‘I am not a murderer. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. ’ ‘I do not think so,’ Melusine agreed, still puzzled. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table.
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