He wanted to buy somebody—anybody, everybody—a celebratory drink, but the only creature stirring was a bleary-eyed maid. “Is Bartlow about?” George asked her. “In the back, making coffee,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. “He’ll have a sore head though, so you’d best not shout.” She scurried off toward the kitchen, while George hung his greatcoat on a peg and stepped around behind the bar. “Mornin’, Master George,” Bartlow said, emerging from the kitchen with a towel over his shoulder. “What can I do for ye?” He was a good-sized wheat-blond fellow with a full complement of the publican’s good cheer, usually, but this morning Bartlow was moving slowly and speaking softly. “I’m in search of Edward Nash,” George said. “Where do you keep your cinnamon, Bartlow? I mean to stand Mr. Nash to a toddy or two.” The fixings were at hand, all but for the spices. Bartlow took up a stool while George stirred together enough spirits for two drinks. “You don’t want to be disturbin’ Mr.
