He awoke some time later to find the room in shadows and, when he pulled back the curtain, found that dusk had fallen. He had no time to lose, if he was to visit Mr. Robinson’s shop before that establishment closed for the night. Shoving his feet into his shoes, he snatched up cravat and knotted it hastily about his neck, then hastily donned his coat and waistcoat before heading back out, locking the door to his flat behind him.
“Going out again?” exclaimed Mrs. Catchpole in some dismay, hearing his footsteps on the stairs.
“Only for a little while,” he assured her. “I’ll be back in plenty of time for those lamb chops, believe me! Although,” he added, seeing a potential pitfall, “I will have to go out again, quite late, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll try to be quiet so as not to wake you up, but please don’t be alarmed if you should hear me.”
She made the usual halfhearted complaint about how he needed a wife (predicting confidently that any woman worth her salt would soon put an end to his rackety ways), and offered once again, without much hope, to introduce him to her niece Alice, but let him go with no further protest.
He arrived at George Robinson’s shop in Piccadilly to find the shop’s inventory much depleted. The counter was littered with wooden spools that had once held ribbons or lace, and several of the tables (including the one he had seen freshly stocked with muslins from Brundy and Son only the day before) were practically empty. As for the linen-draper and his daughter, they—indeed, the entire staff—appeared to be in a state of imperfectly concealed excitement, although whether their underlying emotion was pleasure or distress, he could not tell. The answer, as it turned out, was both.
“The biggest single order we’ve ever had,” Nancy Robinson confided eagerly. “Over a hundred pounds, all told.”
“W-what—? Who—?” Pickett stammered.
Fortunately, Miss Robinson had no difficulty understanding the questions that Pickett could not quite wrap his tongue around. “A fine Scottish lady and her three grown daughters, all buying fabrics for new clothes for themselves and their children.”
“Scottish, you say?” echoed an enthralled John Pickett, recalling the large and noisy Colquhoun family.
“Aye, and so funny their accents were! And they paid in cash, mind you, so I think they must be very rich, don’t you?”
“Undoubtedly,” agreed Pickett, struggling to hide a smile at his magistrate’s ingenuity. Leave it to me, indeed!
“Only it was too late to take it to the bank, so all that money must stay in the safe until tomorrow morning—which has us all a little nervous, after what happened last time.”
“Yes, I can see how it might,” Pickett said.
“Do you think we should post a guard overnight?” she asked, struck by sudden inspiration.
“No! That is, no, Miss Robinson, I don’t think that will be necessary,” he amended, a bit more moderately. “I would gladly stay and stand guard myself, but I already have plans for the evening,” he said with perfect truth. “Still, I can’t imagine anyone would take such a risk a second time, not so soon after the first.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said doubtfully. “But I confess I should sleep easier if you were to look things over while you’re here.”
As this dovetailed perfectly with his own plans, he readily agreed. He allowed her to lead him through the door into the back room, where he tested the locks of both safe and back door, all the while calculating what tools might be most effective for breaching them. At last, having satisfied both his own ends and those of Miss Robinson, he took his leave and returned to his own lodgings to make preparations.
Chapter 9
In Which John Pickett Reverts
to His Old Way of Life
Back at his two-room flat in Drury Lane, Pickett made his preparations with the solemnity of one preparing for a sacred rite. He checked the coal-scuttle on the hearth and, finding the bottom of it covered with a thick layer of black dust, removed the bowl and pitcher from the washstand and set the coal-scuttle in its place. He next turned his attention to the bureau drawers where his meager wardrobe was stored, selecting the oldest (and therefore the dingiest) shirt he owned and laying it out on the bed. A pair of black breeches came next, followed by black stockings and a black cravat. He suffered a small pang upon removing his black tailcoat from its peg on the wall. It was the best he owned, and usually reserved for court appearances at the Old Bailey; he could only hope that it would suffer no irreversible ill-effects from the indignities he was about to inflict upon it. If his hopes were doomed to disappointment, however, perhaps Mrs. Catchpole might be persuaded (for something in addition to the modest sum he paid her above and beyond his monthly rent in exchange for laundering his clothing) to work some magic with damp tea leaves and fuller’s earth. In any case, he had no choice. The black tailcoat joined the other garments on the bed.
His preparations were interrupted at this point by a tapping on the door of the outer room. He left the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind him, and opened the outer door to find Mrs. Catchpole standing there holding a tray covered with a checked cloth. He didn’t have to lift the cloth to see what was underneath; the aroma of lamb chops was sufficient to inform him that this was his supper. He thanked her profusely, but carefully avoided saying anything that she might interpret as an invitation to linger.
After she had gone, he set the tray on the table and removed the cloth. Two lamb chops, still sizzling, held pride of place on a blue-rimmed stoneware plate, accompanied by a potato, a hunk of bread, and a small crock of butter. With a whimper of regret, Pickett removed the two chops and wrapped them carefully in a napkin. Desire warred with necessity for a long moment before Pickett yielded to the former. He unfolded the napkin and took one bite out of the larger of the two chops, then wrapped them back up and made what supper he could from the potato, bread, and butter.
And then there was little he could do but wait. He drew up a chair before the fire and selected a book from the modest collection of secondhand volumes arranged on the mantel, then read by the light of the fire while he listened for the periodic chiming of the church bells of St. Mary-le-Strand. Finally, as the bells signaled eleven, he laid aside his book and returned to the bedroom, where he arrayed himself in the funereal garments he’d laid out earlier, taking care to spread out the folds of the cravat in order to cover as much of his pale shirtfront as he could contrive.
His costume complete, he turned his attention to assembling the necessary tools. He returned to the sitting room for the knife with which he’d buttered his bread, carefully wiped it clean, then put it in the inside breast pocket of his coat. On second thought, he reflected, the streets of London could be dangerous so late at night. He removed the knife from his pocket and slid it up his shirtsleeve with its handle down and held loosely in place by the wristband. Granted, it was too blunt to be of much use as a weapon, but if self-defense should suddenly become necessary, it would be better than nothing.
Next, he rummaged in the top drawer of his bureau until he located a hairpin. It was an odd thing, perhaps, to find in a bachelor’s lodging, but then, this was no ordinary hairpin. It had once belonged to her, had been plucked from her hair by her own fingers for a very similar purpose as the one it would serve tonight. He smiled a little, remembering that earlier occasion, for it had also been the first time he had kissed her. Actually, if he were to be honest, it had been she who had kissed him, and although he reminded himself that there had been nothing at all romantic about the encounter—after all, they’d had to have some reason for being alone together in a supposedly locked room in the middle of the night—he could never quite make himself believe it. He should have returned it to her, of course; he’d meant to, but the dual traumas of being simultaneously discovered and kissed had driven the matter from his mind. He hadn’t realized it was still in his possession until after he’d returned to London and turned out his pockets, and although he had longed for some excuse to see her
again, even he had recognized the return of a hairpin as the flimsiest of excuses. And so he had kept it like a talisman, and tonight it would be almost like having her there beside him. Or so he told himself, as he slipped it into the inside breast pocket of his coat.
There was only one thing left to do. No, two. He fetched the packet of lamb chops from the table in the sitting room and tucked them into his pocket along with the hairpin; he only hoped he would not have every stray dog and cat in London following in his wake by the time he reached Piccadilly. Finally, he plunged his hands into the coal dust at the bottom of the scuttle and liberally smeared his face with black. In addition to making him less visible inside the darkened shop, this last would also provide him with a disguise along the way, should one be necessary; he had only to take a few staggering steps and sing a few off-key bars of “Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes” to be taken for any coal worker, or perhaps a chimney sweep, out drinking his wages.
At last, the bells of St. Mary-le-Strand chimed the half-hour, and he picked up his shoes (he’d warned Mrs. Catchpole he would be going out, but he had no desire to tempt fate) and tiptoed down the staircase in his stockinged feet. At the foot of the stairs, he put on his shoes, and a moment later he was weaving his way down Drury Lane toward the Strand and thence to Pall Mall—and only the keenest of observers might have noticed that his steps, unsteady as they were, bore unvaryingly southwestward. Determined to display nothing stealthy in his manner, he soon was emboldened to interrupt his song long enough to call a cheery (if slurred) “Ev’nin’!” to the few persons out and about at such an hour.
Unfortunately, he had reckoned without the nocturnal habits of the upper class. As he approached the place where Piccadilly connected with Jermyn Street via St. James’s, he recognized an acquaintance (he could hardly call him a friend), no doubt returning to his Albany flat from one of the Jermyn Street gaming hells. The sight was so unexpected, and so unwelcome, that had he actually been drunk he would certainly have been shocked into sobriety.
“Mr. Pickett?” exclaimed Lord Rupert Latham, in accents as stunned as Pickett’s would have been, had he been capable of speech. Unlike Pickett, however, his lordship quickly recovered his poise. “I trust you will forgive me for asking, but have you perchance fallen into a coal-cellar?”
Giving himself a moment to gather his wits, Pickett leaned forward to examine the speaker closely through narrowed eyes, careful to hold his breath (which would, of course, betray no trace of strong drink). “I know who you are,” he pronounced at last, drawing himself up to his full height. “You’re L-Lord R-Rupert.”
“Very perceptive of you,” his lordship acknowledged, “especially given your present condition. Dare I assume that this overindulgence—which I will pay you the compliment of saying seems strangely unlike you—means your ‘marriage’ has been voided?”
“M-my marriage?” Pickett echoed stupidly.
“To the Lady Fieldhurst,” Lord Rupert explained obligingly.
“Not L-Lady Fieldhurst,” Pickett corrected him. “Mrs. Pickett.” He uttered this last with painstakingly correct pronunciation.
“As you wish. Although not for much longer, one trusts.”
“I’ll th-thank you not to b-bandy m’wife’s name about in th’street,” Pickett said with as much dignity as a supposedly drunken man might be able to muster.
“Very true. How lowering it is to have my manners corrected by, er, an inebriated Bow Street Runner! Now, if you will pardon me for cutting this charming encounter short, I must away to my humble abode. I suddenly find myself possessed of a burning desire to pay a morning call tomorrow on a certain lady of our acquaintance, and for this I require a good night’s repose. Adieu, Mr. Pickett! Your most obedient servant.”
Lord Rupert swept a bow that was insulting in its very obeisance—which Pickett returned with gratitude, as it allowed him to conceal any pain his face might have betrayed at the realization that he was not to be allowed to keep even so much as his lady’s good opinion. As he and Lord Rupert parted company, he forced himself to pick up the threads of his song.
“Or leave a kiiiiss but in the cuuuup, And IIII’ll not ask for wiiiine . . .”
He reached the shop of George Robinson without further incident, and looked up at the windows of its upper floors in order to satisfy himself that everyone was abed. Finding all the windows dark, he retraced his steps up Piccadilly and approached the shop once more, this time by way of the alley running along the back. He fumbled in his coat pocket for the hairpin, then knelt before the door, reflecting that, after his encounter with Lord Rupert, picking a lock would be mere child’s play. He inserted the hairpin into the lock, pressed his ear to the door, and manipulated the pin in the lock until he heard a faint click. Testing the knob, he found that it now turned easily in his hand. Having dealt efficiently with the lock, he stood up, drew the knife from his sleeve, and turned his attention to the hook that had been fastened at, if memory served, about the level of his chin. He inserted the blade of the knife between doorframe and panel, then moved it first up and then down, until it met with resistance. Yes, there it was. He withdrew the knife and inserted it again beneath the obstruction, then slid the blade upward until he could feel the resistance yield as the hook disengaged from its eye. Still holding it up with the blade of the knife, he grasped the knob and eased the door open.
And was met by Brutus, baring his teeth and growling ominously.
This time, however, Pickett was prepared. “No, I haven’t forgotten you,” he assured the dog, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “See, I’ve brought you something.”
He withdrew the packet of chops from his pocket, unwrapped the napkin, and tossed the contents across the room. Brutus, nothing loth, gave chase at once, scampering across the room like a puppy in pursuit of his prize. With the dog’s attention otherwise engaged, there was nothing to prevent Pickett from entering the back room and closing the door softly behind him, re-engaging the locks so that no intruder might have advance warning of anything amiss. Having taken this precaution, he settled himself in a corner of the room that offered an unobstructed view of the safe while leaving him in shadows, virtually invisible except for the whites of his eyes, should anyone enter the room carrying a light.
As he sat in the stygian darkness with no way to amuse himself and nothing to occupy his mind, it seemed to Pickett as if the moments crawled by, or even stopped altogether. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He would look a pretty fool in the morning, if he were to be discovered here in the morning with nothing to show for his vigil. Mr. Colquhoun might not be too pleased either, come to that, although his wife would certainly have no cause for complaint . . .
He had begun to drift off to sleep when a small sound jerked him instantly awake. A moment later the door to the showroom opened, and a solitary figure entered the room, an anonymous silhouette bearing a single candle in its hand. Pickett held his peace, watching silently as the figure set the candle on the floor beside the safe and knelt before it. Pickett could not have seen what happened next even had there been sufficient light, for his view was blocked by the figure itself. Still, he was sufficiently well-versed in safecracking to recognize the sound of a lock being released, and the creak of the hinges as the door swung open.
The candle was taken up again, no doubt to better illuminate the interior of the safe, and although Pickett could not see what transpired, he was certain enough that when the safe door creaked shut and the dark figure took up its candle once more, he judged it time to make his presence known. Before the thief could make his exit, Pickett spoke out of the darkness.
“How now, Andrew?”
Chapter 10
In Which John Pickett Catches a Thief
The candle was immediately snuffed, and the sharp smell of smoke filled the room. In the next instant the door into the showroom was flung open, and Pickett leaped to his feet and gave chase as his quarry beat a hasty retreat. Alas, his opponent h
ad a distinct advantage, possessing long familiarity with the layout of the shop, and Pickett banged his hip painfully against a corner of the counter as he pursued the thief, who appeared to be making for the stairs. Thankfully, Pickett discovered an unexpected ally in Brutus, who, finding his new friend and his old one engaged in some sort of game (and one, moreover, that he with his keen canine eyesight should easily win), threw himself into the general confusion, giving voice to his pleasure in the sport with barks of delight.
Some time later (it seemed to Pickett like hours, although it could not have been more than a minute or two), a clatter of footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a moment later Mr. Robinson and his daughter burst into the room, both in their nightclothes and the latter with her light brown hair in a single braid down her back. They each held a candle, and the feeble light of these two flames was sufficient to illuminate two men grappling about on the floor.
“Andrew!” cried Miss Robinson, recognizing only one of the two. “What are you doing?”
“Stop this brawling and get up, both of you,” commanded the linen-draper with an air of dignity quite out of keeping with his déshabillé.
The two obliged, albeit slowly and stiffly, and Miss Robinson gasped as the identity of the second of the combatants became clear.
“Now,” continued Mr. Robinson, “perhaps you’ll tell me what this is all about.”
Waiting Game Page 7
