Thistlewood’s enormous nose quivered with a renewed rush of indignation. “The very day I identified it!”
“Did he actually take the head to Alford House and offer it to Preston himself?”
“I suppose. I mean, he must’ve, right?”
Rather than answer, Sebastian let his gaze wander, again, around that extraordinary collection. “Who would one contact, if he were interested in trafficking in rare objects of an historical nature?”
“Well, there’s Christie’s, of course.”
“What if one were interested in something a little more . . . illicit?”
Thistlewood gave a quick look around, as if to make certain no one was listening, then leaned in close to whisper, “There’s a shop in Houndsditch, kept by an Irishwoman name of Priss Mulligan. She carries all sorts of things. Some of her stock comes from émigrés and others down on their luck, but not all. Or so I’m told.”
“Provides a market for stolen goods, does she?”
Thistlewood nodded solemnly. “Works with smugglers bringing items in from the Continent too. Only, you didn’t hear that from me, if you get my drift. She’s not someone you want to get riled at you. Folks who cross Priss Mulligan have a nasty habit of disappearing—or turning up dead in horrible ways.” He closed his eyes and gave a little shudder. “Horrible ways.”
“Do you think Stanley Preston could have run afoul of her?”
“Could’ve. Hadn’t thought about it, but there’s no denying he definitely could’ve. Heard he bought a Spanish reliquary from her a month or so ago. Some saint’s foot, although I can’t recall precisely whose, at the moment. Thing is, Preston had a temper—hot enough to override his sense, when he was in a passion. And anyone who deals with Priss Mulligan had best keep their wits about them at all times.” Thistlewood paused, his tongue flicking out to lick his dry lips. “You . . . you won’t be telling her where you heard any of this, will you?”
“I can be very discreet,” said Sebastian. “Tell me this: What do you think Preston was doing at Bloody Bridge that night?”
Thistlewood’s eyes went wide. “Don’t know. Does seem a queer place for him to be, don’t it?”
“Any chance he might have been taking possession of some new object for his collection?”
“At Bloody Bridge? In the middle of the night? Whatever for?”
“Perhaps the object—or objects—were illicitly acquired by the seller.”
“But . . . why Bloody Bridge?”
Sebastian had no answer for that.
He studied the curiosity collector’s slack, seemingly innocent face. “Where were you Sunday night?”
“Me?” Thistlewood’s gaze faltered beneath Sebastian’s scrutiny and drifted away. “Same place I am every night: here.”
“Never left?”
“Not for a moment, from noon till past midnight.” He cleared his throat. “Now; shall we move on to the next room?”
“Please.”
Sebastian continued to listen with only half his attention while Thistlewood droned on about Roman pitchers and Pacific dart guns. He figured it was at most a mile—probably less—from the coffeehouse to Bloody Bridge. It would have been easy enough for Thistlewood to walk there, whack off Preston’s head with one of the many swords in his collection, and hurry back, all within half an hour.
It was certainly a possibility; from the sound of things, Thistlewood was angry enough about Preston’s purchase of Suffolk’s head to have decided to exact such a ghoulish revenge.
Except, how would Thistlewood have known to seek his victim that night at Bloody Bridge?
Chapter 20
“Ni-ew mackerel, six a shilling!”
Sebastian pushed his way through the ragged crowd of rough men, desperate-looking women, and sharp-faced, grimy urchins clogging the narrow lane known as Houndsditch. The decaying, centuries-old buildings rising from the pavement cast the lane in deep shadow, their upper stories leaning precariously toward one another until it seemed they might almost touch overhead.
“Wi-ild Hampshire rabbits, two a shilling.”
“Buy my trap, my rat trap!”