“How dare you?” he cried. “That was invaluable! That was mine!” Darting forward, he rummaged on the tabletop and drew out an enormous flintlock pistol, rusted, cumbersome, with hammers raised. He pointed the gun at me. A polite cough sounded beside us. I looked up; Joplin turned. Anthony Lockwood stood there. He was covered in grave dust, and there were cobwebs on his collar and in his hair. His trousers were torn at the knees, his fingers bleeding. He’d looked neater in his time, but I can’t say he’d ever looked better to me. He held his rapier casually in one hand.
