The Gentleman and the Thief

by Sarah M. Eden

  “What is it you’re thinking through?” Fletcher asked, popping his fists into fighting position.

  Hollis did the same. “According to the servants’ grapevine, Alistair Headley’s spending time in Lambeth.”

  The entire room seemed to pause. Even Stone, who was already perfectly still, somehow became even more still.

  “Why Lambeth?” Brogan asked. “Does he consider purgatory too safe and uplifting a place?”

  Brogan and his sister frequented London’s poor and crime-riddled areas like Lambeth, helping those who needed it, offering hope to those without.

  “What madness would send Headley to that corner of Town?” Fletcher wondered.

  “Gambling,” Stone said.

  Hollis circled Fletcher, wanting to blow off a bit of steam. “That’s the prevailing theory. And I’m hearing he’s still seen about with Four-Finger Mike.”

  An uppercut from Fletcher preceded his answer. “Seems the police oughtta be following Headley around in their search for that fugitive.”

  Hollis raised his fists to better protect his face. “Following him, though, means they’d be following Randolph.”

  Fletcher jabbed. “Your brother ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

  “But is he stupid enough to be wandering down to Lambeth?” Brogan pressed.

  Hollis swung and dodged. “Blimey, I hope not.”

  Fletcher landed a fist on Hollis’s left shoulder, sending him reeling back but not sprawling on the ground. “I’ll see if any of my urchins know Headley’s activities and if Randolph’s been seen about with him.”

  Fletcher jabbed again but missed. Hollis swung before he could resume his protective stance and managed to land a solid jab.

  Stone nodded his slow and rare approval.

  In the next instant, Kumar stepped through the door. “Our little sneak thief’s been spotted.”

  “The wee girl?” Brogan asked.

  Kumar nodded. “She’s in Pimlico.”

  “Which part?” Fletcher asked.

  “St. George’s Road.”

  “We’ll let you know what we find, Hollis.” Fletcher grinned before snatching up a towel and mopping the sweat from his face, neck, and chest.

  “I can do more than saunter around being decorative,” Hollis said, cleaning up as well.

  Fletcher gave him a look of amused doubt. “You do dance a fine quadrille.”

  “Shove off.”

  “This baby girl’s quick.” Stone moved with determined step to the door. “We don’t have time for your chest thumpin’.”

  The man had a point. They’d been trying to sweep up the Phantom Fox for weeks. The authorities weren’t likely to show the kindercriminal any mercy, but the Dreadfuls knew too much of the desperation of street children to think she needed anything but compassion, especially since, half the time, she didn’t steal anything of any actual value.

  Stone led the way to the Costume Chamber, a room with wall-to-wall wardrobes each filled with clothing in near-countless varieties, designed to be used in whatever scenario the Dreadfuls might find themselves. Brogan—the Dreadful with the most experience in disguises—crossed directly to the tall, pale oak wardrobe that held clothing fit for tradesmen.

  “Not the all-black collection?” Fletcher asked.

  “’Tisn’t night, lad. We’d stick out like fish on an apple cart.”

  They changed quickly before exiting out the back of the building. The tradespeople they were meant to be wouldn’t come in and out the front. Obtaining a hack was out of character for their roles, but they hadn’t time to walk all the way to Pimlico.

  “This little one’s jumpy as a cricket in a chicken coop,” Fletcher reminded them as they rode toward their destination. “We tread swiftly but lightly. And we likely need to corner her.”

  “We don’t hold the child against her will.” Stone spoke firmly. None of them would have argued with him on that score, but his tone made certain they didn’t even think about it.

  The hackney driver let them down a couple of streets away from St. George’s in order to not draw too much attention. In addition to his actual fee, Fletcher tossed him a penny. This was one of their informants, then. That’d make things even safer.

  “Which house is our baby bandit likely to’ve set her sights on?” Brogan asked.

  Of the five of them—Stone, Brogan, Kumar, Hollis, and Fletcher—only Fletch would know the answer from experience. “The quietest. Thievery in broad daylight is risky. She’ll pick a house with fewer people.”

  “Any idea which house that would be?” Stone asked Hollis. He, after all, was more likely to know the homes of the wealthy.

  He shook his head. “I’m not as familiar with Pimlico. It’s a shame Miss Newport’s not with us. She grew up in this area.”

  “Wouldn’t she be confused to see the lot of us now?” Brogan laughed.

  “Divide up,” Fletcher said. “All of us eyeing houses together ain’t likely to go unnoticed.”

  Brogan and Kumar headed to one side of the road. Fletcher, Hollis, and Stone walked down the other. None of the houses seemed overflowing with activity, but none seemed empty.

  “Wait.” Hollis held up a hand. “This one’s knocker’s down.” A sure sign the resident family was gone from Town. “There’d be a bare-bones staff.”

  “The house wouldn’t’ve been purged, though.” Fletcher nodded. “Our little girl’d likely realize that.”

  “An easy target for the Phantom Fox.” Hollis motioned them to the iron gate that opened to the steps leading down to the servants’ front entrance. The road was empty, but still they stepped with the confidence of tradesmen who’d identified the house they were meant to call at. Few people would think twice about them being there if they looked like they had a purpose.

  The doorway was dim, tucked in the corner of the belowground-level alcove, but it was lit enough for evaluating the state of things. The glass in the door was dingy. The ground beneath their feet was covered in old, brown leaves, cobwebs, and small branches probably blown in during a storm, though there’d not been one recently. This was not an entrance that’d been used recently. If there was a housekeeper in residence, it’d never have reached this state of untidiness.

  “I think we have an empty house, blokes.” Hollis looked through the smudged and dirty glass, searching for any sign of light beyond. “I’d guess not even servants.”

  “Baby girl wouldn’t pass this up.” Fletcher reached into the pocket of his outercoat. A less-than-polite word escaped. “Forgot to move my lock-picking kit into these clothes when I changed.”

  Hollis squatted in front of the door and pulled out his kit. He slipped the hook of his torsion wrench into the lock, carefully adjusting its position to create the right amount of tension.

  “Didn’t know you picked locks,” Stone said.

  “I don’t ‘quadrille’ at them,” Hollis said with a dry look in Fletcher’s direction.

  “That’d be fun to watch, though.”

  “Shove off,” he said again, but this time with a laugh.

  Fletcher sometimes drove him mad, but they were good friends. Probably the best of friends.

  With a bit of effort and a few other necessary tools, Hollis manipulated the lock until it slid open. “Genn’lmen.” He waved them inside.

  “Impressive work,” Fletcher said as he passed.

  Stone didn’t speak but eyed Hollis with curiosity. Did none of them believe he had any useful skills beyond scraping and bowing and speaking properly? How shocked they’d all be if they knew he’d gambled his way through school.

  The corridor they stepped into was dark, with not a person in sight. They passed what appeared to be the butler’s room and then the housekeeper’s room, both empty. The wine cellar, farther down the long, unwinding corridor, was vacant
as well. The servants’ hall still had its long table and benches, but neither appeared to have been used recently.

  “Are we sure this house ain’t abandoned?” Fletcher kept his voice to a whisper.

  “Ain’t in disrepair,” Stone said. “Looks fine as anything from the street.”

  “I side with Stone on this,” Hollis said. “The house isn’t abandoned, but something is decidedly odd here.”

  They continued forward, approaching the kitchen or butler’s pantry, when something moved, the sound reminding Hollis of a chair leg scraping a flagstone floor.

  “Our baby burglar?” Fletcher whispered.

  “Or someone belonging to this house we’ve broken into,” Hollis said.

  They tucked themselves around a corner into a small area, one that had likely held household supplies at some point. It was now, unsurprisingly, empty.

  The shuffle of quick, tiny feet broke the silence of the house. Their little thief. They tucked themselves up against the wall and deeper into the shadows.

  Almost silently, Stone said, “Fletcher, slip out and head her off. I’ll go behind. Hollis, guard doors.”

  They nodded their agreement. Fletcher moved without the slightest sound into the dim corridor.

  A heartbreakingly tiny silhouette moved past the doorway. Stone slid out as quiet as a breeze. Hollis stepped into the doorway. He could see the girl, frozen in place, staring at Fletcher. They’d guessed, based on reports from Fletcher’s urchins and brief glimpses by a few Dreadfuls, that she was perhaps nine years old. Seeing her now, Hollis guessed she was closer to seven. The poor, tiny little robin. How desperate would she have to be to undertake this work at so tender an age?

  “You’ll be in the frying pan, sprout, if you’re caught here,” Fletcher said. “Quite a risk, quid fishing the Quality. They ain’t so forgiving.”

  Hollis might have objected to the description, but he knew it to be true.

  The girl spun, intent on heading back in the direction she’d come, only to stop in front of Stone. Her breath shook audibly.

  “We ain’t gonna hurt you, love,” Hollis said gently. “The police’re sniffing you out. We’re hoping only to snatch you out of their grasp.”

  “An’ into yours,” she snapped, her voice fragile but fiery.

  “Not a bit o’ it,” he said. “We know of a school that’d take you in sure as you’re breathing. You could learn to be a shop girl or a servant. Somethin’ other than thieving and sleeping on the street.”

  “I don’t have no choice,” she said. “The man what comes for my loot’ll never let me go.”

  She had a thief master, then. That was hardly unheard of.

  “We ain’t meaning to ask his permission, sweetie,” Fletcher said.

  “He’ll kill me. I know it.” Not a bit of exaggeration touched the words. Hollis had learned enough of the plight of street children to know she was in earnest. And accurate.

  “He’ll not know where to find you, love.” Hollis affected an accent more in keeping with hers and Fletcher’s. “This school’ll tuck you away, keep you there ’til you’re safe to take up work.”

  “Would they—” She stopped at the sudden sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

  They all held still.

  “We’d best cut and run,” Fletcher said. “Come along, sweetie. You’ll be boiled in brine if you’re caught here.”

  Hollis didn’t for a minute think the girl had decided to actually trust them; she simply realized the danger of remaining.

  The four of them moved quickly back down the deserted corridor toward the tradesman’s door. Fletcher scooped the girl up, quickening his pace. They were out the door, closing it quickly but quietly behind them, and up the steps, through the iron gate, and around the corner before another word passed between them.

  “Now, sweetie. What was it you meant to ask before we were interrupted?” Fletcher had a way with the children of London. Even this skittish child didn’t try to squirm out of his hold, neither did she look scared.

  “I wondered, sir, if they’d have a place I could sleep at their school. The man’ll find me if I’m sleeping on the street. I don’t want to keep smouging for him. But if he can find me—”

  Fletcher squeezed the girl more tightly as they walked on. “I know what he’d do iffen he found you, sweetie. I’ll not let him. None of us will.”

  The little girl looked over his shoulder at Hollis and Stone. Her gaze didn’t waste much time on him. Stone had every ounce of her curiosity.

  “What’s your name, love?” Hollis asked. She had to be called something other than the Phantom Fox.

  “Very Merry.”

  Very Merry? He’d discovered during his years with the Dreadfuls that the London children often had odd names, names they’d given each other. This little sprite had two.

  “Never fear, Very Merry,” Fletcher said. “The school’ll take you in, give you a bed, keep you away from that man, and teach you a job.”

  “Could I—?” She stopped, her tiny-girl face pulled in a look of contemplation. “When I’m taught enough to have a job, would I ’ave to stay in London?”

  “When you’ve had all the learning you need,” Fletcher said, “I’ll find you a job anywhere in this country you’d care to go.”

  Her look of doubt was nearly sassy. “How’ll you even know I’ve finished getting all m’ learning?”

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a marked penny. “You keep this on you, sweetie. I’ll tell you who at the school can get messages to me. You need only show ’em this penny, and they’ll come for me straight off.”

  She held the penny, her eyes wide. A child this poor, this desperate might very well spend the penny, too deprived for patience.

  Hollis pulled a farthing from his pocket and held it to her. “This one’s for spending, love. But the school’ll see to it you’re fed and warm and all. You’ll likely not even need it.”

  She held the two coins, breathless with amazement. Her eyes moved to Stone, hopeful.

  Hollis had never heard the man laugh, but he did then, quiet and low. He pulled a coin from his pocket and held it out to her. Very Merry smiled at him.

  The girl would receive a helpful education, which pleased Hollis to no end.

  She was being given an escape from the cruelty of the streets, which would do Fletcher’s heart a world of good.

  And she would be free of the thief master who’d forced her into this dangerous and degrading existence, which would satisfy Stone to his very soul.

  The Dreadfuls didn’t always have good days. But, sometimes, they had nearly perfect ones.

  by Lafayette Jones

  Chapter II

  “Blimey!” Snout declared over Ace’s shoulder. “It’s a Perishable.”

  “What’s it doing here?” Bathwater asked.

  Ace shrugged. “Beats me. I’ve never heard of a living person being at Higglebottom’s.” He eyed the terrified face under the bed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was caught in a storm,” the boy said. “I came inside to get out of the rain.”

  “It hasn’t rained since yesterday.”

  The boy rested his chin on his upturned fist. “I know.”

  “You’ve just been hiding?”

  The boy’s eyes darted around. “This place is full of ghosts.”

  Ace rested his ghostly chin on his ghostly fist, his position mirroring that of the boy’s. “I know.”

  “Are you going to eat me?” the boy asked.

  “Ghosts don’t eat.”

  “Lock me up somewhere?”

  Bathwater dropped onto the ground beside him, stopping his movement at the moment his spectral form would’ve stopped if he had a body. “Why didn’t you just leave after the storm ended?”

  The boy took a
deep breath, something else ghosts didn’t have to do but practiced as a way of either blending in or causing distress, whichever was needed. “I’ve nowhere to go.”

  “You don’t have a family?” Bathwater asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  “A school of your own?” Snout asked.

  Another headshake.

  “A name?” Ace dropped in dryly.

  “Frank,” he said.

  “Ace, Bathwater, Snout, and Frank?” Ace would have rolled his eyes if he’d learned the trick of it yet. Ghost bodies didn’t work quite the same way Perishable bodies did. “You’ll need a better name.”

  “Does that mean we’re keeping him?” Snout asked.

  “Where else is he going to go?” Ace motioned the boy out from under the bed. “No point hiding anymore.”

  “We should probably tell someone,” Bathwater said. “We’re only First Forms. We don’t know what to do about something this big.”

  That was a temptation no ghost with ambition could pass up. Ace grinned. “Then let’s be the only First Forms in the history of Higglebottom’s to manage a prank this big.”

  Bathwater hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then both he and Snout turned to him eagerly. They were the best partners in crime a fellow could ask for.

  Ace spoke to their newest arrival. “Would you like to stay at Higglebottom’s, Frank?” Frank. He really needed a better name.

  Frank nodded.

  “That’s our challenge, lads. We’re going to pass off this Perishable as a ghost.”

  “To the professors, even?”

  Ace nodded. “It wouldn’t be much of a prank if we didn’t pull the wool over anyone’s eyes.”

  Bathwater circled Frank, eyeing him. “No one’ll believe he’s dead. He doesn’t look it.”

  “Because I’m not,” Frank tossed back.

  “We can teach you to play the part,” Ace said. “Learning how to be a ghost is what we’re all here for anyway.”

  “You don’t know how?” Frank asked.

  “It ain’t something you die knowing,” Ace said.