The Sleeping Partner

by Madeleine E. Robins

  Was the box Huwe’s then? What had Joshua Glebb told her the day before? That the first two privateers to reach the Walcheren encampment had belonged to Huwe, and had providentially borne chests of cinchona bark. But Huwe made his business shipping goods that belonged to others; he was unlikely to trade in bark himself. Something tickled her, something elusive. How was it that Abner Huwe’s ships had arrived at Walcheren so soon and with bark in such quantity? These were interesting questions, and might be important to her later. For the moment, however, she wanted only to tell Huwe to call his dog to heel so that she might return her attention to the matter of Evadne Thorpe.

  The greasy, rancid smell which rolled off the Thames had a moldy note today. The mist had become rain, the light was gloomy, and people darted from doorway to doorway, holding papers or rain shields above their heads. Water guttered off the brim of Miss Tolerance’s hat; she was very grateful she had decided to change costumes before coming to Fox Street.

  She tied her mount to a post near Amisley and Pound; the fly-specked window was fogged with condensation, and from the street she could see nothing inside but the glow of lamps. Miss Tolerance gathered her courage, put Worke’s walking stick under her arm, and entered the office.

  Only the elderly clerk she had noticed on her first visit was there. The old man, hunched miserably over the slanted top of his narrow desk, did not acknowledge her arrival. His nose was close to his work, and he dipped his pen in the inkwell and ignored her vigorously. The desk at which Tom Proctor had sat four days before was empty. So was Worke’s.

  Miss Tolerance cleared her throat.

  The clerk wrote to the end of the line before he looked up. “Aye, sir?” Either his eyesight of his powers of observation were lacking.

  “I must speak with Mr. Abner Huwe,” she said firmly.

  The old man shook his head. “Mr. Huwe is not avai—”

  “My business is urgent.”

  “That don’t put him here if he ain’t here,” the clerk said.

  “When will he return?” And will he be preceded by Worke? Miss Tolerance had no ambition to encounter the big man until she had spoken to Huwe. “Truly, my business cannot wait.” She underlined the sentiment by making a show of reaching for her pocketbook. That caught the old man’s eye.

  “Might happen he’ll be available shortly,” he admitted. “If ye’d like to wait for him?”

  It was arranged, with the tactful exchange of half a crown, that she would wait in Mr. Huwe’s office for his return. The clerk kept calling her “sir.” Miss Tolerance did not enlighten him; she allowed herself to be seated in a chair in Huwe’s paper cluttered office. The moment the old man left, however, curiosity impelled her to inspect the room. There was little enough to tell from it; the paper stacked on the desk and shelves, spindled or gathered into folders, appeared to be in the main bills of lading, maps, and correspondence. Miss Tolerance kept half an eye on the door to the outer office lest she be discovered in her investigation. She stepped to the rear of the office and tried the latch of the door. It was not locked.

  The room beyond the door was windowless and unlit; what she could see was in shadow. By the light from the office she could tell that the room beyond was small. There was a table, a stool, and beyond that a cot. Perhaps Abner Huwe slept here when his business kept him late. Miss Tolerance turned away, then turned back. Something was wrong.

  There was a pair of shoes under the table: ladies’ slippers of kid or calfskin, pale cream or yellow, the sort of shoes a young woman might wear in her home but not robust enough for London streets. They were as out of place as a daffodil in a midden.

  Miss Tolerance looked back at the door to the outer office, saw nothing, and decided the risk was worth the possibility of confirming a sudden, horrid idea. She stepped into the small room and picked up a shoe. It was neatly made, for a foot smaller than her own, embroidered on the toe with a wreath of white laurel leaves. It was meant for the foot of a young lady of quality.

  Now she heard voices from the rooms beyond, the wheeze of the elderly clerk: “a gennelmun’s waitin’ for Mr. Huwe.” She dropped the slipper into the pocket of her Gunnard coat and stepped back into the office, closing the door behind her. She had imagined before that the door led to an alley, an exit from the office. Now she knew it did not, and that the old man, and whoever it was he spoke to—stood between her and escape to the street.

  The door to the outer office opened and the elderly man peered in as if he expected the visitor somehow to have vanished. Watching from behind him, as implacable as a wall, was Worke.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For several loud beats of her heart Miss Tolerance stood silent. Perhaps Worke, like the other clerk, would take her at her seeming and believe her to be a man. If he saw through the imposture perhaps he would not immediately know her for the woman he had twice attacked. But the big man was more observant than that; she saw as if it were drawn on his face his apprehension of who stood before him. Miss Tolerance put her hand on the hilt of her sword.

  Worke licked his lips. “Look what we’ve here.” His voice was soft. “Go on back to the books, Abel. I’ll see to the guest.”

  Abel, looking from Worke to Miss Tolerance and back, withered visibly. He was clearly familiar with Worke in this humor and wanted no part of it. He circled Worke with a palsied shuffle and disappeared into the outer office, the door half closed behind him.

  Keefe or Bart had done some damage to Worke earlier. The flesh below one eye was plummy and swollen, and a cut had scabbed over by his ear. Miss Tolerance judged it best to pretend the fight had never occurred. “Will Mr. Huwe return soon?” she asked. “I need a word with him.”

  Worke grinned like a dog. “And you dressed like a camp follower? P’raps he won’t speak with you.”

  “Perhaps he will not. I’m sure he would rather speak with me now than with the Runners later.”

  “An’ why would Runners be comin’ here?” Worke moved into the room, his hands half-clenched and held away from his body as f he were prepared at any moment to seize her. “You thinkin’ to call them in?”

  “Only if I cannot get satisfaction from Mr. Huwe.”

  “What, with that hatpin? He thrust his chin in the direction of her still-sheathed sword. “Come to fight a duel, maybe?”

  Miss Tolerance ignored that. “If Mr. Huwe is not going to return soon I will have to come back later. I have business to attend to.”

  Worke drew a deep breath; he seemed to swell to fill the doorway. “You ain’t thinkin’ I’d let you leave?”

  The pommel of her sword hilt was warm in Miss Tolerance’s palm. She drew the sword with a fluid motion and stood in a relaxed garde. “I am not thinking that you will have much choice.” She was pleased that her voice kept steady.

  For a moment it appeared that the surprise of having a woman draw steel on him would win Miss Tolerance’s point. Worke stumbled back a step, straight into the door frame. The impact recalled him to himself. He stepped forward before Miss Tolerance could close with him, and reached about him until his hand found the curved head of an iron tool leaning against the wall. The thing was as long as his forearm and, by the look of it, meant for prising open crates. He held it at arm’s length in answer to Miss Tolerance’s own stance: even with one end of the bar bent backward the tool gave Worke, with his longer arms, the advantage of reach. Miss Tolerance knew that her sword would not withstand a direct hit from the bar. If Worke hit her with it he would break her bones—or her skull.

  Miss Tolerance retreated half a step. The iron bar was heavy; wielding it would fatigue even so big a man as Worke. His stance made it plain that the sword was not his usual weapon, which might give her some advantage. Still, he was larger, his weapon heavier, and she was certain he would not scruple to kill her if he saw the chance. She must let him tire himself, or draw him away from the door or, failing that, distract him. “You killed Tom Proctor,” she said.

  Worke licked his lips. “If
I did? Tommy’d been stealing—”

  “—Cinchona bark, I know.”

  As he had on the street, Worke reacted to the mention of the box’s contents. He did not answer, but stepped toward her, moving his right hand, the hand that held the bar, from side to side, the forked tip at the height of her nose. Miss Tolerance extended her arm, her blade unwaveringly pointed at Worke’s heart, and the big man retreated again.

  “Did Proctor mean to sell the bark? It would have made a nice supplement to his salary.”

  “Nah, he was sick. Kep’ it for ‘imself.”

  “Thus the scarf on an April day,” she murmured to herself.

  “Too smart by half, Tommy was. Like you.” Worke leaned forward, poking at her with the bar’s tip. Heavy as it was, it was not a stabbing weapon, and while he was poking rather than swinging the bar Miss Tolerance could parry it on the forte of her blade. She was back en garde immediately. Worke swung the heavy bar back in line, but there was a tremble in his arm. The weight of the bar was taking its toll. “I’ve had just enough of you, you whore. I’ll break your crown proper this time.”

  He raised the bar up and brought it down with crushing speed on the spot where, only a second before, Miss Tolerance had stood. His movement had telegraphed his intent. Instinctively she stepped to the side, let the bar glance off the guard of her sword, then caught the bar with her blade to bind it down as if it were a blade. When the point of the bar neared the floor she stepped on its length, pulling it from Worke’s hand. Worke, badly overbalanced, attempted to straighten up as Miss Tolerance cocked her wrist and brought the pommel of her small sword up to smash into his chin.

  The big man stumbled back and crashed into the doorframe. He slid down along it until, top-heavy, he toppled into the doorway and lay like a fallen bear, quite unconscious.

  “I cannot tell you how much I dislike being called whore,” Miss Tolerance muttered. She kicked the prising bar under the desk, lest Worke come to himself and think to use it again. Her earlier plan of telling Abner Huwe to call off his man was gone. She would leave, find Sir Walter in Bow Street, and lay the entire matter of Proctor’s death, and Worke’s assaults upon her, in his hands. The Law could take responsibility for Worke and Huwe.

  Worke made a sizeable barrier in the doorway. She would have to step over and around him, but at least the clerk Abel had not come to investigate the noise. Perhaps he was accustomed to the sound of conflict emanating from the office. Miss Tolerance glanced back at the door to the back room as if to assure herself no one was waiting there.

  “You do not intend to leave us, surely?”

  Miss Tolerance’s head snapped round so quickly she was reminded that only a few days before she had been an invalid with a broken crown. Abner Huwe had appeared in the door to the outer office, just beyond Worke’s prostrate bulk. He held a business-like pistol.

  “You will put aside your sword, please.” Huwe’s tone was as pleasant as if he had asked that she close the window or pour the tea. Miss Tolerance’s daily reading of the Dueling Notices left her with no favorable impression of the accuracy of pistols in general, but she was not tempted to test the weapon or Mr. Huwe’s skill. She put her sword on the desk to her right and stepped away. Her own pistol was a solid weight against her thigh, but she doubted Huwe would let her extract it before he discharged his own weapon.

  “I would barely have known you for a woman.” Huwe gestured toward her with his pistol.

  “If you must point, Mr. Huwe, may I ask that you do so with your hand alone?”

  “Was I impolite? It’s hard to know how to speak with a lady such as yourself.”

  “Do you think to distress me by reminding me I am no lady? I’m aware of it. As for my dress, these garments are more congenial in hazardous settings.” She nodded to indicate that she included the offices of Amisley and Pound in that class. She kept her voice level and amused: a show of confidence was her best tactic. “My work sometimes takes me to venues where muslin and kid boots would be a positive hindrance.”

  “What work would that be? Nosing about, bringing magistrates to my door?” He tapped Mr. Worke’s head with his foot. Worke remained unmoving. “Attacking my clerks.”

  “Your clerk attacked me, sir, in the street outside my home and, before that, in Threadneedle Street. I came to ask you what your design was in sending him to me. As for what my work is, I am paid to find things and answers and sometimes people.”

  Rather too quickly Huwe said, “I’ve no people here that oughtn’t to be.”

  “You did have a visitor in that room recently.” She did not take her eyes from Huwe, but indicated the door behind her with a quick jerk of her head. “A lady. I don’t suppose you’d permit me further investigation?”

  Mr. Huwe’s lips twitched. “For a woman, you’ve a sense of humor, surely. No, I’m minded to stay where we are until it comes to me what I am to do with you.”

  “You might let me go,” Miss Tolerance suggested. “My business is to find a young woman, Evadne Thorpe. As she is not here, I must seek her elsewhere.” She used the name to startle, and indeed Huwe’s smile disappeared. “You know the name, sir?”

  “Should I know it?”

  “She is the daughter of your associate, Lord Lyne.”

  Huwe shook his head. “He would be no associate of mine.”

  “With all the visiting between you of late? Yes, I know of it. I think you and Lord Lyne had some business between you a few years ago that has its hooks in you to this day. Something to do with the box which was found by a magistrate in Mr. Proctor’s room? Somehow poor Miss Thorpe became entangled in her father’s business.”

  “Again this girl. What use would I have for a girl?”

  “What use has any man for a young, pretty girl? And—” As the whole of an idea came to her she spoke her thoughts aloud. “Knowing you held his daughter would surely keep Lord Lyne from disclosing details of your arrangements.”

  “Our arrangements!” For the first time the pistol in Huwe’s grip shook. “I say again, we are no associates. What business would his lordship conduct with such as me?”

  “I am piecing it together. Lord Lyne has a plantation in South America with ties to trade there, and is, I believe, an enthusiast of military history. And his son worked in the War Office. I understand that Lord Castlereagh dismissed Lord Lyne’s counsel regarding the insalubrious climate of the Dutch lowlands. And you have ships, two of which were the first to arrive at Walcheren, fortuitously laden with chests of cinchona bark when His Majesty’s Navy had not more than a day’s supply. It takes no extreme leap to conjecture that Lyne procured the bark which you sold. I imagine that you together made a very handsome profit. Almost an indecently handsome profit, the sort the Walcheren Commission might take interest in.”

  “Conjecture. Guesses.” But Huwe’s pleasant, snub-nosed face was stony. “How could you know such things?”

  “As I said, sir: my work is to find answers. All I meant to do was find Miss Thorpe, but the looking has led me to a budget of other matters. Did you really hold Miss Thorpe here, sir? Where is she now? Did Proctor help her to escape? I imagine that would have angered you. Mr. Worke has already admitted to Proctor’s death—”

  Huwe kicked his clerk again. “He’s a damned coarse instrument, Worke. I’d have done better to manage the matter myself.”

  “You would not have killed Proctor?”

  Now Huwe stepped over Worke’s shoulder into the room, testing the ground beneath him carefully. His pistol arm had dropped a little, enough to give relief to the fatigue of holding the thing at arm’s length. He regained his smile. “Proctor’s body would never have been found. The boy stole from me, and meant to help my little prize escape. I’d have killed him for either,” he said easily. “I am not to be crossed.”

  “Not by clerk or business partner.”

  “That’s the truth of it.”

  “You took Evadne Thorpe to use as a weapon against her father.”

&
nbsp; Huwe nodded as if this were a particularly clever thing. “It was needful to do something. There’s still money to be made in the bark trade, but Lyne wanted to cry quits. Worried we’d be discovered. But the risk was all mine! They won’t hang a peer for anything less than high treason. The old man kept whining on about the disgrace if we were found out. I meant to give him a taste of disgrace.”

  “By kidnapping his daughter?”

  Abner Huwe’s face was flushed, his expression a mix of anger and pleasure. His rusty hair stood on end as if he had been pulling it. Miss Tolerance heard a woman on the street selling hot potatoes. The rattle of carriage wheels, and a dog barking, and the sound of voices like a river’s churning, all came to her from the distance. “Even then he was more fearful for his name than for the girl.”

  “How did you remove the girl from her father’s house?”

  “You’re a deal too nosy for your own good.”

  “You are not the first to remark it, sir.”

  Huwe snorted with amusement. “It’s a great waste to have to kill you.”

  “If you truly mean to kill me, sir, you ought at least to satisfy my curiosity. How did you take her?”

  Huwe smirked. “A last request, you mean? Well enough. Mr. Worke went round, told the man at the door he’d a book for the girl from the library. Man went back to his dinner, Worke took the girl straight from her dad’s hall, easy as cream.” He shook his head.

  “Will you satisfy my curiosity on another point, Mr. Huwe?” Huwe still blocked the door, and she was sure he would not permit her to push past him, leap over Worke’s body, and depart. No one other than the old man in the front office knew she was here. Fortuitous rescue was unlikely. She must keep Huwe talking while she found a way out of her dilemma. “When did Miss Thorpe take leave of your hospitality?”