Murder by Misrule

  ***

  Mrs. Sprye was shocked to hear of Clara's treatment at the hands of City officials.

  "That pompous, potbellied porker." She added a string of ungentle epithets concerning the undersheriff's relatives then launched into a diatribe about the audacity of men who dared to abuse respectable craftswomen, ending with a pessimistic assessment of the undersheriff's chances of reaching higher office or ever again having satisfactory relations with his wife.

  "We'll have her out in two shakes of a puppy dog's tail," she promised. Tom felt the pressure of his dread for Clara abate for the first time since she'd been lifted onto that cart.

  Mrs. Sprye outlined their plan with the snap of a seasoned general. Tom could do no more today since it was Sunday. First thing on the morrow, however, he and Trumpet were to assemble a list of necessaries that she ticked off on her fingers: bed linens, underclothes, a thick blanket, food that would keep for several days, candles, a tinderbox, and other oddments. Tom repeated each item under his breath, committing the list to memory.

  Mrs. Sprye smiled at him, crinkles softening her sharp eyes. "Don't go buying rich stuff now, my boy. They'll only steal it from her. Plain but serviceable, that's what you want."

  She herself would sit down at once and write letters to half a dozen judges, including the one responsible for gaol delivery at Newgate. Sir Avery Fogg was due at the Antelope within the hour and would be gifted with a piece of her mind. She was sure — nearly sure — that he'd had nothing to do with the writing of that warrant. If he had, by her late husband's hopes of everlasting bliss, she'd roast his feet in the fire right there in her tavern.

  Tom smiled for the first time in hours. "I love you," he told her, knowing she wouldn't take it the wrong way.