“Do you recognise it?”
“No.”
They must have opened the letter as both men fell quiet.
“The Shadow Cutpurses, eh?” said Pascal eventually. “I still remember the first time I heard that ridiculous name. Given to them by some foolish pamphlet writer in London. They’d robbed a ship as it stood in the Thames, stealing all the jewels on board that belonged to the wife of the captain. They disappeared into the night…”
“Like shadows,” Tombstone finished for him. “I’ve heard the tale before.”
“You have?”
“You’ve told it before.”
“Oh.”
There was something about the dynamic of their conversation. Where Gwynnie had judged before they were merely employer and lawyer, she now wondered just how well they knew each other.
“If you ask me, the thieves wrote this in an effort to save their own skin,” Pascal went on. “They want us to look elsewhere, so that they can escape with the jewels. The lower classes are all the same: thieves, killers — any skullduggery and they’ll turn their hand to it.”
Gwynnie’s heart thudded hard as she listened to Pascal. He had no idea how hard servants worked just to be able to put food on the table.
Tombstone grew grave. “I am not sure what this letter means, but I am not convinced I believe it either. They claim to know what truly happened. But if that is the case, and someone else is responsible, then why do they not just say who it is?”
“They are responsible,” Pascal said with feeling. “Trust me, boy. This is the knaves’ attempt to push the blame elsewhere. That is all.”
Tombstone did not reply.
“Find out who has been seen near this room in the last hour. See if anyone witnessed who placed this letter here.”
“Very well.” Tombstone’s footsteps moved toward the door.
Gwynnie shifted her hand on the wall, relieved that they no longer had any intention of lighting a fire. She brushed the doucet tray, and it wobbled even more than before, in danger of falling. She clasped it, the other hand slipping on the wall.
“What was that?” Tombstone asked. He must have heard her move.
“Crows in the chimney again. They never do anything about it. Elric, there’s something else.”
“Yes?”
Gwynnie froze, not daring to move in case she gave away her location.
“The rain has stopped. The flood has already retreated a little since yesterday.”
“You believe Woolwich Road could soon be open if the flood retreats far enough?”
“Exactly, boy, exactly,” Pascal said eagerly. “If the Shadow Cutpurses are waiting for the flood to retreat before they make their escape, then we do not have long. If the weather continues dry, we could only have a few more days before they are gone and beyond our reach.”
“We will find them, Pascal.” Tombstone’s voice grew firm. “No killer has escaped me yet, has he?”
“Your arrogance will be your downfall someday.” Despite his words, Pascal’s tone was soft. “Now, go. Find what you can about who delivered this letter. I shall report to Cromwell.”
Gwynnie waited until she heard the door close and the key turn in the lock, clunking loudly, before she snatched up the sweetmeats tray and climbed down the chimney. She slipped and landed on her knees in the soot.
“God’s blood, this will be the death of me,” she muttered, clambering to her feet. Finding the pastries were now covered in ash, she hastened out of the fireplace and moved to the window.
Beyond the glass there should have been a grassy bank that led up to a copse of trees, but in its place was the flood Pascal had spoken of. Gwynnie reached for the glass and pushed open the window, peering down at the water. She could risk picking the lock and leaving through the door, but if anyone was wandering around, she risked being seen.
Climbing up onto the windowsill, she looked at the dirtied doucets. They could hardly be eaten now, and they no longer served as an excuse for why she was wandering these corridors. She tossed the tray and pastries into the flood. They splashed in the water, disappearing into the muddy depths.
Gwynnie craned her neck, checking that no one had heard the sound and poked their head out of a nearby window. When all remained quiet, she lowered herself out of the window and dropped into the flood.
The ice-cold water enveloped her, snatching the breath from her chest. She gasped until she could breathe again, before swimming through the flood. Judging by how deep the water was, there was no chance she and Emlyn could escape the palace any time soon. Out of fear that it would get deeper, she stayed close to the palace walls.
When she reached a small footpath above the level of the water, she clambered onto it, her body shaking as she fell onto her hands and knees. Her back ached and for a minute, she didn’t think she would move again.
A sudden shout from above urged her on as a window was flung open.
“Tombstone! Down there! There’s someone there.”
Getting to her feet, Gwynnie found energy she didn’t know she had left. She darted back toward the palace buildings and chose a small door that led into the laundry rooms, hiding herself inside. She fell against the door, breathing deeply.
“Gwynnie? Is that you?” Emlyn called from the main room of the laundry.
Her legs shaking beneath her, Gwynnie moved toward her mother’s voice. She stepped through a small antechamber, where there were laundry mangles and shelves full of bars of lye beside small brown-and-white-chequered bottles, full of mixtures of soap and lavender. Entering the main chamber, Gwynnie stalled in the doorway.
Emlyn dropped the sheet she was washing and covered her mouth when her eyes settled on Gwynnie.
“Deliver a letter, you said. Easy, you said,” Gwynnie murmured in a wry tone. “God’s blood, my bones have become ice.”
