‘No, thank you, madame,’ I said. I preferred to make my own future, not have it spat at me in riddles by a bony old witch. ‘I’m afraid I don’t hold with fortune telling.’
‘Well said, sir.’ The chaplain, still sitting by the fire, closed his Bible with a snap. ‘Only the Lord Himself knows our path through this world. The rest is devil’s work.’ He removed his spectacles and peered across the room – then gave a startled cry when he caught sight of me. ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed, heaving himself up from his chair. The blood had drained from his face, turning it a sickly tallow colour. ‘Is it… are you…?’
‘Captain Roberts, returned from the dead? No, sir.’ I smiled, but this only served to heighten his alarm. I hurried to give him my name before the poor man expired from shock, explaining that I had arrived only this morning.
The chaplain pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and patted the sweat from his face. His hand was shaking. ‘Of course. Forgive me.’ He gave a weak little laugh, the flesh about his neck jiggling softly. ‘Now I look closer… it is just a passing resemblance.’
Madame Migault cackled to herself. ‘Pauvre Monsieur Woodburn. Thinks he sees a ghost.’
Mrs Bradshaw threw her a sharp glance as she pulled out a chair. ‘Sit yourself down here, sir,’ she said, pushing the window wide in a vain attempt to bring fresh air to the room. ‘You’ve given him quite a shock, Mr Hawkins.’ I started to apologise but Mrs Bradshaw patted my shoulder. ‘Not your fault you look like a dead man,’ she said generously. ‘You’ve heard the story, then, have you?’
‘I met his widow.’
‘Hmm.’ A pinched expression fixed upon Mrs Bradshaw’s face, the look of a woman failing – quite intentionally – to hide her dislike. ‘Poor Catherine,’ she said.
‘She told me her husband had been murdered.’
Mrs Bradshaw nodded. ‘Terrible business. There was uproar, wasn’t there, Mr Woodburn? A man dragged from his bed and killed – and no one caught. Who’s to say it won’t happen again?’ She took the opportunity to place a hand on my knee. ‘You must sleep with a blade in your hand in here, Mr Hawkins.’
Good advice, I was sure, but my blade had been taken from me last night. And for a moment I could feel the cold hard bite of it against my throat again, and the weight of my purse, the smooth leather pressed to my skin. I had been so close to freedom… Still – at least I was alive, which was more than could be said for Captain Roberts. ‘The coroner called it suicide, I believe?’
