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take care of Timothy’s killer, Evan had to discover the rotter’s identity.
    There was no chance of talking with the captain before midnight Friday when he arrived to give final orders to the crew. Red, however, was a more predictable sort. If he wasn’t on the sea, he was in the nearest tavern. Evan headed to the gang-board sloping down to the rocky cave floor. After casting a final dark glance toward the frustratingly vacant wardroom, he disembarked the abandoned ship and strode back to Bournemouth.
    At nine o’ clock in the morning, the Shark’s Tooth boasted half a dozen sundry customers in its rank, ill-lit interior.
    Two of the town’s drunkest inhabitants sat beside a barmaid who’d collapsed face-first onto a dirty round table. A flash of white at another man’s throat indicated the town priest sipped his usual whiskey in the far corner.
    The local magistrate leaned against the counter, murmuring to the barman. Probably trying to convince Sully not to open until noon from now on, so as to curb public drunkenness. God, how Evan hated self-righteous toadies who felt compelled to uphold the letter of the law. The magistrate was one of the worst.
    Since Red wasn’t part of this morning’s mix, Evan would’ve turned around and left right then, had Sully not taken that moment to glance up and catch sight of him.
    “Bothwick! Did you br—would you like a whiskey?”
    Evan cringed inwardly. Drunken half-wit had been about to ask if Evan had brought him a new supply of smuggled French brandy. Right in front of the magistrate. Christ. Sully’d get them both hung for treason.
    “Got my own.” Evan patted his chest where spare bullets, not a flask, filled his inside breast pocket.
    The magistrate’s focus remained on the bottles behind the bar.
    “Good Lord.” Sully leaned halfway over the counter. “What the hell happened to you?”
    Sully’s blurted words caused the magistrate to slowly turn around. Evan gritted his teeth but otherwise kept his expression impassive.
    Gordon Forrester’s holier-than-thou gaze took in Evan’s sand-specked hair, salt-starched greatcoat, and stockingless legs. He was no doubt wracking his brain to think of a way to turn excessive dishabille into a gaol-worthy offense.
    “Fell off a pier.” Evan flashed Forrester a you-can’t-touch-me smile and settled atop a barstool. “Seen Red lately?”
    “Nah.” Sully poured himself a whiskey. “Been about a week. Don’t know where that good-for-nothing disappears to. Seems every time there’s a new moon, he up and—”
    “Maybe he’s a werewolf,” Evan interrupted. Lord have mercy. How had Sully not realized Red was part of Evan’s crew, and therefore his actions ought to be secret from the magistrate? “Changed my mind. Give me one of those whiskeys.” He turned toward Forrester. “How about you, Judge? Buy you a drink?”
    The magistrate pushed away from the bar with a shake of his head. “Disgusting habit.”
    Of course it was. That’s why Evan liked it. He downed his whiskey in one gulp.
    Forrester stood and watched for one long, uncomfortable moment before tipping his hat at Sully and sauntering out the door.
    “What bee’s in his bonnet today?” Evan asked, shoving his empty tumbler toward Sully. The smudged glass stuck to his fingers.
    “Dunno. You’re the one what chased him off.”
    Evan shrugged. “No bigger killjoy at a bar than a teetotaler. Why come in here if he’s not going to drink?”
    “Ain’t the only one not drinking today.” Sully jerked his head toward the rear of the tavern. “New gel’s a peach to look at but hasn’t spent a farthing.”
    Since when did any Bournemouth establishment have new customers?
    Evan turned to take a closer look at what he’d thought was a barmaid passed out on a corner table. The light was too dim to make out much more than her silhouette, but he’d bet a barge full of French brandy he knew the identity of the mystery woman.
    “Why have you been plying