Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“Hatts for the Guy,” he read.

“We still have the other notes. There was one that I received, and then the one that Robbie got. I think they were all written by the same person.”

“Likely.” Smite stared at the paper, and then looked off. “It’s the same sort of paper as well.” He tapped his fingers against the leg of his trousers. “It’s possibly enough to issue a warrant for Old Blazer’s arrest. But an arrest is only the beginning. I am trying to decide if we have enough evidence to sustain a conviction. You know the shop well. Did you see any signs that a criminal enterprise was conducted on the premises? Shady characters coming and going, shipments that were hidden… Even something as simple as goods being displayed that you thought might not have been purchased.”

Miranda shook her head. “Nothing. I know you won’t believe this, but my friend Jeremy would never stand for that sort of thing. He’s terribly straitlaced.”

“Then this is simple.” Smite drummed his fingers on the table. “We only need to ask your friend to testify.”

Miranda gasped. “You can’t ask Jeremy to testify against his own grandfather!”

“On the contrary,” Smite rumbled. “It’s perfectly within my powers to issue a subpoena—”

“Of course you’re capable of it. But it wouldn’t be right to force him to tell tales about the man who raised him.”

“I still beg to differ. If your friend is so upright, he should jump at the chance. One can frown on snitches in the schoolyard when the consequences rise to skinned knees and hurt feelings. When we are talking murder, however, every right-thinking man will speak out rather than let the guilty go free.”

“Oh, I suppose technically you are right,” Miranda muttered. “But don’t expect anyone to agree with you.” She glanced up at the watching faces. “I doubt that the Duke of Parford, for one, would be willing to betray you. Even if you had murdered someone. You can’t hang your hopes of a conviction on the belief that Jeremy will betray his own grandfather. He won’t do it.”

Smite simply regarded her for a few moments, and then closed his eyes with a sigh. “Well, then. We’ll surround the building with constables dressed in street clothing—”

“No constables,” Miranda said.

“No constables?”

“One of the men who arrested me yesterday mentioned the Patron. The man on patrol let a woman into my cell at the station. There may be more. Bring the constables in, and the Patron will know before you arrive, and he’ll disappear.”

He accepted this with a slight tightening of his mouth. “What of using hired men?”

“Hired from where? Robbie’s shipwright must employ men loyal to the Patron; they threatened him there. Half of the workforce of Bristol lives in Temple Parish. Do you have any idea how many people’s lives the Patron has touched? You can’t organize an expedition of any kind without the Patron catching wind of it.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Smite asked. “Attempt to uncover the truth by myself? With you? That would hardly be safe. No; nothing is without risk, this least of all. But I’d rather risk the possibility of losing secrecy than doing this alone. I’d need at least two others—”

“Let’s see if I have this right,” Dalrymple said. “You’re facing a crazed criminal, the risk of death, and a police force that might not be on your side. It’s lovely being a magistrate.” He tensed. “Useless people rarely face risk.”

“Speaking from experience?” Smite snapped.

Dalrymple gave him a pale smile. “Speaking from stupidity, I’m afraid. I volunteer.”



THE NEXT TEN HOURS passed with far too little to occupy Smite. He had only to sit by and watch as Miranda sent a note to Temple Church in the hopes that it would find its way into the hands of the Patron.

He hated the thought of using her in that way. Unfortunately, they’d not come up with a better plan. After they’d hashed out the details, Smite paced uselessly in the room while Miranda had a bath and then a nap. Under the interfering auspices of his sister-in-law, he couldn’t even watch her sleep. He had a brief moment of activity, when Ash had a drawing of plans for Temple Church sent up, and they’d squabbled companionably over their respective roles. But after that, there was nothing to do but wander uselessly about the room.

Half an hour before they were to leave, Miranda finally came out, dressed and scrubbed and clean. He walked over to her. But Margaret didn’t leave the room, and so Smite could do very little more than bow over Miranda’s hand and conduct her to the sofa. He sat next to her, feeling rather out of sorts.