by L. C. Sharp
There was only one way to find out.
Jack heaved a deep sigh. “I’m goin’ in wiv you. Lamb to the slaughter, that’s what you’ll be. An’ I got a few friends lookin’ out for ya.”
“Anybody I know?”
“The boy Col.”
Ah yes, the boy who’d tried to pick his pocket once. Ash had known that boy had a future outside the Fleet Prison. So Col was working for Cutty Jack, was he?
The carriage came to a halt outside Ash’s house. Without waiting for the others, Ash alighted. Shouting, “Wait here!” he raced into the house, past a bewildered Baynon and straight up the stairs.
Five minutes later, he ran back down. Taking Jack’s advice, the only weapon he carried was the slim blade, tucked down the side of his leather breeches. He had a purse of coins to grease palms, a silver watch for them to steal and another purse, this time in a pouch on the other side of his breeches to the blade. And a pistol, loaded but not particularly special.
He’d added a handkerchief and a silver snuffbox to the haul the pickpockets were welcome to, mainly to distract from the blade. His shoes were fastened with cheap bone buckles, and his breeches with simple buttons at the knee. He wore the same neck cloth, but tied carelessly, and he’d crumpled it between his hands before he wrapped it around his neck. His valet had watched him dress, horror on every line of his face. “Sir, you can’t—”
Ash ignored him. Shrugging into a worn brown coat then clapping a plain black hat on his head, he was ready. “Where I’m going, they don’t carry gold watches, or have silver buckles on their shoes. If they want to live, that is.” He paid Corbett a moment’s attention. “Order a bath for when her ladyship returns, and tell her maid to have her night rail ready.”
Juliana would need those comforts, and after spending even an hour in the rat-infested, flea-ridden rookery, she’d want that bath.
Fear touched his thoughts. If she came back. No, he refused to think that way. She would come back.
His mind still wasn’t functioning at its proper level. He forced himself to concentrate on the task ahead. He didn’t have time for such self-indulgences now. He lifted his head and took three deep, cleansing breaths. It did not work as well as usual, but at least it helped him to think straight.
Outside the house, he strode off in the direction of the rookery, not looking behind him. There was no sign of Jack. He’d probably gone ahead.
St. Giles was close, closer than he liked, but the irony of the enclave of outlaws being so close to the enclave of the law did not escape anyone who lived in or near the Inns of Court.
As he went west, the buildings became more dilapidated. Not in an instant way. He could not snap his fingers and move from one district to the next across a barrier. Even St. Giles had a few semi-respectable houses. Conveniently situated, some might say. Handy for the law courts, and in the other direction, the west end, where all the rich lived, with all their expensive trinkets ready to be stolen.
This was not Ash’s first visit to this village of thieves and whores, but this time he planned to go deeper, and with fewer weapons. He had no doubt he would be searched, perhaps even stripped.
But he would confront the elusive Raven. At least he had that. And if he’d harmed one hair of Juliana’s head, only one of them would be leaving St. Giles’s rookery tonight.
Ash crossed the road where Bow Street met Drury Lane, barely sparing the magistrate’s house and the prison a glance. They were irrelevant to his quest today. They could not help. If they could, he’d have had no compunction in striding into the court and dragging out one of the Fieldings by his coat collar.
His years of chasing justice had come to this. Ironic that justice for Coddington was the last thing on his mind today. Only his wife, and what she was going through. They had attacked him through his weakest point. His family. Struck exactly where they needed to. No, not “they,” but “he.” Ash would see the Raven swing for this. If he had to stand on the gallows and fix the knot himself, he’d do it.
She’d be terrified. After her ordeal last year, rough treatment would bring all the memories back, perhaps drive her back to the silent, blank-eyed woman he’d first met.
A few people watched Ash as he passed. One took a step towards him, but when Ash turned and glared at him, touching his coat pocket, the unfortunate man stepped back. Or perhaps Ash’s murderous glare had done the trick. He neither knew nor cared.
King Street thrust down the middle of St. Giles’s, running down into Seven Dials, the seven roads that fanned out from the column at their junction.
The houses here showed signs of long and rough occupation. Some had long timbers holding them up, propped into the street like crude flying buttresses. Buildings collapsed in this district every day. The news barely made the journals and newspapers, it was so tediously frequent. Ash ducked under the props, his pace not slowing for the broken stones and rubble that collected by the houses. People stood or sat in doorways, probably because the fetid air in the street was better than the stench that awaited them indoors.
Number twenty-nine seemed no different, except it was in slightly better repair. Ash knocked, aware of Cutty Jack standing farther down the street, leaning against a post, apparently idly watching the passersby.
To Ash’s mild surprise, the door opened. A man stood within, barely discernible in the shadow. Taking a deep breath, Ash stepped inside.
“You got something?” the man asked.
Ash felt the presence of someone behind him, but he didn’t turn to look. Dipping his hand into his pocket, he found the token the Raven had sent him. He handed it over.
The man grunted, and pocketed it. “All right. It’s ’im.”
The man who’d been standing behind the door grabbed Ash’s arms and pinned them behind his back. The man facing him grinned, his two yellowed teeth gleaming in the low light. “Shut your glims.”
Ash closed his eyes. A foul-smelling rag was tied around them, blindfolding him. He didn’t doubt that his captors had done it efficiently, but he tried opening his eyes. No luck there. The man behind him tied his wrists together with rough rope that would leave marks. Ash did his best, tensing his muscles before the rope went around them. If not for that, and the small easement that maneuver gave him, the binding could have cut off his blood supply.
Someone patted him down roughly, but fortunately did no more than that. As he’d expected, his purse was taken, and the other things he’d put in his pockets. They found the second purse, too. But not the knife.
He was pushed forward. If he’d fallen on his face they’d probably have laughed and watched him break his nose, but he regained his balance after a stumble. The bare boards under his feet were uneven, warped and cracked. The place smelled, but not of humanity. Damp made its presence known, seeping its way into his senses. And filth, but the filth of dust and rodents. This house had been empty for a while, and in such a heavily populated area as this, that took some achieving.
Fresh air gusted over his face as he was led through a door and back into the open air. Sound was slightly muffled here.
Where were they taking him? “You’re from the Raven?” he ventured.
“Shut your trap.”
Not a confirmation, then. One man took his arm, high up, gripping it hard enough to leave bruises. At least he had support, now. Tripping was a distinct possibility, and he couldn’t save himself, with his hands lashed behind his back. They hadn’t gagged him. Interesting, that.
If they were going to kill him, they wouldn’t have bothered to tie him up, surely. Unless they were taking him to a more convenient place to die.
He was hustled up the steps of a carriage, the horse stamping impatiently against the cobbles. So they’d taken him through the house and out the back. Anyone following him would have little chance of keeping up.
Nobody spoke, but both men climbed into the ve
hicle. It didn’t smell of anything, and the seat was surprisingly comfortable, the leather supple. The driver whipped up the horses. Yes, two horses.
Ash concentrated on counting the number of times the carriage turned, and the distance it traveled in seconds. Fifteen turns, no more than a minute between each one. They were still in the city, though heaven knew what part of it. He sensed when they turned on to a wide thoroughfare, the wheels making different sounds, and then the narrower streets. He listened for the river.
When they stopped, he knew they hadn’t gone far, even though they’d been traveling for about twenty minutes, confirmed when he heard a church clock chime the half hour. That cracked bell, he knew it. It hung in the tower of the church of St. Giles. Each minute dragged out to an hour, but he kept counting. He needed to get them both out of this warren. If she was still alive. If they hadn’t lured him here only to witness that, and then suffer his own death.
But that didn’t make sense. Why would they do that? Someone wanted to say something to him first. That had to be the reason for this farce.
He didn’t resist as the men led him out of the carriage and into another house. It smelled of age and dust, but nothing foul. They shut the door. The sound of the outside world was muffled, but not muted. Up a flight of uncarpeted stairs, and three steps to another door. It opened, they led him inside, and they closed the door.
A feminine gasp reached his ears. He knew that sound. Everything in him loosened, and finally he could think properly again. Juliana was alive. But his vow remained; if the Raven had hurt her, he’d hurt worse.
This room did not smell of abandonment, nor did it hold the stench of unwashed humanity huddling close.
It smelled of newness, of fresh polish and starch, and the faint aroma of oranges. Expensive at this time of year, but easily obtained from the hothouses surrounding London. Had they left the rookery? He couldn’t hear the river, only the sound of carriages and horses passing by, and the occasional muffled shout.
Someone unfastened his blindfold. Ash took his time opening his eyes, knowing the light would blind him. He didn’t want to appear vulnerable.
Slowly, he allowed his eyelids to open, keeping his vision down until he was sure he could look up without flinching.
He sat on a hard wooden chair, on the edge because his hands were still bound behind him. And next to him, on another chair, sat his wife.
He met her gaze. In her eyes, he saw the fear, the worry, and deeper still, the spark of intense anger.
And relief.
He almost smiled. While he’d been fretting, Juliana had been fuming.
They were in a room the like of which would grace a City drawing room, or even his own drawing room, rather than a thieves’ kitchen. About fifteen feet square, high ceilinged. Tapestries draped the walls, and highly polished mahogany furniture, gilded in the French style, stood in front of them. Only one curtained window was visible, but the tapestries could cover more. Candles flared in wall sconces, good wax candles, not tapers or rushlights.
Taking his time, Ash turned his head to see whoever was standing in front of the elaborate table before the curtained window. The man wore outrageously fashionable clothes suitable for a society ball.
He wore a mask covering the top half of his face. Ash had seen that style before, an Italian masquerade mask, the nose heavily exaggerated so as to form a beak. A raven.
Although the man leaned his backside against the table behind him, Ash could still estimate his height. About three inches short of six feet. Perhaps four inches, so considerably shorter than Ash was. His coat didn’t fit well, wouldn’t meet at the front if it was buttoned, and dropped below his knees. So it had belonged to someone else first.
A jeweled sword was slung by his side, the sheath similarly decorated. On the table stood an inkstand, the crystal inkwell gleaming in the golden light.
For the count of thirty seconds, nobody spoke. Then Ash broke the fraught silence. “Let my wife go. You have me now. You have no need to keep her.”
The Raven shook his head. “Not till I’ve done with yer.” His London accent was evident, but not overpowering, like Cutty Jack at his worst. He grinned. “So the rumors are right. You do care about ’er.”
Damn. Ash raised a brow. “She’s my wife. I’d be an unnatural husband if I did not.” He would not give away how much she meant to him, and how much that revelation had shocked him.
The Raven shrugged. “My own moth—” He broke off. Evidently he was about to give away too much. He crossed his arms, his lace ruffles falling over hands that had seen rough treatment over the years. He glared at Ash, eyes glittering behind the stiff black satin. “Are you not afraid?”
Long ago, he’d decided that he would not allow fear to control his life any longer, and with that decision had come a better, more fruitful life. “Do I need to be afraid? Do you want me afraid?”
“No.”
That was clear enough.
“I needed to talk to yer, and I knew if I took your mort, you’d come after ’er. Well, if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be much of a man, would yer?”
Ash didn’t answer. If he wanted information, Ash could bargain with him. “Why have you brought me here? What do you want? I would prefer to be home by dinner.”
He got another grin for that. Ash leaned back as far as he could, keeping Juliana in his peripheral vision. She sat unmoving. Her bosom rose and fell faster than usual, the only signal of her tension. Ash was proud of her.
“I’ve been ’earing things about you. I wanted to meet you. An’ you’re interfering in something. Some of my people ’ave come to me, an’ they’re not ’appy. You’re stirring up an ant’s nest wiv a stick.”
Ash liked the analogy. He’d be sure to get a bigger stick. “In what? All I want is justice for a murder. You have an objection to that?”
A hiss came from one of the men behind him. Juliana glanced behind, but turned back. The Raven glanced over Ash to his man, but Ash saw no condemnation in his eyes. More a question.
He returned his attention to Ash. “Never mind that. Only the rich ’ave time for stuff like that. We lives and manages as we find.” His accent was getting thicker, but he still had not reverted to cant, which Ash found mildly surprising. Talking to someone in St. Giles required bilingual skills.
He jabbed a grimy finger at Ash. “I want you orf the case. That man what died, ’e got what ’e deserved. Justice done. Understand?”
“No.” Ash’s anger simmered in his belly. He would not be told what to do, not from a duke, not from this ruffian. The Raven must know that. He’d shown considerable skill staying on top of the criminals in London for the past few years. Ash wasn’t sure how many, but he’d started to hear the name two years ago. The climb must have been difficult, and now the Raven had to work hard to stay on top of the dirt heap.
“Did he owe you much money? Was it his debt that killed him?”
“Nah. ’Ow would I collect money from a dead man?”
So Coddington had owed money to the Raven. “That wouldn’t stop you making an example of him.”
The Raven shrugged. “True. But I di’n’t. An’ if anybody working for me did it, they’ll suffer for it. I didn’t order it.”
Ash pressed the point. “So this isn’t your doing? Is that what you’re telling me?”
The Raven looked over Ash’s head again, as if thinking. Eventually he returned his attention to Ash. Despite the intensity of his opponent’s glare, Ash’s tension eased.
Now Juliana had done her part, she might as well not exist for the Raven.
“It’s not my doin’. If you’d put it down to a robbery, I’d’ve found the thief and that would ’ave been that. But it weren’t. The night before ’e died, ’e was at one of my establishments. And ’e dropped a lot of blunt. And got credit. ’E tried to pass a paste ring orf on us, too. So what point
would killin’ ’im do, when I’m ’olding ’is vouchers?” H’s were dead to him, apparently. The accent had certainly slipped down a notch or two.
Ash pretended not to notice. “You didn’t send anybody after him?”
“Nope. We knew where to find ’im.”
“Does he have bad debts?”
“Some. Enough to make me want ’em back fast.”
Ah, now that was important.
“But the murderer, ’ooever ’e is, used me. ’E used somefing I gave ’im, and I won’t ’ave that.”
He produced the token Ash had put in his pocket and tossed it, snatching it out of the air on its way back down. He opened his hand, the token on his palm. “Know what this is?”
Ash nodded. “You sent me one. I don’t know what it does. I thought it was a gambling token, but it isn’t, is it?”
The Raven shook his head, dislodging his mask slightly. As he turned, the light fell on the side of his face. A scar snaked up the side of it, ending in a curling flourish close to the Raven’s eye. His brown eye. Putting his hand up, he straightened his disguise. “No, not a gaming token. It’s a safe conduct. Wiv’ one of these, you can pass through this place without gettin’ killed or robbed. You pin it to your coat, let everybody see it.”
The revelation swept through Ash. Of course! The safe conduct would be desperately sought after. That was why it was significant. “Why did Coddington have one on the night of his death?”
The Raven’s thin mouth flattened. “That’s what I mean to find out. There are only twenty-five of these, and three special ones. That’s all. I can account for every one. Now. I lost track of one of ’em. I want to know ’oo let it go and why I di’n’t know.”
The safe conducts would be very important to this man. A necessity, but something that required careful management. “Do you think Coddington knew what it was and what he could do with it?”
Not just passing through St. Giles, but getting close to the man standing before him.
Why would Coddington have one? Ash leaned forward, forgetting his hands were tied, and nearly lost his balance.
