Free From the Charred Remains by Susanna Calkins Page B

voice was mild, but firm. “I need to understand this. So, there was a game of cards being played at the Cheshire Cheese?”
    Tilly rolled her eyes. “Yeah. The night of the Fire. A few hours before the bells.”
    “September first,” Duncan said, scratching something down on the paper. “So you were serving ale, I take it? Not playing? And a few people, what—three, four, five?—were playing cards at the table?”
    “’Twas four or five, though I’m not sure if they were all playing. A few others just drinking their pints, weren’t they?”
    “The items that were in the bag were—what?—the winnings?” Duncan asked. He furrowed his brow. “Someone wagered a poem? That doesn’t make sense.”
    “They were playing for what was in their pockets. The poem was wrapped up. Later, one of them opened it up and read it.” Tilly explained as if to a dullard.
    “Can you tell us anything about these men?” he asked. “Did you know them?”
    Tilly considered for a moment. “One didn’t speak English right. He was a foreigner.” Tilly hesitated. “Probably a bloody papist, wasn’t he?”
    “Foreigner?” Lucy glanced at the constable. “Did he have darker skin, and black curling hair?” At Tilly’s muttered assent, she went on. “Could he have been Persian, do you think?”
    “From Perton?” Tilly shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno about that. Staffordshire’s a while away, isn’t it? I got a niece who works at the manor there.”
    “No, she meant Persian ,” Duncan clarified. Seeing Tilly’s uncomprehending look, he tried again. “From the East?”
    Tilly yawned. “Now how would I be knowing that? He looked Italian-like, but not too, you know what I mean. I just heard him say that where he came from, the game was an- nas. Nasty, I say.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Bloody foreigners. Not taking to our English ways. What do they expect? No wonder he got himself killed.”
    “How did you know he was the one who had been killed? This foreigner?” Duncan countered. “I thought you didn’t know about ‘no dead man.’”
    Tilly shrugged again. “I just guessed. That’s all.” She rushed on. “I don’t know who killed him now, do I?”
    “Tilly, this is important,” Lucy looked sideways toward the constable. He shrugged slightly, which she took to mean he didn’t mind her asking the woman questions. “You must know something; you just don’t realize what you know. Who called him a ‘bloody papist’?”
    “Don’t remember,” Tilly said sullenly. Lucy wasn’t sure if she believed her.
    “Well, you were right about which man was killed. How did you know that?” Lucy pressed. “Did you hear something?”
    Tilly shook her head. “No, I figured it out. He was the only gent I didn’t see later. You know, when we were all mad to get out when the church bells started ringing fire.” For a moment her face took on that same dull glazed look common to those who’d suffered through the blaze. “Dreadful that was. I lost everything, except for a few meager belongings I could carry on my back.”
    “Did you know any of the other men at the table?” Lucy persisted. She had the feeling that Tilly knew more than she was saying, although she could not tell if the barmaid was withholding information on purpose or not. “Were they all strangers?”
    “Just Jack. I know him a bit.” Seeing Duncan’s waiting expression, she went on reluctantly. “He’s just an old card sharp. He’s the one who set up the game. The barkeep, Fisher, he wasn’t there. I had to do all the fetching and serving, didn’t I just? All for a meager bit of shillings. How fair is that, I ask you?” She looked under her eyelashes up at the constable.
    “Where is Fisher, do you know?” the constable asked.
    “Nah. Last I heard, he beat if off to a dock and jumped a ship there. Haven’t heard nothing more. Headed to the New World, for all I know. Would be like him, wouldn’t it just?”
    “What about the