by Edith Layton
There he stood in the crowd, wanting a look, not wanting one, jumping up and staring down, trying to see and not see John on his cart as they drove him to Tyburn Hill. John, sitting on his empty coffin in the rocking cart, knowing he’d soon be borne back dead in it—and sobbing, sobbing like a babe.
It was a pitiful show, and some in the crowd cursed him for it. No stirring final declaration for the vendors to print up and sell. No show of defiance to titillate the crowd, no cursing, no vengeance sworn to make them shiver either. He just sat, long hands dangling useless between his bony knees, tears streaming down his face because it was his last hour and he so wanted to live.
“Poor soul,” a woman had murmured near Will’s ear. And he’d wanted to shout, No! Don’t just sit and blubber, John. No, don’t hang him. No! and don’t, and caught between dismay and disdain and secret burning shame, he’d watched them bear John away to the scaffold. He’d resolved to stand close so he could leap up and hang on John’s legs if he began choking, so he could have his neck snapped and die clean and easy. But he stood far away and there was some mercy in it. Because John died fast and silent—he saw that at least before he crept away that day.
Will rolled his shoulders, shedding the memory. He hadn’t so easily then. A year passed, and he was still careful, watchful and worried. He thought long and hard about John’s fate, because John had been the cleverest man he knew. So when the runner came to him one day to ask him to lay information about some other boy, he’d snarled his refusal…but struck up a conversation with the man anyway.
The runner wasn’t the one who had done for John—Will had already seen to him, one night when the moon was low and there were so many other boys about no one ever knew who’d done for him, in turn. This runner was pleased at the interest shown, and more fortunately, he was at that age, and in that boozy, wistful frame of mind when a man needed to justify himself, even to a boy. He gave Will much to think about.
A runner made money off other’s backs, just like a pimp, to be sure. But there were villains and there were villains, and didn’t he know that firsthand? Of course a runner’s stipend was meager, but rewards posted for crimes solved could make a man comfortable, and were he clever, then even better than that. And wasn’t he clever? More than that, wasn’t a thief-taker about as far from the hangman as a man could get, without being born to a Duke?
This time it took more than a year to equal his mentor, because of his youth. But Will went from apprentice, to taking a share of rewards, to runner himself, and then to a runner well known and well feared, and with good reason. He was not sentimental. It was a hard life and he meant to stay in it. And profit from it. So if it transpired that the speckled widow was responsible for the dead man on her doorstep he’d see her to the gallows. He’d even cheer as they topped her himself if the Viscount Maldon put his hand deep enough in his pocket. There were ways to insure him doing that too.
But first he had to get a scent of the way of it. Even the best criminal always left some sort of a trail. And Will doubted the widow was one of the best. Still, there were other paths to sniff along first. A hunter with only one thought in his head might catch his quarry faster, but it might be the wrong game he brought down.
Spanish Will had a long way to go before he slept tonight. He kept his eyes open, but hunched his broad shoulders, ducked his nose into his scarf, and marched onward. There was no heat in his body now and none in his loins, though that was an omnipresent itch. He knew many cheerful warm willing females who’d gladly share a bed with him of a frosty night. He thought about it to the point that he could feel a reluctant response—that he killed by thinking of the aftermath. He never took a female to his rooms, nor ever spent a whole night with one, and it looked to snow throughout the night. Which meant that when he rose and dressed after, he’d have to walk home in the cold. It was too frigid for such an expenditure of heat; the thought shriveled him. And so with all his appetite, he thought he could do without tonight. But some things he couldn’t.
He stopped to buy a meat pasty at a shop about to close, so it cost half as much as it would have an hour before. The pasty was rich and hot and full of spicy gravy. He ate it quickly as he walked, because the night was trying to freeze it before he could finish it. No sooner had he swallowed the last bite than thirst set in. He thought after he’d done with this errand he might stop in at The Brown Bear, near his lodgings, it being the tavern runners frequented, and have a pint and some gossip there. But that too meant warming up and tramping home cold again. No. Getting old, he decided, laughing to himself at the thought, flexing his shoulders, feeling the muscles bunch, feeling the power humming through his body. But even so, so he was old, because three and thirty was older than he’d ever thought to be.
He longed for his bed, and groaned at the thought of the walk still ahead, because he had to veer farther east and south to reach his destination, and all of that before he finally headed west again to get to his own front door. But something he’d heard said was niggling at him and wouldn’t let him rest yet. Something he couldn’t investigate before because he didn’t want the influential, fastidious viscount knowing about it, in any way. Unless it was the only way to get the reward, of course.
Will picked up his pace, taking detours down dark streets few men would have walked unless they were simple minded, truly lost, very drunk or deranged. Or else, a runner, with a name that ran in front of him, even on such a frigid night.
He reached the dark street in due time, and stood straight, so those watching from the alleys would see his face.
“You,” the man said when he unbarred the door Will hammered on, and cracked it open. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“A question, or two,” Will said, standing still as a standing stone as the snow covered his shoulders.
“Then, come in.” The door creaked open slowly, reluctantly.
“No. Come out.”
“In this? Are you mad? It’s pissing down snow!”
“So it is. But why should I get warm only to get cold again? I’d have a word with you here.”
“Hold on a moment,” the man said after a pause. They both knew the game now. A cold man alone in the night with a runner was a man more likely to talk faster, and maybe less wisely, than a man snug in his own warm house. “There now,” the man said, emerging quickly, with a greatcoat flung over his shoulders. “What can’t wait, then?”
“About that corpse on the fishwife’s doorstep.”
“Oh! I might have known,” the man sighed. He was middle-aged and corpulent, with an accent from a better district than his. But all knew he’d been born and educated to more and had worked his way down to less. “A waste,” he said with a shrug. “You think he was mine? I am not so wasteful, Mr. Corby.”
“Not usually,” Will agreed, “but if someone was coming along the street unexpected? He might have been dropped when someone decided to cut and run.”
“No. At least not one of my men, Mr. Corby; they’re neat and discreet about their work. I’m surprised you even thought it.”
“He was naked.”
The man laughed, richly. “Oh but that should have told you. We do not transport the naked, Mr. Corby. Now, if you’d seen three men reeling down the street, one so drunk two had to hold him up—why then, it could have been one of ours. Or if a carriage stopped, and you peeped inside and saw a fellow dead to the world, with his head on another fellow’s shoulder, but it was only poor old Uncle Jack sleeping—or so you would be assured—why then, that could be us too. But we’d never move a naked man, never.”
He shifted his feet; he was wearing slippers. It was snowing hard and deadly cold, but Will didn’t move, more and more he seemed a man of ice. His voice was colder now too. “Dead men have been known to be stripped naked. So it don’t rule you out. He may have been dropped, even so. I’d like to know.”
“It wasn’t my coves,” the man said quickly. “My word on it. I wasn’t even expecting a delivery Friday, nor Sa
turday morning.”
Will said nothing. The silence grew. “Frightful weather, cuts down on everyone’s business,” the man said, to say something, shifting his feet again.
“I’d think you’d have more trade out of it,” Will finally said.
“Ah,” the man said with an almost audible sigh of relief because it seemed the runner was inclined to small talk now. “Well, I didn’t say they weren’t dropping, for they are, of course. It’s just harder to…resurrect them.”
“Graveyards frozen too, eh? Too bad.”
“Oh yes, and so…” the man lowered his voice, “if no one claims the poor fellow, and you didn’t want the trouble of trying to take a pick ax to Potter’s Field, there’s always another alternative. We don’t enjoy setting pick to earth in this weather either. So the price would be right, better than right this time, I promise you.”
So, rumor hadn’t got here yet, and the wily doctor didn’t know the corpse was already spoken for, Will thought with pleasure. “Early days,” he said. “By the time we’re done, he may be too far gone even for you.”
“Hardly. The weather may be a blessing in this case. Just do remember me, Mr. Corby.”
Will touched the brim of his hat. “I will, Dr. G. That I will.”
Now it was time to go home. He’d done all he could this night. He hadn’t learned much, but what he had pleased him. The field of suspects was narrowing, not grower wider, which was so often, so annoyingly the case at this stage of the game.
It could have been a random misadventure, Will mused as he headed west again. The baron could have simply been in the wrong place at the right time and been killed by mistake, or killed for his wealth, stripped of all the worldly possessions he had on him, and then dumped in sudden terror. That happened often enough in his part of the world. But it wasn’t the baron’s part of the world.
Why had he been there at all? And hadn’t Will learned from the first that when there was a likely suspect there was often a likelier reason? It was just that he hadn’t discovered it yet. He would.
There was already money in it. If he played it right, there’d certainly be more posted for reward. The rich wanted things done quick, and money meant nothing to them when they wanted something. But money meant everything to him. The more money he scraped together, the higher his hoard of gold grew, the further away from him the shadow of the hangman would lay. That shadow couldn’t be far enough away for his comfort, not ever. Because it drifted across his every dream, and it always would.
*
“Good morning, Mama,” Lucian said as he strolled into his mother’s salon the next morning. “My condolences,” he added with enough insincerity to let her know he knew very well that she’d scarcely exchanged two words with her brother in the past two years. “You sent for me? I’ve come, what can I do for you?”
The snow still fell, filling the morning with a clean bright light, but nothing so common as vagrant light from the streets was permitted in this room. Thick draperies were drawn against the cold. The enormous hearth was heaped high and burning brightly. The furniture was massive, of good wood and dark texture, covered by embroidery, and polished to a sheen. Ornately framed pictures hung on the walls, their colors subdued by the heavy elegance of the room. The aroma of woodsmoke and furniture oil was heavy, along with the indelible scent of money. The townhouse was old and rich and filled with history, and looked and smelled of it.
His mother sat on an antique sofa by a window, close to Arthur. They’d been in deep and murmurous conversation. Her companion, an elderly indigent cousin, sat behind them, knitting. Lucian nodded to her as he sketched a bow to his Mama. The dowager was dressed in black, and her dark eyes snapped with anger when she looked up to see her eldest son enter the room. She glowered at him.
An observer might think them unrelated. There was no physical resemblance. The widow of the fourth Viscount Maldon had been attractive in her youth, even winsome, or so her portrait over the mantle insisted. Now she settled for being imposing. It took all her considerable force of personality, as well as the sumptuousness of her jewelry. Because she was tiny, a little pouter pigeon of a woman, plump and broad breasted. She had too many jewels and too little neck, small even features in a smooth face, her eyes were brown, most of her jet hair was still dark, and her expression was darker still as she contemplated her firstborn son.
He knew what she was thinking. The spit and image of his Papa he was, and he’d never atoned for that with her.
“What can you do for me?” she echoed. “Your uncle is dead, and you ask me that?”
“True. But it’s been a while since I resurrected anyone,” Lucian said calmly, “and the last time it was a leper, remember? Or was that the other fellow I tended?”
“Insolence and impiety,” she said with curious grudging satisfaction,.“I expected no less.”
“Then why did you send for me?” he asked, taking a seat, crossing his long legs carefully, contemplating the shining tip of his left boot with interest.
“You are the head of the family,” she said sharply. “Arthur is doing his best, but he cannot do all.”
“Indeed? You disappoint me, Brother,” Lucian said.
Arthur looked embarrassed. “The thing of it is that Mama wanted to know how the investigation was coming, and I couldn’t tell her. I said I’d go see you to find out and come back to tell her, but she wanted to know firsthand.”
“Sensible,” Lucian said, looking up. He frowned. “But where is everyone else? Why hasn’t the family rallied round? I know Mary and Harriet live too far to have arrived in London yet, but where is Elizabeth? And Georgina?”
“Georgina is having her mourning clothes made,” the dowager snapped. “She has nothing in black that suits her she says, silly gudgeon. As if death were a matter of fashion, but then, everything is to her. Elizabeth was here yesterday. I don’t expect to see her again until this afternoon; she does not rise before noon. London could be set afire again, and she’d not leave her bed before then for fear of anyone seeing her and thinking her gauche. A pretty pair of clunches, my daughters are, are they not?”
She asked as though they weren’t related, but Lucian didn’t blink. He was used to it. They looked nothing alike, but the cut and thrust of their conversation was so similar, so ironic and derisive, that when they spoke it was clear they were kin. It was the one thing that linked them. They mightn’t like each other, but each understood what the other said, and what they meant beneath it.
“Indeed,” Lucian said. “But as to the investigation…there are many unanswered questions. If we could but know why Uncle was in such a squalid place, we might better understand why he was killed there.”
His mother’s eyes blazed. “A man of his stamp in such a place at night? Even an idiot could understand why he was killed. For his purse, of course. And his clothing. I understand they took all, including his shoes.”
“All,” Lucian said serenely, “including his small clothes. Which did not add to his dignity, I might add. But again, why was he there? The two facts can’t be unconnected. He was killed in a common working class district, perilously close to the vilest slums. He was naked; it therefore, was not a simple accident of Fate, a matter of a gentleman gone walking for pleasure of a morning, accosted, struck dead and then robbed. No. Why was he impelled to visit such a place in the dead of the night in the first place? And was he stripped naked before or after the fact? The runner pursuing the matter says if he finds the answer to one, he’ll know the other, and so I too believe.”
“You have Mr. Townsend at work on it?” his mother demanded.
“Better, I have Spanish Will Corby.”
“Spanish Will!” Arthur blurted, “But I’ve heard of him, Lucian. He’s famous. I’ve read about him—seen caricatures of him too. Is he as clever as they say?”
“He thinks he is.”
“Then he should be able to find Uncle’s murderer.”
“As easily find one particular grain of
sand on a beach,” Lucian said wryly, “There are so many villains in that district, and so few clues…unless…perhaps they’ll find something the scoundrel pawns, and that will lead us to him.”
“A runner named ‘Spanish Will’?” their mother interrupted, clearly agitated, “but Mr. Townsend has been known to work for the Prince himself.”
“Indeed,” Lucian said. “I should think that would tell you his worth. However, if you want a courtier, a flatterer and a man about town, by all means, contact him. He’s as well known to society as your daughters would wish, Ma’am, in that he works for Bow Street as well as at the opera on occasion, and the Bank of England, and other such perilous, crime-infested places. I hear the Prince has requested his presence at the palace too, and at Brighton. But then, such assignments pay well enough, I suppose, to make such terrible dangers acceptable to him.”
He dropped his mocking tones to add, “Spanish Will patrols the gutters, and that is where your brother was found, Ma’am. He was found, to be precise, on a fishmonger’s doorstep in a slum. Now, speaking of fish, I think if you wish to catch trout, you fish in a trout stream, no matter how pleasant the waters may be somewhere else. Spanish Will knows the district, and those even worse nearby. He’s singular, however, in that though he knows the denizens of such places he nevertheless speaks well enough to talk to the Prince himself. I rather think I prefer to let him pursue the matter. But of course, you’re free to do as you wish.”
“Mama will, of course, be guided by you,” Arthur said.
She nodded curtly. “Might as well be,” she said ungraciously, “Elizabeth’s George may be a baron himself, but he has no more brain than she. Georgina’s Edward is a complete fool. Mary’s husband is a sensible man, and a justice of the peace besides, but he needs must play the country squire and what use is that to us? And I will not discuss Harriet’s husband, nor speak his name, he has only his title and fortune to recommend him.”
