“Is that Matt Hurley slidin’ up yer skirts again, and Bill not dead a fortnight?” Joe advanced upon his object, his broad hands clenching convulsively.

“You cared little enough for waitin’ yersel, for all yer talkin’. Now get out. I've a lady to visit.”

As if acknowledging my presence for the first time— though how he could have overlooked the alien fact of cleanliness in that squalid room, I do not know — Joe swung his head around and met my gaze. An instant's mortification ensued, before the fellow pulled off his cap, and shifted uneasily on his feet; and then, blushing bright red, he backed his way to the door.

“I'll be leavin’ yer, Mags, until a better time, beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” he said, and felt behind him for the latch.

“You'll be leavin’ me for good, Joe Smollet — and good riddance to ye,” Maggie shot back, lifting high her youngest, the baby Jack. “If I could count the days you've promised me that length o’ silk, as you knows I've a need fer, and taken your bit o’ cuddle—”

“I've got that silk right outside, I have, all done up in paper, like,” Joe protested, halfway to the street

A calculating look o'erspread the slattern's features. “‘Ere now, Joe, don't be so asty,” she called. “You just leave that parcel ‘ere, so's it don't go wanderin’ with the first cove as passes by, and I'll tend to you proper, I will.”

Joe shot me a glance of embarrassment, but was nonetheless unequal to the force of Maggie's charms. He ducked back inside to deposit something wrapped in heavy brown paper in the entryway. “See you, Mags,” he said, with a sheepish nod for me, and thankfully pulled-to the door to the street

“‘E's not a bad sort, is Joe.” Maggie swooped down upon the package and shoved it under a truckle bed that sagged in one corner, its covers askew. “Woman's gotta live, don't she, and all these mouths to feed?”

“Indeed,” I said. “A length of silk should go far in filling your children's stomachs.”

“S'not like I'm a-goin’ to wear it.” She sat back on her heels, face black with mistrust

“You would sell it, then?” I enquired, as suddenly enlightened.

“Joo interested?”

Here was an opening to goodwill, indeed. I surveyed the widow's countenance and considered what I could afford. “I should like to see your silk, Mrs. Tibbit”

The package was swiftly drawn forth, somewhat dusty from its brief repose beneath the bed, and the fastenings undone for my benefit. Maggie pulled out a quantity of glorious stuff, of a peach-coloured hue much like Eliza's silk, and but wanting a feathered turban to complete the effect. I felt my heart lurch — what a thing it should be, to own such a gown!

“And the usual price of Mr. Smollet's goods …?” I enquired.

Maggie smiled, and then, as if recollecting her poor teeth, raised a hand to her lips. “That's rare stuff, that is.”

“I could find as good in the shops of Pound Street.”

“Not for what I'll charge ye.”

“Which would be?” I looked at her over the fabric's edge.

“Five guineas.”

I thrust the stuff in her arms and picked up my reticule. “Ridiculous. I am no fool, Mrs. Tibbit, and should never pay for the privilege of acting like one.”

“Three, then, and that's my final offer,” Maggie said without a second thought.

I measured out the silk according to the span of my arms, and found it to be roughly fifteen yards; enough for a gown with a ravishing train, the very essence of elegant attire. With Eliza's suggestions as to cut and fashion, it should all but make my winter balls — and I knew as well as Maggie that three guineas was but a fraction of what I should pay at Mr. Milsop's, for silk more legitimately won. If my conscience was besieged at this notion, I comforted myself with another thought — three guineas should go far in feeding the little Tibbits, if the sum survived their mother's fondness for the bottle.

“Done at three guineas,” I said, arranging the silk in careful folds, “if you will tell me how you came by this stuff.”

Her eyes shifted, and she snatched back the fabric. “‘ad it off'uv Joe, same's you saw yersel.”

“And he had it for services rendered, I imagine, to the Reverend himself.”

The effect of my words was extraordinary, and beyond my expectations. Maggie Tibbit all but collapsed upon the bed, my precious peach stuff crushed in her hands, and began to shake in an alarming fashion.

“Mrs. Tibbit!” I cried. “I fear you are unwell!”

She gestured desperately beyond me, at a loss for words.

I whirled about, and espied the brandy bottle still open upon the settee, and fetched it to her side. Several swigs having been consumed by the woman, she recovered her senses enough to fix upon me baleful eyes, and say with authority, “We never mentions that Reverend's name in this Ouse.”

“But he is known to you?” I crouched down at her feet, the better to fix her gaze.

“Hah!” she ejaculated. “As if the Reverend'd be known to the likes o’ Maggie Tibbit. No one knows ‘oo ‘e is, much less me. But my Bill knew,” she added darkly. “My pore Bill saw ‘is face, I reckon, just afore ‘e died.”

“You believe the Reverend responsible for your husband's hanging?”

She nodded and affected a melancholy air.

I hesitated — aware, at the moment, of the depth of my ignorance. “Mrs. Tibbit — forgive me — but was an inquest into your husband's death recently held by the coroner Mr. Carpenter?”

Her head shot up, and her eyes glittered with malice. “Death by misadventure,” she pronounced. “As if I don't know what ‘at means. It means they ain't askin’, and nobody's steppin’ up to tell. There's no justice for the likes o’ us, miss. That's for yer coroner!” And she spat into a corner of the room.

“But how is it you believe your husband a victim of the Reverend?” I probed, after an instant's painful pause.

“I knows as he was. All on account o’ that ship what went aground last spring, and Bill never the same since.”

“Aground?” At this, I did not need to affect surprise. “One of the Reverend's vessels?”

The widow nodded. “The Royal Belle it was. Bill worked as spotter, see, at the Lookout over to Puncknowle way.[66] He was s'posed to work the signals that night, and a powerful foggy one it was. But somethin’ musta went wrong, acos he never left the Three Cups. The Belle was grounded and lost with all hands aboard. Some local boys was among the crew, and some Frenchies, too, from the clothes they was wearing when they washed up on Chesnil beach. The Reverend never forgive my Bill for tarrying over ‘is tankard, and he ‘ad ‘is blood fer it.”

With a cursory look for dirt and a stifled sigh at the inevitability of stains, I drew forward the room's one good chair and settled myself near the widow. “What happened the night of the ship's grounding, Mrs. Tibbit?”

She shrugged, and ran a broad hand through her unbound hair, the impudent belligerence overlaid, of a sudden, with profound weariness. I knew then that for all her swagger, Maggie Tibbit had not done with mourning her murdered husband. I silendy pressed her hand. “Bill ‘ud never speak of it,” she said. “No matter how much I asked. Swore he'd made a mistake, is all, same's ever'body else, and cryin’ wouldn't make it undone.”

“But did he know he was to work the smugglers’ signals that night at Puncknowle? And was his staying at the Three Cups a deliberate omission, or merely an oversight?”

“Folks ‘round ‘ere would ‘ave it he did it for blunt,” Maggie said.

“For — blunt?”

“Coin. Money. That he was paid to ground the Belle,” the woman explained patiently. “But my Bill'd never do that. He'd friends on that cutter, and they never come back. Tell that to Nancy Harding.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Tibbit, I don't—”