by C. S. Harris
He pushed to his feet. “It goes without saying that you will be cautious.”
“I will be cautious.”
He nodded again and left the room.
She stared after him in surprise. She had expected him to ask her about Devlin’s involvement, as well, for she had no doubt that by now her father had also learned of the Viscount’s interest in the murders. Jarvis’s reticence puzzled her, but only for a moment. She did not know all the details of the animosity between the two men, but she knew it ran deep. And she realized it doubtless had never occurred to Lord Jarvis that Devlin had involved himself in the Magdalene House murders at her specific request.
At just before ten o’clock that morning, Hero’s carriage drew up before the pylon-shaped facade of Bullock’s Museum at 22 Piccadilly. Giant twelve-foot statues of Isis and Osiris, nearly naked and bewigged à la égyptien, stared down at her. She paid her shilling fee and passed through a papyrus-columned portico styled to resemble the entrance to an Egyptian temple.
For an extra sixpence she was able to acquire a small booklet detailing the wonders of the various exhibition halls. She wandered for a time, studying first the collection of carvings in wood and ivory, then the curiosities brought back from the South Seas by Captain Cook. In the western wing she came upon the Pantherion, which contained—according to her booklet—“all the known Quadrupeds of the Earth.” Stuffed, of course. The Pantherion was reached by way of a basaltic cavern said to be modeled on the Giant’s Causeway of the Isle of Staffa—although her guidebook neglected to mention precisely where that might be.
In the distance, Hero could hear a progression of church bells chiming the quarter hour. It was nearly eleven o’clock. She studied an Indian hut set against the background of a tropical forest complete with glassy-eyed elephants and roaring tigers and a large, coiled snake, and felt a sense of frustration well within her. It had been a mistake, she realized, to set the rendezvous for this morning. She’d been driven by a sense of urgency, but she should have allowed more time for news of her reward to spread. More time for the women of Covent Garden to summon up the courage to step forward.
She climbed the steps to the first floor, where a room styled to resemble a medieval hall displayed an exhibit of historic arms and armor. Here she found a young woman seated by herself on a bench beneath the domed ceiling. Hero eyed the woman with a renewed surge of expectation. She was obviously waiting for someone. She sat with her reticule clutched in both hands, her gaze darting warily around the room. With her demur pink muslin and round bonnet, she looked more like a young debutante than Haymarket ware, but perhaps she had deliberately dressed in a way that would not draw attention to herself. Hero had just made up her mind to approach the young woman when she jumped up from her seat and rushed across the hall toward the stairs.
Looking around, Hero noticed the gentleman in buff-colored breeches and an olive drab coat who had followed her up the steps. Of course, thought Hero; a secret assignation.
Blowing out an ungenteel breath of disappointment, Hero was about to turn back toward the stairs herself when a woman’s lightly accented voice said, “You’re the one, aren’t you? The gentry mort who was at Molly O’Keefe’s, asking questions about Rose and Hannah?”
Hero turned as a tall Jamaican with a long regal neck and an elegant carriage stepped out of the shadows. Hero felt a frisson of anticipation. “Do you have information for me?”
“For a price,” said the Jamaican.
“You’ll be paid your twenty pounds when and if the information you provide proves to be correct.”
The woman’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “How do I know you’ll deliver?”
Hero’s head jerked up. No one had ever before questioned her honor. “You have my word.”
The woman simply laughed.
Hero said, “What’s your name?”
“Tasmin. Tasmin Poole.”
“You know where I can find Hannah?”
Tasmin Poole shook her head. “I don’t know where Hannah Green is. But I’ve got this.” She held up a delicate silver chain bracelet from which dangled a shield embossed with a coat of arms.
Hero reached out her hand, but the Cyprian closed her fist tight around the bracelet, hiding it from view. “Uh-uh. You want t’see it, you pay for it.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Rose gave it t’me.”
“Gave it to you?”
Tasmin Poole smiled. “Let’s call it a payment.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know this bracelet was Rose’s?”
A sly smile curved the Jamaican Cyprian’s wide mouth. “You have my word.”
Hero’s fingers tightened around the strings of her reticule. “I’ll give you ten guineas for the bracelet.”
“Fifteen,” said the Jamaican.
“Twelve.”
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen, then.” Hero reached into her reticule for the money. She’d have paid twice that. “Now what can you tell me about Rose?”
In one deft motion, Tasmin Poole handed over the bracelet and scooped up the payment. “That’ll cost you extra.”
Chapter 18
In an effort to humor his volatile French cook, Sebastian was picking at an elegant nuncheon of cold salmon in his dining room, when Tom returned with the information that Luke O’Brian, the man named by Ian Kane as Rose’s particular customer, was a purchasing agent with clients who ranged from India to the West Indies and Canada.
“He buys ’em everything from kegs o’ nails and plows to furniture and rugs and stuff for their ’ouses—whatever they need. I couldn’t find anyone what ’ad anything to say to ’is discredit. They say ’e’s ’onest as can be with ’is clients, yet ’e don’t seem to put the squeeze on the merchants, neither.”
“A regular paragon.” Sebastian folded his napkin and set it aside. Catching Morey’s eye, he said, “Tell Calhoun I’ll be needing him right away.”
The majordomo bowed and withdrew.
Tom frowned. “A para-what?”
“A paragon. A model of excellence and perfection.”
“That sounds like ’im all right.”
Sebastian pushed up from the table. “Which begs the question, doesn’t it? What’s this paragon doing frequenting someplace like the Orchard Street Academy?”
“The brown corduroy, don’t you think?” said Calhoun, sorting through that portion of Sebastian’s wardrobe culled from the secondhand clothing dealers of Rosemary Lane and Monmouth Street. “It will clash hideously with the red waistcoat, but Bow Street Runners seem to have a strong predilection for brown corduroy. And you’ll like this—” The valet turned, a black neckcloth held delicately between two extended fingers. “The individual who sold it to me assured me one could wear it for a month without washing it.”
Sebastian looked around from rubbing powder into his hair. Between the powder and some judiciously applied theatrical makeup, he had already added twenty years to his appearance. A bolster around his torso would add twenty pounds. “Only a month?”
Calhoun laughed. “Two, in a pinch.”
A few simple questions asked along the riverfront soon brought Sebastian to the outward-bound West Indian docks at the Isle of Dogs, where he found Luke O’Brian overseeing the loading of a shipment of canvas and hemp bound for Barbados. For a moment Sebastian simply watched him from a distance. The purchasing agent was a well-made man of perhaps thirty or thirty-five, expensively if quietly dressed, his manner easy toward ship’s captain and sailor alike.
Most of the Bow Street Runners Sebastian had met were gruff, bullying men. That was the demeanor Sebastian assumed now, sinking further into the persona as he walked the length of the wind-buffeted dock so that even his posture and manner of movement altered. It was a trick Kat had taught him when they were both young and in love and fatally unaware of the common blood that coursed through their veins.
“You’re O’Brian, aren’t you?” said
Sebastian brusquely. “Luke O’Brian?”
The purchasing agent turned. He had light brown hair and hazel eyes that flashed with a lively intelligence. “That’s right. May I help you?”
“My name is Taylor.” Sebastian clasped the lapels of his corduroy coat and threw out his chest. “Simon Taylor. We’re looking into the death of Rose Fletcher.” He’d learned he never actually had to say he was from Bow Street; as long as he looked and acted the part, the assumption simply followed.
Sebastian watched as the guarded smile slid away from O’Brian’s face and his lips parted on a quick, silent intake of breath. “Dead? Rose is dead? You’re certain?”
“We believe she was one of the residents of the Magdalene House when it burned Monday night.”
O’Brian turned toward the canal, one hand coming up to cover his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut. He was either devastated or a very, very good actor. It was a moment before he managed to say, “You’re certain there’s no mistake?”
The smell of hot tar and dead fish pinched Sebastian’s nostrils. “We don’t think so. When was the last time you saw her?”
O’Brian shook his head, his face still half averted, his voice a torn whisper. “I don’t know. . . . Ten days ago, maybe. She didn’t tell me she was leaving Orchard Street. I just went there one day and they said she was gone.” He looked around suddenly. “You’re quite certain she was at the Magdalene House?”
“It’s difficult to know anything with these women, isn’t it? Did she ever tell you her real name?”
“No. She didn’t like to talk about her life . . . before.”
“She never told you anything?”
O’Brian fiddled thoughtfully with the fob at the end of his watch chain. It was of gold, Sebastian noticed, discreet but well-fashioned. The cuffs and collar of his shirt were carefully laundered, his cravat snowy-white. No black neckcloths for this agent. “Only that her mother was dead,” said O’Brian, staring out over the masts of the ships rocking at anchor off the docks. “From one or two things she let slip, I gathered the family lived in Northamptonshire. She may have had a couple of sisters—and a brother. I believe he was in the Army. But she didn’t like to talk about them.”
“Northamptonshire? Do you know why she left home?”
O’Brian shook his head. “No.”
“And you’ve no idea why she fled Orchard Street?”
“No. She knew how I felt about her. If she had trouble, why didn’t she come to me?”
Sebastian said, “You think her trouble was with Kane?”
O’Brian’s jaw hardened. “Maybe. More likely that bloody magistrate.”
“What magistrate?”
O’Brian’s nostrils flared on a quickly indrawn breath. “Sir William. The bastard knocked her around pretty bad a couple of times.”
“Ian Kane says he keeps rough customers away from his girls.”
“Usually.” O’Brian stared against the sun peeking out from behind a cloud to set the wind-ruffled surface of the water to sparkling and flashing. “But you can’t exactly keep a Bow Street magistrate away, now can you?”
“Bow Street? You mean Sir William Hadley?
O’Brian cast him a sideways glance, an unexpectedly hard smile curling his lips. “That’s right. Sir William Hadley himself. So what are you going to do about that? Hmmm, Mr. Bow Street Runner?”
Chapter 19
Since Bow Street Runners did not in general drive around London in their own carriages, Sebastian had arrived at the Isle of Dogs in a broken-down hackney driven by a gnarled old jarvey who refused to nudge his mule out of a slow trot. But Sebastian had better luck on the return journey, the hackney swaying along at a satisfying clip as they bounced over the bridge spanning the Limehouse Cut and swung into the long, straight stretch of the new Commercial Road.
It was only by chance that Sebastian glanced back in time to glimpse the dark-coated man astride a raw-boned gray trotting along behind them. Sebastian had noticed the man before, lounging in the door of a coffeehouse near the wharf.
It could be a coincidence, of course. Anyone wishing to return to London from the West India Company docks would inevitably travel this same route. Leaning forward, Sebastian spoke to the driver. “Turn left here. Just wind your way down toward the river.”
“Aye, gov’nor,” said the jarvey in surprise.
They swung into a narrow lane bordered on one side by an open field, on the other by a long row of new houses. This was a part of the city that was expanding rapidly, transformed by the massive new construction of docks and warehouses that had accompanied the war. They ran past the long rope walks of Sun Tavern Fields and, beyond that, the spicy fragrance of a cooperage and the blasting heat of a foundry.
The dark-coated man on the raw-boned gray kept pace behind them.
“Where now, gov’nor?” called the jarvey.
“Pull up at that tavern halfway down the lane.”
The tavern was a new two-story brick structure with twin bay windows. As Sebastian paid off the jarvey, the dark-coated man trotted past, then reined in at the base of the hill overlooking the quay and the warehouses that bordered it.
Sebastian entered the tavern and ordered a glass of daffy. The tavern was crowded with dockers and day laborers who filled the small public room with their voices and the smoke of their pipes and the pungent scent of their hardworking, unwashed bodies. Gin in hand, Sebastian took a seat at an empty table near one of the windows overlooking the street.
At the mouth of an alley directly opposite the tavern stood Dark Coat. As Sebastian watched, he lit a white clay pipe, the blue smoke wafting about his face as he drew hard on the stem. He looked to be in his early thirties, a medium-sized man with a crooked nose and a powerful jaw shaded blue by a day’s growth of beard. He sucked on his pipe, one shoulder propped against the brick wall of the shop beside him, his eyes narrowed against the smoke and the inevitable reek of the alley.
Sebastian set his drink on the table untasted and walked out of the tavern. He had to check for a moment and wait while a dray piled high with coal rumbled past. Then he stepped off the footpath into the churned mud of the unpaved lane. Dark Coat turned his head away, his attention seemingly all for the forest of masts that filled this part of the Thames.
Sebastian planted himself directly in the man’s line of vision. “Who set you to follow me?”
The man’s eyes widened, but he otherwise managed to keep his face admirably blank as he pushed away from the wall. “I don’t know what the bloody hell yer talkin’ about.”
Experience had taught Sebastian to watch a man’s hands. He saw the flash of the knife the instant before it slashed up toward his face. Flinging up his left fist, Sebastian knocked the man’s forearm with his own in a sweeping block as he took a quick step backward.
Too late, Sebastian felt his boot come down on a trampled sludge of rotten cabbage leaves and mud. The leather of his sole skidding dangerously, he slid sideways, one leg shooting out at an awkward angle.
Dark Coat pivoted and ran.
“Shit.” Catching his balance, Sebastian raced after him, past smashed hogsheads and broken crates and dust bins of refuse that reeked of fish guts and offal. They erupted out of the end of the alley through an open gate and into a coal yard. Sebastian heard a hoarse shout from one of the workmen as they pelted past, dodging between towering mountains of gleaming, blue-black coal, their feet kicking up foul clouds of fine coal dust.
The man ahead of Sebastian swerved sideways. Scrambling over the yard wall, he darted out into the traffic of the quay. Dodging lumbering drays and the cracking whip of a bellowing teamster, Sebastian pelted after him.
The dark mouth of a warehouse yawned before them, a vast vaulted chamber whose dank air breathed the heady, forbidden fumes of the Bordeaux and the Côte d’Azure. Dark Coat plunged down the stone steps, the string of lamps above flickering with his passing. Sebastian raced after him. Racks of wine casks towered over them, threw long sha
dows across a cobbled floor gleaming damp in the wavering lamplight. Somewhere, moisture dripped—wine, or a residue of last night’s rain—a slow drip-drip that formed a counterpoint to the slap of boot leather and the rasp of gasping breath.
“What the hell do you want from me?” shouted the man, his voice echoing back as he took the stairs at the far end of the wine cave two at a time.
“Who hired you?”
“Go to hell!”
At the top of the steps, the man veered right. Wary of an ambush, Sebastian slowed. By the time he emerged into the blinding light of the afternoon, the man had disappeared.
Breathing hard, Sebastian let his gaze travel over the darkened warehouses around him. A couple of drunken flaxen-haired sailors stumbled past warbling a German sea song. From the distance came the sound of coopers hammering at casks on the quay, the rattle of chains flying up on a crane . . . and, from the warehouse to his right, a thump, like the sound of a body careening into an unseen obstacle.
