“Wapping?” Hugh said, puzzling. “Cheapside? East of Bow Bells? Somewhere that a pair like them fit right in?”
“And it would have to be where no one objects to all that barking all day and all night long,” Charlie contributed. “A warehouse by the docks, an abandoned stable…”
“A tumbledown house in a stew,” Sir Hugo said with a sage nod. “Where, I would imagine, our thieves pay a very low rent, by the month, not the night. They simply can’t move over a dozen dogs from place to place on short notice. Dasher, you saw only the one two-wheeled cart?”
“Aye, sir,” Dasher agreed. “A third man drivin’, an’ a sorry shambles it woz. Their horse musta been a good’un, though, t’gallop as fast as it did.”
“A stable might be just the thing,” Lewrie exclaimed, perking up. “A place to feed and keep the horse, where they could keep that cart out of sight ’til they need it, again.”
“If it’s their cart,” Charles Chenery commented, “and not one they rented or borrowed for the job.”
“Well, there is that,” Lewrie said with a sigh. “Damn!” He drummed his free hand’s fingers in deep thought. “Aha!” he said at last.
“What?” Sir Hugo asked, glaring at him as if angry.
“We could scour all London, and cross the river in Southwark, too, but … like Dasher told us, they have to come to us!” Lewrie said with a sly grin growing on his face. “Some child waif will come to the house, tell us which newspaper we are to place the advertisement, and how much ransom they’re demanding.
“He, or she, will have t’go back where the thieves keep all the dogs t’tell ’em that her job’s done,” Lewrie explained. “They might even pay her a shilling or two, and feed her, or him. Give the child a place t’doss down, as much a part of the gang as any of ’em. Once she, or he, set off on the return journey, we follow the child, break in with swords and pistols ready, rescue our dogs, and bloody some heads!”
“I like it!” Hugh cheered loudly.
“Ehm … wouldn’t we stand out like a horde of bare-chested Turk warriors, though?” Charlie countered, looking dubious. “A band of men, with swords and pistols, trailing along, slinking from one shop door to the next? I’m not sure I even know how to slink! The waif turns round just once, sees a pack of armed men trailing behind, and she’s off in another direction, and we’d never find the lair.”
“The messenger runs as fast as he can, and perhaps doesn’t dare go back to the hidey-hole ’til next morning’s breakfast,” Sir Hugo gloomily predicted. “Good idea, son, but…” he added, throwing up his hands in frustration. “Best just pay the ransom and be done.”
“Damn!” Lewrie spat, his quick scheme seemingly blocked at both ends. “Damn! If only…! Damn!”
Charles is right, he glumly fretted; If the messenger doesn’t tumble to us, the police constables just might arrest us for going about London armed! And, I don’t know how t’slink or lurk, either. But, I know some people who can!
He stood of a sudden and patted himself down to check for his coin purse and wallet.
“Going somewhere?” Sir Hugo asked him.
“To the Foreign Office,” Lewrie told him. “There’s someone I must see.”
“The Foreign Office?” his father said, completely puzzled.
Reverend Chenery took that moment to clomp up the stairs and enter the drawing room, looking the company over, and getting a look in his eyes as he spotted the brandy bottle.
Damn, is he still here? Lewrie thought; I thought we’d run him off!
“How is Jessica?” Lewrie had to ask, though.
“She is sleeping, thank the Lord,” Reverend Chenery told him as he went to the side table and the brandy, looking about for a fresh glass. “Though the laudanum dulls her pain, she still moans now and then, and mumbles in her sleep. It is most pitiful to witness. Ehm, could someone fetch a glass?”
“I’ll go, sir,” Dasher offered, and trotted off to the kitchens.
“I should look in on her before I go,” Lewrie vowed, following Dasher out to the stairs.
“Go?” Jessica’s father all but spluttered. “Where does he have to go in my dear daughter’s hour of need?”
“The Foreign Office, he said,” Sir Hugo informed him.
“The Foreign Office? Whatever for?” Reverend Chenery gawped.
“I think I know,” Sir Hugo said with a sly smile, which on him looked positively grisly. But he would not elaborate.
* * *
“Jessica, I have to go out for a bit,” Lewrie whispered as he sat on a chair by the settee where she slept. “I’ll try to get back as quick as I can. Am I not here when you wake, and you’re up for it, you should let people help you to our bed chamber, and have some more laudanum, or willow bark tea…”
She opened her eyes and let out a faint moan, or whimper, as he sat there. “Oh, Alan. I’m having the most horrible dream.”
“That’s the laudanum,” he said, nodding, brushing back her hair and kissing her forehead.
“Our poor dogs,” she whispered, “poor little Rembrandt, who would never hurt a soul … terrified, crying out, penned up in the dark somewhere strange … alien!… so frightened, and in the hands of evil, brutal men! I could see it!”
“They’re bein’ held for ransom, darling,” Lewrie softly cooed to her, “I will pay it, gladly, and we’ll soon have ’em back, safe and sound. Don’t you worry your head about that. Trust me. If you believe you’re strong enough, let’s get you up to bed. Some soup or a bite to eat, perhaps? Get into your bedclothes, and sleep some more.”
“I … I think I could,” she gamely said, trying to sit up one-handed, awkwardly turning, with his support, to a sitting position.
Lewrie left her for a moment to go upstairs and summon aid to help her up to the bedchamber, got her settled in, then gently kissed her one last time. Lucy and one of the chambermaids shooed the men out of the bedchamber to help her undress and prepare for bed, dashing off for more cool tea and the vial of laudanum, a fresh, hot cup of willow bark tea, and plumping up all the pillows.
Satisfied that they had done all that they could for her, Lewrie went down to the entry hall, took up his walking stick and a natty civilian hat, and went out into Dover Street to hail a hackney.
* * *
From earlier calls, Lewrie knew which floor, and which office, he had to call upon. He entered the outer office and waiting room, and spoke to a fresh-faced young clerk.
“Is Mister Peel in today?” he began.
“Why, yes he is, ehm … sir,” the clerk told him with a wary smile. “Ehm, are you sure you’re in the right place, though? This is ah, a certain part of the Foreign Office that…”
“Tell Mister Peel that Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, has need to speak with him, at once,” Lewrie announced, glad to throw a bit of his rank and minor title about; it always proved useful when needed. “On an urgent matter, tell him.”
“Ah, ehm…” the young clerk said uncertainly.
“At once, if ya don’t mind,” Lewrie prompted.
“Yes, Sir Alan,” the clerk surrendered, going to an ornate door to the inner sanctum, and squeezing through it, as if swinging it wide open would allow the highest state secrets to fly out. The clerk was back in a bare minute, almost bowing and scraping as he bade Lewrie enter.
“Alan!” the senior spy greeted him with both arms out.
“Jemmy!” Lewrie responded in kind.
He had been introduced to Peel … “’tis James, James Peel” … long years before in the West Indies during the time that France was trying to hold on to St. Domingue, now Haiti, or for Great Britain to seize it, back in the days when that master spy, back-stabber, throat-cutter, and arch schemer Zachariah Twigg, was still skittering like a spider over his schemes, pulling on the webs to play “The Great Game” like a master harpist.
“Something urgent, hey?” Peel asked as he led Lewrie to his inner lair, offered him a chair, and rang for a pot of tea.
“My wife and her maid were attacked in Green Park this morning,” Lewrie began, “Jessica was struck on the head, and got her wrist and hand hurt, hanging on to a dog leash. The attackers, dog buffers, took our pets and galloped off in a cart. I could pay their ransom and have done, but I want some blood, James. I and my people don’t have the skill t’track the messenger back to where they’re holed up, but, I recall that Mister Twigg once had a battalion of people who could … what he called his ‘Baker Street Irregulars,’ when he lived on that street. Could I borrow some?”
“Dogs,” Peel said, his mouth agape for a moment. “Your dogs?”
“I know it’s a lot to ask, and on short notice,” Lewrie said.
“Too bloody right it is, Alan,” Peel said, shaking his head in astonishment. “Look here, you know what use we make of them, and yes, they’re still in operation, in even greater numbers than Twigg’s days, with a lot more on their plate than before.
There are foreign embassies to be watched, letters to be intercepted, read, copied, or re-written by our best forgers,” Peel explained with both hands spread wide on his desk, “Some of our allies spy for the French, ye know, our so-called best friends. Ships from foreign ports land passengers, businessmen, and sailors in the thousands each week, and which of them are here to sneak about and report to the French? Housemaids, mistresses, footmen and page boys, idlers and watchers who keep track of all those people already have their hands full.”
“I know, but…” Lewrie tried to insist.
“Then there are the Englishmen we suspect of traitorous doings, and the servants we’ve tried to place in their homes and businesses,” Peel continued, “who report on what they hear, or read in passing. Besides, Alan, as I told you the last time we spoke, round the time you were getting married, the Irregulars, and what goes on in London, aren’t my department. I’m at this bloody desk, reading reports, and rumours, from our agents overseas. Some days it’s juicy and meaty, but most days it’s as dry as dust. I couldn’t prevail on the other department to spare some people, not on short notice.”
“A few of your children-watchers,” Lewrie pressed, leaning his hands on the front of Peel’s desk. “The thieves’ll send someone round t’tell me how much it’ll cost, and which paper to publish my ‘reward.’ Just loiter about my street, follow the messenger, most-like a child, and report back. Two or three, at the most.”
“Hmm…” Peel sourly mused.
“They struck my wife, they would’ve sliced her maid with a knife if she hadn’t let go the leash,” Lewrie grimly pointed out. “In broad daylight. In Green Park!”
“Sounds more like a job for our police,” Peel said.
“What good are our bloody police?” Lewrie scoffed. “A Frenchified notion! After I and my men get through with the thieves, I suppose we could turn ’em over to the police, and let ’em make what case they can against ’em. I just can’t let the bastards get away with it!”
“Two or three, do you say?” Peel said, head canted to one side.
“Young, innocent-lookin’, street waifs, like the messenger will be,” Lewrie wished aloud. “Idlers, workmen, beau-nasty, ‘fly’ cullies. Whatever you can spare.”
“You live in Dover Street?” Peel said, sounding as if he would relent.
“Number Twenty-Two,” Lewrie told him with a growing smile.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Peel promised. “Good God! Dogs!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lewrie got back to the house in late afternoon, and immediately went up to their bedchamber to see to Jessica, where her maid, Lucy, and Agnes the chambermaid were tending to her.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking her good hand in his.
“My wrist isn’t hurting quite as badly as it did, earlier,” she told him, leaning over to give him a kiss. “I don’t know whether it’s the laudanum or the willow bark tea that’s responsible for that.”
“The tea’s safer, ma’am,” Agnes insisted. “That laudanum can turn good people inta fiends, it can. As bad as cheap gin.”
“Both taste horrid, no matter what sweetenings one adds to it,” Jessica said, making a face.
“Have you eat anything, dear?” Lewrie asked.
Jessica briefly raised her right hand. “I can barely manage a cup of tea in my left hand, Alan, much less cut things with a knife and fork. I had a bit of soup, in a mug, and some buttered bread … with Lucy’s help. Soups and broths may be my main meals ’til I heal up.
“I vaguely recall you telling me something about ransom?” she said, frowning. “The laudanum addled my wits, and I’m not sure that I didn’t dream it.”
“Aye, the dogs were taken for ransom,” Lewrie told her. “According to Dasher, who grew up rough in the streets, dog buffers make their living by ransoming the pets they steal. Tomorrow, morning or mid-day, a messenger will come round, leave a note or something, that tells us to place a reward … like they were lost, for God’s sake, in a certain paper, and offer the price the messenger tells us. Don’t worry, love. We’ll get our dogs back, no matter what they ask.”
“Leaving them free to steal them, again, and demand even more money?” Jessica gasped.
“Well, uh…” Lewrie said, stumped. He hadn’t thought of that! “No, they won’t, love. The next time we walk the dogs, I’ll go with you, or Desmond and Deavers. You and Lucy’ll have bodyguards. Bigger bodyguards than Dasher and Turnbow.”
“In London,” Jessica sighed, shaking her head sadly, “an English city, which should be safe. Or have I gone through life with blinders on?”
“You’ve led a charmed life, so far, darling,” Lewrie admitted.
“I suppose,” she said with a sigh. “Ehm … Alan, I find myself in need of a trip to the ah, necessary. You would not mind absenting yourself for a few minutes?”
“Need help?” Lewrie asked.
“Feminine help is preferred,” Jessica said with a quirky smile as she tried to fling back the sheet and coverlet.
“Ah! Oh!” Lewrie gawped, getting to his feet. “I’ll ah, go to the drawing room. See if we’ve a newspaper.”
“That would be best, my love,” Jessica said as Lucy and Agnes swarmed to tug down her nightgown, turn her cross-wise of the bed and help her to her feet and into a bed gown. “And, after another dose of laudanum … a wee one, Agnes … I think I will try to fall off to sleep for a while.”
“See you at supper, then?” Lewrie assumed. “We’ll have our mugs of soup together.”
“Go!” Jessica ordered.
Instead of the drawing room, though, Lewrie went to his study to take inventory of his weapons. His everyday short, slightly curved hanger sword was in the entry hall, as was his 50 guinea presentation sword from the East India Company, given after he’d saved several Indianmen off Cape Town years before. There was his old Midshipman’s dirk, laid aside for ages after making Lieutenant. His father hadn’t spent a lot on it, on any of his initial kit, back in 1780 when he’d been shoved aboard a ship, so he’d be a thousand miles and six months away when Sir Hugo purloined an inheritance from Granny Lewrie, off in Whedon Cross in Devonshire. One of his retinue could use it when they raided the dog buffers’ lair. Fusil musket, Girandoni air rifle, or the Ferguson rifled breechloader? No, they would draw too much attention from passersby, as would the over-under fowling gun. But, he had two pairs of pistols, some fine double-barrelled Mantons, and a brace of single-barrelled made by Henry Nock. He’d carry one of the Mantons, and parcel the rest out to his men.
And, there was the hanger sword that he’d been given in the West Indies, the one he’d worn at Toulon in 1794 when his bomb ship had been blown out from under him, and he’d had to hand it over to Napoleon Bonaparte after crawling onto a beach, refusing to give his parole, refusing to leave his surviving crew. He’d gotten it back in Paris in 1802 during the Peace of Amiens, from Bonaparte’s hands at a levée in the Tuileries Palace. Just before discovering that he and Caroline we
re to be ambushed and murdered. Just before Caroline had been shot in the back and died at another beach near Calais as they made their escape.
No, he’d not risk that one to anyone else’s hand. Swords were out. Both Hugh and Charles Chenery had dirks, and he knew that his young brother-in-law had spent some of his prize-money on a personal pistol; Hugh probably had one, himself, and he was a good shot from all their practicing in the country.
He spent some time cleaning and oiling his pistols, securing new flints in the dog’s jaws of their firelocks, assuring himself that a good spark would ignite the powder in the pan when the time came.
“Oh, sir,” Agnes said, peeking into the study, “thought you were in th’ drawin’ room. The Missuz is drowzin’ off, an’ said she’d sleep for a while. An’ don’t you worry, sir, I’ll keep a sharp eye peeled on that nasty laudanum, t’see she don’t take too much of it.”
“Ah, thankee Agnes,” Lewrie said with a firm nod. “Aye, I’ve seen men aboard ship … Surgeon’s Mates mostly … who have access to it, and end up dependent. It’s worse than a sot and his gin.”
“Missuz Jessica asked me t’ask you if ya would be wantin’ some tea an’ a scone, sir,” Agnes went on.
“That was thoughtful of her, worryin’ about me in her condition,” Lewrie said. “Aye, I am a bit peckish.”
“Pot o’ tea an’ scones’ll be ready in th’ drawin’ room, quick as the shake of a wee lamb’s tail,” Agnes perkily replied, dropping him a quick curtsy and departing.
His study window was still open, and he heard the pineapple door knocker clapping, then a mumble of Pettus’s voice as he opened the door to speak with some caller. A moment later, and Pettus was at the study door.
“Excuse me, sir, but there’s a grubby lad in the entry hall who claims he’s a knife grinder,” Pettus said, sounding dubious. “Not to worry, I’ve posted Turnbow and Dasher to keep an eye on him. He says he wishes to speak with you directly, sir.”
“Aha!” Lewrie cried. “It may be the message from the thieves! Aye, I’ll come.”
Much Ado About Lewrie Page 22
