of mean, broken little cottages surrounded the Fisher's Inn. The ramshackle wooden buildings were threaded along a narrow strip of dry land squeezed between the dark river and the black, sucking marshes. The inhabitants of the cottages didn't earn enough between them to keep an alewife dry shod, never mind provide the business an inn needed to flourish. But despite its isolation, flourish it did, as far as anything except leeches and midges could thrive in that lonely place. It was its very remoteness that was attractive to a certain type of customer. Lost travellers, eel men, wildfowlers and the boatmen, sedge collectors and reed-gatherers all had reason to be grateful for its location when going about their damp and lonely tasks in the daylight hours. But there were others who sought it out by night, when dark corners and concealed nooks gave welcome shelter to those who had no wish for their faces to be seen.
Although the inn stood out plainly enough in the daytime, Raffe always marvelled how at night the wooden building seemed to melt into the darkness. The reeds blurred its outline and so faint were the lights burning inside that no glimmer escaped its shadows, even through the cracks of weather- beaten shutters.
Raffe lifted the latch on the heavy door and sidled in. As usual, he gagged as he took his first breath in the cloying, fishy stink of the smoke that rose from the burning seabirds, which were skewered on to the wall spikes in place of candles. In the dim oily light, he could make out the vague outlines of men sitting in twos and threes around the tables, heard the muttered conversations, but could no more recognize a face than see his own feet in the shadows.
A square, brawny woman deposited a flagon and two leather beakers on a table before waddling across to Raffe. Pulling his head down towards hers, she planted a generous kiss on his smooth cheek.
'Thought you'd left us,' she said reprovingly. 'You grown tired of my eel pie?'
'How could anyone grow tired of a taste of heaven?' Raffe said, throwing his arm around her plump shoulders and squeezing her.
The woman laughed, a deep, honest belly chuckle that set her pendulous breasts quivering. Raffe loved her for that.
'He's over there, your friend,' she murmured. 'Been waiting a good long while.'
Raffe nodded his thanks and crossed to the table set into a dark alcove, sliding on to the narrow bench. Even in the dirty mustard light he could recognize Talbot's broken nose and thickened ears.
Talbot looked up from the rim of his beaker and grunted. By way of greeting he pushed the half-empty flagon of ale towards Raffe. Raffe waited until the serving woman had set a large portion of eel pie in front of him and retreated out of earshot. He hadn't asked for food, no one ever needed to here. In the Fisher's Inn you ate and drank whatever was put in front of you and you paid for it too. The marsh and river were far too close for arguments, and the innkeeper was a burly man who had beaten his own father to death when he was only fourteen, so rumour had it, for taking a whip to him once too often. Opinion was divided on whether the boy or the father deserved what they suffered at each other's hands, but still no one in those parts would have dreamed of reporting the killing. And since the innkeeper's father lay rotting somewhere at the bottom of the deep, sucking bog, he wasn't in a position to complain.
Raffe leaned over the table towards Talbot. 'You sent word it was important. What's happened? They haven't arrested Elena, have they?'
'Nay, she's safe enough for now. But there's another matter needs attending to.'
He took a long, slow draught from his beaker. Raffe's heartbeat began to slow. All the way here, he'd been so afraid Talbot was bringing terrible news of Elena, but if she was still safe, then nothing else seemed of much import.
Osborn had not gone chasing off to Norwich as soon as he had returned, as Raffe had feared. In truth he'd seemed curiously unmoved by Raoul's murder, preoccupied with other concerns. And with every day that passed, it seemed less likely that the sheriff s men would discover the murderer at all.
Talbot set down his beaker and wiped his mouth on the back on his hand. 'I've had word that package you sent by ship arrived