Chirk looked at him with narrowed, searching eyes. “What’s in your mind?” he asked abruptly.
“Who is the man who visits Brean secretly, after dark? The man Ben is afraid of?”
Chirk pushed his chair back from the table. “What’s this? Trying to gammon me, gov’nor? You’ll catch cold at that!”
“No, it’s the sober truth. That’s what had Ben in such a sweat of fear, the night I came to this place. Some stranger he’s never seen, nor been allowed to see. Brean pitched him a Canterbury tale to keep him from spying on the pair of them: told him if this mysterious visitor saw him he’d send him to work in the pits. If a tree so much as rustled out there—” he jerked his head towards the back-door—“the boy turned green with fear.”
“Sounds to me like a bag o’ moonshine!” said Chirk incredulously. “Why, he went off, happy as a grig, to put Mollie through her tricks! He’s not scared!”
“Oh, not now! I told him no one could harm him while I was here, and he believed me.”
A gleam of humour lit Chirk’s eyes, as they ran over his host. “I should think he might,” he agreed. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Wonder why the bantling never said a word to me about it? Him and me’s good friends, and he tells me most things. Ned’s a hard man, like I said, and he’s not one to take notice of brats, even when they’re of his own get. A monkey’s allowance is what he gives Ben: more kicks than ha’pence!”
“How long is it since you were here last?” John asked.
“Matter of three weeks.”
“I’ve a shrewd suspicion it’s happened since then. A pity! I had hoped you might know something. I’ve a notion there’s something devilish queer afoot here, but what it is, or how Brean came to be mixed up in it—if he is—I can’t guess. I shouldn’t think it could be what you call pound dealing, however: this visitor of his seems to be uncommonly anxious he shan’t be seen, or recognized.”