay, ordered more coffee for herself, and directed the tapster to refresh his own. Mr. Boddick carried on a one-sided conversation regarding politics; Miss Tolerance drank her coffee.
Mr. Glebb appeared some five and forty minutes later, trailing three petitioners of varying class and desperation. He recognized Miss Tolerance and conveyed with a nod that he would be happy to speak with her after his immediate business had been dispatched. He then spread his coattails and settled himself with a sigh at the table nearest the fire. He was a short, elderly man built upon pyramidal lines: a long, narrow head and negligible chin, a pair of shoulders only a little broader, and a spreading paunch ill concealed by a neat dark coat. The fashion for high shirt-points and elaborately tied neckcloths did not reduce this triangular illusion. Age made Glebb’s movements stiff and painful, and no amount of attention with his handkerchief could expunge the bit of milky white spittle in the corner of his mouth, or the clear drop that seemed always poised to fall from his nose. Miss Tolerance watched as Glebb dealt with one, then another, then the last of the waiting supplicants. He then waved Miss Tolerance over; she thanked Mr. Boddick for his company and went to join Glebb.
“Haven’t seen you here in a while, miss. Not come to borrow, I take it?” Glebb’s voice was dry and hoarse.
“No, sir. I find myself quite beforehand with the world,” Miss Tolerance said pleasantly. “I should like the favor of a few minutes’ conversation, however.”
“Oh, aye, talk is cheap—in course, information comes dearer. But you know that.” Glebb raised a hand to beckon to the tapster. “Hi, you, Boddick! Coffee and a pie here, if you please.”
Miss Tolerance took a seat across the table. “Do you pay rent, that they let you inhabit this corner of the room, sir?”
Glebb shook his head. “I’m good for business. Particularly later in the day, when people drink a little courage before they talk with me. But that’s not your question. What is it you need to know?”
“Is the name Etienne d’Aubigny—the Chevalier d’Aubigny—known to you, sir?”
Glebb drew his brows together and pursed his lips in a caricature of thought. “Frenchman name of Dobinny—” He did not
bother to essay Miss Tolerance’s pronunciation. “I’ve heard nothing of a Frenchman by that name going to the cents-per-cent. And if I don’t know it—”
“He has not been on the lookout for funds,” Miss Tolerance finished. “Not among the reputable moneylenders, in any case,” she added.
“Oh, I’d ’a heard about it if he’d gone to the sharks, as well,” Glebb said firmly. He slid his hand across the table, palm up, but Miss Tolerance was not done with him.
“No such Frenchman has been pawning or selling off his goods?”
Glebb considered. “Such a Frenchman might ’a done in the past—but I take it you want something more recent? Nothing worth noting. I could ask about, but it will cost you.”
Miss Tolerance smiled politely. “Of course. ’Tis only fair.”
Glebb looked up to nod as Boddick brought his pie and coffee. “I know the name, though. Outside of the financial area. Can’t recall why.”
“It might be because the man was murdered. His widow believes the murderer could have been an unhappy creditor.”
Glebb engaged himself in the demolition of the pie before him. When he looked up at Miss Tolerance at last he said indistinctly, “That don’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
Glebb swallowed his mouthful and explained patiently. “It’s
Boddick drank the last of his coffee-and-rum, looked wistfully into the tankard, and allowed that Mr. Glebb was likely to take up his usual place in the back of the room within the hour. As the fire was warm and the coffee drinkable, Miss Tolerance greeted this
news without dismay, ordered more coffee for herself, and directed the tapster to refresh his own. Mr. Boddick carried on a one-sided conversation regarding politics; Miss Tolerance drank her coffee.
Mr. Glebb appeared some five and forty minutes later, trailing three petitioners of varying class and desperation. He recognized Miss Tolerance and conveyed with a nod that he would be happy to speak with her after his immediate business had been dispatched. He then spread his coattails and settled himself with a sigh at the table nearest the fire. He was a short, elderly man built upon pyramidal lines: a long, narrow head and negligible chin, a pair of shoulders only a little broader, and a spreading paunch ill concealed by a neat dark coat. The fashion for high shirt-points and elaborately tied neckcloths did not reduce this triangular illusion. Age made Glebb’s movements stiff and painful, and no amount of attention with his handkerchief could expunge the bit of milky white spittle in the corner of his mouth, or the clear drop that seemed always poised to fall from his nose. Miss Tolerance watched as Glebb dealt with one, then another, then the last of the waiting supplicants. He then waved Miss Tolerance over; she thanked Mr. Boddick for his company and went to join Glebb.
“Haven’t seen you here in a while, miss. Not come to borrow, I take it?” Glebb’s voice was dry and hoarse.
“No, sir. I find myself quite beforehand with the world,” Miss Tolerance said pleasantly. “I should like the favor of a few minutes’ conversation, however.”
“Oh, aye, talk is cheap—in course, information comes dearer. But you know that.” Glebb raised a hand to beckon to the tapster. “Hi, you, Boddick! Coffee and a pie here, if you please.”
Miss Tolerance took a seat across the table. “Do you pay rent, that they let you inhabit this corner of the room, sir?”
Glebb shook his head. “I’m good for business. Particularly later in the day, when people drink a little courage before they talk with me. But that’s not your question. What is it you need to know?”
“Is the name Etienne d’Aubigny—the Chevalier d’Aubigny—known to you, sir?”
Glebb drew his brows together and pursed his lips in a caricature of thought. “Frenchman name of Dobinny—” He did not
bother to essay Miss Tolerance’s pronunciation. “I’ve heard nothing of a Frenchman by that name going to the cents-per-cent. And if I don’t know it—”
“He has not been on the lookout for funds,” Miss Tolerance finished. “Not among the reputable moneylenders, in any case,” she added.
“Oh, I’d ’a heard about it if he’d gone to the sharks, as well,” Glebb said firmly. He slid his hand across the table, palm up, but Miss Tolerance was not done with him.
“No such Frenchman has been pawning or selling off his goods?”
Glebb considered. “Such a Frenchman might ’a done in the past—but I take it you want something more recent? Nothing worth noting. I could ask about, but it will cost you.”
Miss Tolerance smiled politely. “Of course. ’Tis only fair.”
Glebb looked up to nod as Boddick brought his pie and coffee. “I know the name, though. Outside of the financial area. Can’t recall why.”
“It might be because the man was murdered. His widow believes the murderer could have been an unhappy creditor.”
Glebb engaged himself in the demolition of the pie before him. When he looked up at Miss Tolerance at last he said indistinctly, “That don’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
Glebb swallowed his mouthful and explained patiently. “It’s
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