The Ruffler's Child (Thomas the Falconer Mystery Series Book 1) by John Pilkington

Author:John Pilkington [Pilkington, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Published: 2019-11-20T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

He waited, sheltering from the rain that now poured steadily, under eaves and any other overhang that offered itself, so long as he was able to keep the laughing beggar in sight. He tried to take special care that he in turn was not spotted, for at no time was he fooled by the vacant, unseeing expression on the fellow’s face. Though he was twenty yards away he believed he could see a pair of greenish eyes, sharp as a goshawk’s, peering up and down the street from under the fringe of dirty hair that was plastered to the man’s forehead.

He had resolved to follow him, if it took the rest of the day. After dark he knew the city gates would be shut, which would make things difficult; perhaps he could make his way home by the river. For he dared not be found absent by morning, on the day his master was due to arrive. That would raise more questions than he could hope to answer.

After an hour Laughing Morgan swung himself about and moved off up Philpot Lane, turning left into Fenchurch Street. Ahead was the crossroads where Gracious Street intersected with Lombard Street beyond. The beggar had a shambling walk that, Thomas soon realized, deceived the eye in the speed with which he covered the ground. As he followed the man across into Lombard Street he had to quicken his pace a little, passing St Clement’s Lane and St Nicholas’s Lane, with the church bells clanging in disharmony. People crossed from Abchurch towards Cornhill and back, and on some occasions, dodging through them, he lost sight of his quarry. Each time he saw him again he breathed a grateful thanks, for the man’s bright yellow coat would have stood out not merely in a midden, as one of Sir Marcus’s maids had said, but in a field of sunflowers.

Then he lost him.

At first, he assumed the beggar had turned left by the churchyard of St Laurence Poultriey. Hurrying around it, he looked down every opening, fetching up in St Swithin’s Lane, but saw no trace of a yellow coat. Almost breaking into a run, he walked back into Lombard Street, turned left and hurried on until the way opened into a broad avenue, with Cornhill on his right and Three Needle Street beyond. Here was the Stocks Market, at the very heart of London, where on any other day the throng would have been so great, it would have been difficult to follow anyone. Today the crowds were sparse, but still he had not been able to spot a bright yellow coat on a grey afternoon. He cursed himself for a fool, looking in all directions; then he froze.

Laughing Morgan was standing less than ten yards away, cackling, at the entrance to Cornhill. He must have ducked into a passage on the right, then doubled back along the

narrow way known as the Cardinal’s Hat, to end up behind him. Was he letting Thomas know that he was aware of being followed?

He had no choice but to take that chance.

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