There was money being made here; I could smell it. I left the bench and approached softly.
The prisoner tore open the letter with trembling fingers and read swiftly, his expression collapsing from hope to despair within a few lines. He groaned and crumpled the letter in his fist.
The robin cleared his throat in a theatrical manner. ‘Bad news, sir? Very sorry to hear it. These are hard times, sir. Hard, cruel times…’ He cleared his throat again.
‘Indeed.’ His customer sighed, and pulled a ha’penny from his purse. ‘Well, Mr Hand. I suppose you must be paid the same, whether the news is good or ill.’
Mr Hand inclined his head. ‘Regrettably, sir. Regrettably.’ His eyes, the colour of old pennies, opened wide in sympathy. ‘Hard times… We’re all suffering together, sir.’
The man gave Hand a sour look as he handed over the coin and trudged away, head bowed, still clutching the crumpled letter in his fist. As soon as he had limped from sight, Hand flicked the coin jauntily in the air, caught it, and slipped it into some deep crevasse of his jacket.
‘Business goes well, sir?’
He gave a start, then smiled broadly, presenting a small collection of ruined teeth. I introduced myself and he gave a bow so low it bordered on the sarcastic. ‘Gilbert Hand, sir. Ranger of the Park.’ He told me what I had already guessed, that he ran errands for the other prisoners. ‘Among other things,’ he added. There was a glint in his eyes that told me exactly what – or who – those things were. Mr Hand was a pedlar of gossip and sex. No wonder he seemed so cheerful; he’d made such a good profit he’d decided to stay even now his creditors were paid off. ‘I’ve a dozen boys working for me,’ he said, pitching his chin towards the Common Side wall. ‘Helps keep their families from starving.’
‘Charitable of you.’ I hoped the boys just ran errands. Not a safe bet with a man like Hand.
He grinned. ‘And how may I help you, sir?’
‘I need to send a letter. To Reverend Charles Buckley.’
Hand gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Sir Philip’s curate?’ An avaricious look crossed his lined, lean face. ‘Friend of yours?’
‘My oldest friend.’
‘That so.’ I could see his mind whirring, calculating the ways he might make a profit from such a connection. He gave a sharp whistle and three boys came racing from the other end of the yard, kicking up the dust as they ran. He sent two of them back, leaving a boy of about ten standing alone. His clothes were poorly patched and his skin was streaked grey with dirt, but he had the same restless energy as Hand, as if he had a hundred places to be at once.
