Chapter 2

After sleeping on the matter, it was clear there was only one thing to do about the thief’s cave. He took the news to the magistrate who naturally insisted upon seeing it himself. And dragging everyone along who had items stolen. A rather surly mob, if Philip’s opinion counted for anything, which did not seem to be the case.

The magistrate, Mr. Sinclair, a lean man with a potbelly that seemed out of keeping with the rest of his frame, thin glasses perched on his nose, and an empty sack slung on his shoulder, strode wordlessly beside Philip, through the dark woods near the cave. A large brindle minor drake, called Gingernuts, kept pace beside him. The top of her head, with its sharp pointed ears, stood waist high to Philip. With wide taloned paws, powerful legs, and a large toothy maw, she was not a dragon to be meddled with.

The dragon-deaf among them were persuaded that Gingernuts was simply a large German boarhound, which tended to keep them at a reasonable distance from her. Just as well, all told. Gingernuts was not fond of those who could not hear dragons and was happy for them to keep back from her. She did have a fondness for Philip though, which both Mr. Lorry and Mr. Batton found irritating, something Philip enjoyed far more than he should. Why should the ‘dog’ prefer a cottager to a gentleman and a professional? Neither Philip nor Mr. Sinclair would ever explain the truth.

“The cave isn’t far.” Philip pointed to the clearing lit by the late morning sun. “Just up that hill.”

“Get the torches ready.” Mr. Sinclair looked over his shoulder and waved at a pair of men at the back of the crowd.

Tromping through the deep woods, Philip listened to the hushed mutterings of the crowd, the ones they clearly assumed him unable to hear. Apparently, the racing high-flyer that forced them off the road had indeed overturned as it approached Winscombe proper, injuring both driver and passenger rather seriously. The horses, though, remained unscathed. Good for them; no creature deserved to be injured because they were driven by idiots.

That was not the only story circulating among the crowd, though. More than one person suggested the one to blame for the thefts might be among them. A cold sliver of fear settled into Philip’s chest, just between his lungs, making every breath sharp and jagged.

Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Where is the cave entrance, Philip?” Mr. Sinclair asked with a pointed stare, voice sharpened with just the barest edge of accusation.

“Follow me.”

Gingernuts trotted up to him. “Lead on. I have already told him you do not smell like a liar.” She bumped her head against his leg, and he scratched behind her ear. She was a good sort of dragon, kind and even a bit thoughtful, in her own way. Having her trust meant a great deal.

Drawing a deep breath to settle his unruly innards, he climbed the hill slowly—for the benefit of the older men and two women in the group. No use in making them any more frustrated than they already were.

Philip and Gingernuts stopped at the cave entrance.

The torch bearers joined them, with Mr. Sinclair just behind. “Show us the hiding place.” He turned to the crowd. “We will bring out the goods and each of you will have an opportunity to identify what is yours. Mr. Marley will make note of the proceedings.”

Mr. Marley, the magistrate’s secretary, a short round little man with a pock-marked face and a hint of a limp, came forward out of the crowd, a pencil and notebook in his hands, eyeing Philip as though he already knew who the light-fingered nibbler was.

“Lead on, Philip.” Mr. Sinclair pointed into the cave.

Best not look at the crowd. Philip kept his back to them and made his way into the cave. Gingernuts snuffled the ground beside him as they walked, muttering and grumbling under her breath. She turned back to Sinclair, reared up to place her paws on his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“Just a dog licking her master’s face.” Her loud, persuasive voice rasped painfully against Philip’s skull. No dragon hearer escaped discomfort when a dragon used its persuasive voice in their hearing. She whispered something about ‘smells’ and ‘thief’ to Sinclair, but Philip could not make out exactly what it was.

“There, behind that odd rock.” Philip pointed at the lumpy knee-high pillar standing straight up from the floor.

One of the torchbearers crouched beside the little column and squinted at the wall. “Sure enough, I see it there. Would never have found it if you didn’t point it out.” He handed the torch to Sinclair.

“Butterbelle’s rope got wedged between that rock and the wall. I found it trying to get her free.” If only his own voice did not sound so defensive.

Mr. Sinclair laid a hand on his shoulder, half-compassion, half-warning. He handed the sack to the other torch bearer. “Let us see what we have got. Have at it, boys.”

With all the glee of a treasure hunt, the two men chattered and snorted as they filled Mr. Sinclair’s bag. Just how many items were in that crevice? Murmurs in the crowd increased with the clatter of items added to the bag, dangerous, possibly even deadly, sounds.

If this ended badly—

“That’s the lot of them, Magistrate.” The torchbearer dusted his hands and took the torch back from Mr. Sinclair.

“Outside with you, then, and we will see what we have.” Mr. Sinclair led them out.

Philip, with Gingernuts close beside as though she were his guard of sorts, lingered at the cave entrance as the recovered items were laid out on the bare, rocky ground in front of Mr. Sinclair. Was she protecting him from the disgruntled crowd or preventing him from escaping them?

Mr. Marley took hasty notes on the items, a bead of sweat forming on his upper lip as his forehead wrinkled into a scowl. He glanced over his shoulder to glower at Philip.

“Ladies, you come first. Touch nothing, yet, but tell Mr. Marley if you recognize any of these items.”

An older woman, Mrs. Arnold, wiry and sharp in her fashionable gown, strode up to the items and peered at them. “That’s my chatelaine. The fan belongs to Mrs. Burgess, and I believe those buttons came from the modiste shop, destined for Mrs. Fry’s new pelisse.”

How did she know so much about other people’s things?

“Take note of that, Marley.”

The other woman and an old man, Mr. Cotton, identified several more objects.

The red twins—Randolph and Rudolf Ryan—swaggered up, scowling at Philip as they stopped beside Mr. Marley. “Them glasses are ma’s. And I’d like to know just how you, young Philip, came to be finding these things when no one else has.”

Philip’s face when cold. Gingernuts growled softly.

“It be awfully suspicious to me that you should be finding thems, all things considered.” Randolph, or perhaps it was Rudolf, thumbed the edge of his coat, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“It do make one wonder.” Another voice in the crowd called.

Gingernuts nudged Philip forward. “Look there,” she whispered, pointing with her front foot to the pile.

“Why, that’s Mama’s missing scotch hands, the good sycamore ones! She’s been beating the butter with her old wooden ones for weeks now!” Philip exclaimed, restraining the urge to retrieve his property.

“That don’t prove nothin’.” Another man, missing most of the dirty blonde hair on the top of his head and a front tooth, stepped forward. “He could have planted those to make it look like it weren’t him.”

“How else would he have found this place if he didn’t know it were here?” Another called, the tone of the crowd turning darker, angrier, with each passing comment.

“It was not him, and you know it.” Gingernuts called persuasively, scratching at the dirt as she stared into the crowd. “Come out and say so. You don’t need an innocent scapegoat shouldering blame.”

“My snuffbox went missing during the last market day.” Mr. Lorry stepped forward, though he looked a bit perplexed at his own statement.

“So did my walking stick handle.” Mr. Batton joined Mr. Lorry. “Young Philip was at the market all day. All of us saw him there, like he is every market day.” Interesting, that meant he had lied to Mama about the walking stick. The local surgeon was a liar. Wonderful.

“How many of you lost your items on market day?” Mr. Sinclair asked, with a quick glance at Gingernuts, who nodded. Nearly all hands went up. “Did any of you see Philip leave his stall at the dairy-market corner during the day? See him anywhere else?”

Low murmurings swelled into consensus. “No.”

“Then he cannot be the thief.” Mr. Sinclair folded his arms over his chest, with a very severe look.

“He is not and all of you know that. You should be ashamed for accusing him.”

Several people looked aside as though embarrassed, as others snorted a grudging assent.

“He deserves a reward for his honesty and effort.”

Philip gasped and goggled wide-eyed at Gingernuts. He lifted an open hand and shook his head.

“You do. You were far more honest than many would have been. The Blue Order appreciates that sort of thing,” Gingernuts whispered.

“What has the Order to do with this?”

“Never you mind.” Gingernuts bumped his leg with her nose as though she were insisting on being petted, so he scratched behind her ears.

“He is our neighbor and our friend and we know him better than this.” Mr. Batton said, with a slightly surprised look on his face. “We should reward him for it, not suspect him of being a common thief.”

“All of you agree.”

Mr. Sinclair glanced back at Philip and Gingernuts with a single nod. He agreed? Of all people, the magistrate agreed?

“Yes, a reward is in order.” Mr. Lorry reached into his pocket and drew out his purse.

One by one, each and every member of the crowd came forward and pressed a coin into Philip’s hand and offered him a kind word and well wishes for his mother.

Beside him, Gingernuts pressed against his leg, her broad tail sweeping the bare limestone. “Much better. It is a good thing when warm-blooded hotheads will listen to sense and reason.”

Mr. Sinclair leaned close to his ear. “The Blue Order takes care of its own, remember that, son.”

An hour ago, Philip would have sworn that wasn’t true, but just maybe, Mr. Sinclair was right.