Den of Thieves

by William Holden

  A grandstand, built to give the wealthy a more direct line of viewing, surrounded the hanging tree on three sides. The finest of London’s men and women, dressed in their Sunday best, filled the stands to capacity. With their powdered wigs and decorated faces, the aristocracy of London and beyond was in attendance, waving their white handkerchiefs and sipping their brandy. At one shilling a head, it made for a tidy sum to help pay the expenses of the execution and burial.

  Mr. Green sat motionless as Pierre pulled the wagon under the structure and came to a stop. Even with the stinging sun on his face, Mr. Green looked pale. His emotionless features made him appear as if the life had already been taken from him. The executioner, a drunken mess of a man, stumbled onto the wagon.

  “Mr. Newton,” the man shouted over the roar of the crowds. His speech doused with mid-day spirits was little more than an illiterate tongue. His eyes dulled from the alcohol haze stared at me. I stood to greet him. He swayed then nodded but said nothing else. In his drunken state, I began to wonder if he had forgotten what he was going to say, or to whom he was speaking.

  “Good day to you, sir,” I said.

  The executioner turned to Mr. Green. “It is an honor and privilege to hang you today, my Lord.”

  I shook my head and stepped out of the wagon. Men, women, and even children were coming to me with their appreciation, slapping me on the back, or wishing to shake the hand of the man who helped bring down the treasonous man of the House of Lords. My legs and back ached from the long, bumpy ride. I stretched and felt my body complain as I pulled myself away from the multitude of hands groping me. Pierre joined me at the back of the wagon, helping to control the growing number of admirers.

  “I assume you wish to stay and watch the festivities?” Pierre shouted as he leaned in closer to me.

  “I would not miss it. Bess is saving us a spot somewhere on the grandstand.” I searched the crowded stands for her. Having to peer over and around the heads of thousands of people made spotting her next to impossible. She had been instrumental in helping me locate Pierre and Christopher after their abduction. Her connection to Jonathan Wilcox and his affection for her was my sole way into his Den of Thieves. Since the arrest, she had become a more visible part of our lives. There was something about her demeanor and rough classiness I found remarkable and to be honest enjoyable to be around.

  “There she is.” Pierre pointed toward the grandstand. Bess smiled and waved. “How did she secure three seats up there?”

  “Who else? Mr. Wilcox,” I said. “Come on. I would rather not be on the ground when Mr. Green drops.” We pushed our way through the hordes of onlookers, drunks, and street vendors. As we passed a cart of fresh pork pies, my stomach grumbled. I hesitated for a moment, wanting nothing more than to satisfy my hunger, but I thought better of it. I no longer wanted to be a part of the strange custom of celebrating someone’s death, even if it was my so-called father’s.

  Bess greeted us with a warm hug and gentle kiss on each cheek. “Where is Christopher?”

  “He finds public executions distasteful,” Pierre said. “He is keeping an eye on things at Clapton’s while Crowe waits in the carriage to take us home.”

  “How are you doing, Thomas?” She adjusted herself in her tight-fitting bodice then wiped her lipstick from mine and Pierre’s cheek. “

  “I am fine.” I replied looking at both Bess and Pierre. I could tell they did not believe me. “I just want to put all of this behind me and get on with my life. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No, of course not, honey.” Bess cooed with sympathy.

  “Honest, I am fine.” I nodded at the troupe of drummers as they took their position in hopes of deflecting any additional inquiries into my supposed fragile state of mind. The cacophony of sounds dwindled within seconds and faded to an absolute silence. I looked out across the square filled with thousands of people. I was in awe that not a single rustle of fabric or a baby’s cry could be heard. Even the birds and animals seemed to participate in the condemned silence.

  “Any last words for the condemned,” the executioner shouted.

  Mr. Green looked around the square. His eyes at once fell to mine. “I shall see you in hell, Thomas.” His voice carried over the crowd.

  I wanted to speak out, but for once held my tongue. A swarm of nerves fluttered in the pit of my belly. I could not tell if the unease was from the prolonged display or my father’s last and final threat. I shook off the feeling as best as I could and watched the executioner place the hood over Mr. Green’s head. Once the hood was tied and secured, the executioner slipped the noose over his hooded head and secured the rope around his neck.

  The drummers began their death roll. The sound of their synchronized drumming was both haunting and beautiful. The strength and volume of the rolling swelled around the square. They beat the drums faster and harder until I felt every strike of their drumsticks against the stretched hide. The vibrations drummed and pounded through my body. No one in the crowd moved as the executioner stepped off the wagon and secured the rope to one of the legs of the triple tree. He walked over to the horse and slapped its hind-quarters. The horse whinnied and took off running.

  The wagon pulled away. The rope snapped as the full weight of Mr. Green’s body fell against it. His body jerked, shivered, and swayed as he struggled for the last of his breath. The crowd remained silent for the duration of his death. After several minutes his body relaxed and fell still. A judge appointed physician inspected the body and pronounced Mr. Green dead. The crowd went wild with celebratory shouts. Several groups of men stormed the wagon and started dismantling it, all vying for a piece of the cart that took Mr. Green to his death.

  “I have seen enough.” I said and began my descent off the grandstand. Once on solid ground, I felt a rush of tension lift from my body. I took a deep breath and sighed to hasten its departure. Pierre assisted Bess down the rickety wooden platform. I turned to Bess. “Would you like to come back to Clapton’s with us for a drink? Crowe should be near with the carriage.”

  “Yes, something cold and stiff sounds heavenly.” She fanned herself in the growing heat.

  “Thomas.” A voice called out over the commotion.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Pierre grumbled under his breath. At that point, I knew it was not a welcome visitor. I turned around as Mr. Wilcox approached.

  “Mr. Wilcox—” I held back from saying more when I felt Pierre nudge me into silence.

  “It was a glorious hanging, do you not agree?”

  “I dare say, I find nothing triumphant in a hanging,” Pierre replied. “Thomas, we must be going.”

  “Am I mistaken, or is that animosity I hear in your voice—” he lit his pipe and took a long draw “—I must say I thought the fine upstanding Pierre Baptiste had a bit more couth than what you are displaying. After all, you should be grateful—”

  “Mr. Wilcox.” I interrupted, knowing he and Pierre would do nothing but fuel the fire between them. “You wanted something?”

  “Indeed I did. I wanted to wait until all the unpleasantness of the trial and hanging were over before I reminded you of our little agreement.”

  “How kind of you,” Pierre spat.

  “I can assure you I have not forgotten. I may lack many qualities of a gentleman, but I am a man of my word.”

  “I have no doubt on either account.” Jonathan shook my shoulder and laughed. “I am sorry for talking business on a day like today. I came over to invite you to a dinner party I am hosting tomorrow night. I am happy to invite Pierre and Christopher so long as they can keep a civil tongue about them.” Mr. Wilcox gave Pierre a condescending look.

  “What is the occasion?” Pierre asked.

  “I am entertaining a Dutch dignitary.”

  “I—”

  “We would be honored,” I interrupted Pierre. “Thank you, Mr. Wilcox.”

  “Thomas, if you and I are going to be conducting business together, I insist you call me Jonathan. Now, Bess,
if I may escort you back to the Goose and Gridiron?”

  “Your kind offer is not needed,” I said. “Bess is coming back with us to Clapton’s for a drink. Would you care to join us?” Pierre’s angered gaze was more than apparent.

  “No, I must insist Bess come back with me. The emotions of the hanging are running rampant in the streets. I feel it would be much safer for Bess if I escort her home so I may keep an eye on her. As you can imagine, the men will be quite intoxicated from the revelry of today and will require the attention and care only a woman can provide.”

  “Our coachman—”

  “Please, Thomas, it is okay.” Bess kissed me on the cheek. “We shall see each other tomorrow night at dinner.” She fixed her eyes on me and in that moment, I could tell she did not want me to force the issue.

  “Very well. Until tomorrow evening.” I bowed. Pierre followed my lead even though I knew it was not genuine. Mr. Wilcox nodded then snatched Bess’s arm and led her through the square.

  I turned and started my way through the crowd without haste, knowing the mere sight of Mr. Wilcox sent Pierre on a ride of frenzied emotions. The last six months had been quiet. Mr. Wilcox was too busy with the trial to call in the debt I owed him, and after several heated discussions early on with Pierre and Christopher, the topic of Mr. Wilcox died back. I feared this recent confrontation with him, coupled with the dinner invitation, would fuel Pierre’s anger.

  “Crowe is up ahead.” I pointed and quickened my pace.

  “Home, gentleman?” Crowe asked as he held the door. I nodded my response. He shut the door and settled in up front.

  “Mr. Wilcox is the bane of my existence.” Pierre said once we were on our way.

  “Please, do not start in again.”

  “For the life of me, I do not know why you side with him.”

  “I am with you and Christopher, not Mr. Wilcox. Besides, if it were not for him, you and Christopher would be dead, and I would be the one hanging from the noose for your murders.” I replied with too much haste. I cursed myself yet again for not having a cautious tongue. “My apologies. It is just that we have been over this argument so many times. I was desperate to find the two of you, and he was my only option. Do you think I wanted to go to your enemy for help?”

  “Of course not.” Pierre looked at me and smiled. He touched my cheek. “Has he been in contact with you about the debt you owe him?”

  “No, not until today. I promised you and Christopher I would keep both of you informed, and I intend to keep my promise.”

  “Thank you. You must know it is Mr. Wilcox I do not trust, and not you.”

  “I know. I appreciate your concern, but I do not think the magistrate will call in my debt.”

  “Why do you say that?” Pierre turned in his seat to face me. “What are you keeping from me?”

  “It might be nothing, and honestly the thought did not cross my mind until now. What convinced Mr. Wilcox to help me was not a debt I would have to pay, but because he believed Mr. Green’s papers named and incriminated him.”

  “Where did he get that idea?”

  “I told him. It was my last card to play, and it worked.”

  “Thomas, I love you.” He leaned over and kissed me. “Does he know it was a lie?”

  “If he does, he has not mentioned it to me. I am convinced it is keeping him from calling in my debt.”

  “This information should be kept between the two of us. Does anyone else know?”

  “Bess was there when I played the card.”

  “Mr. Wilcox has seen those documents; we can be sure of that much. He either knows you lied to him, which is unlikely, otherwise he’d be all over you, or—”

  “He thinks I still have the papers implicating him.” I finished Pierre’s sentence, an act considered by many to be ill-mannered and disrespectful, but for Pierre and me it had grown out of our affection for one another, and in that regard, we both found comfort in our shared, sometimes unspoken language.

  “Correct and we need to keep him thinking that for as long as possible.”

  “I have no intention of telling him the truth,” I said. Settling myself back against the seat, I felt Pierre’s fingers interlock with mine. We rode the rest of the way with a comfortable silence.

  Chapter 2

  I stared out the window as the carriage was pulled up to Clapton’s. I smiled as I admired the new side door we had constructed. For as long as I had been with Mother Clap the only entrance to the house and living quarters was through the cellar and up the back staircase. With Pierre, Christopher, and Crowe all living with me, it had become a nuisance. I hired several of Crowe’s friends to put a new door along the side exterior wall, which entered directly into the dining room. Crowe opened the carriage door and brought me out of my thoughts.

  “Thank you.” I stepped out. Pierre followed behind me.

  “Pierre, I still do not understand why you insisted on stopping in the crowded streets for all these meat pies and fresh fruit? Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful, as will my belly be once we start eating, but you know Christopher loves to cook. I am sure we have plenty of food in the pantry.”

  “Christopher is working on a particular project. He thought it would be good to get some hours in while he had the house to himself. I did not want to interrupt him to prepare a meal. Besides, I thought we could all use a break from our daily routines.”

  “What project?” I looked at Pierre, wondering why I had not known of a new job.

  “Crowe,” Pierre ignored my question. “You are more than welcome to join us. I purchased enough food to feed all the mollies in a two-mile radius.” Though Pierre winked at me and smiled, I was too curious about the mysterious job to pay him much attention. I was determined not to let the question go unanswered.

  “I do not want to intrude,” Crowe replied. He shut the carriage door.

  “Nonsense.” I shifted the bag of meat pies and fruit and placed my hand on his shoulder. “You are family, our family and families should dine together.”

  “Thomas is correct, on both accounts,” Pierre said. “As I said, there is plenty of food, and like it or not, you are part of this strange household we have created. Besides, you have been working double duty for us ever since Sutton died, between getting Clapton’s up and running and serving as our coachman you deserve a break. We all do.”

  “Thank you.” Crowe lowered his head as if embarrassed by our words of endearment as he tended to the horses. “It has been a long time since I have had anyone to call a friend, much less family. The Society for the Reformation of Manner’s took that away from us.”

  “And we are determined to take it back,” I said. “Then you will join us?”

  “Yes, thank you, I will.” Crowe waited for us to pass before following. Even despite our reassuring words, he still seemed hesitant to break the barriers separating servants from their employers.

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Pierre stopped and fumbled with the keys in the pocket of his overcoat. “I sent a letter to Sheppard, my coachman and valet in Paris, expressing our urgent need for his services here. I expect him any day.”

  “I hope I have not done anything to offend you, Mr. Pierre?” Crowe’s expression was one of concern.

  “No, of course not. I feel as if I am running you ragged between all you are doing for us.” Pierre smiled. “I know Thomas is anxious to get Clapton’s up and running to where it was before the raids, and with my business continuing to pick up, there is just more work than any of us can handle. I thought having an additional pair of hands would ease all of our time.” Pierre unlocked the door.

  “I think it is a splendid idea,” I said as we walked into the house.

  “You are back earlier than expected.” Christopher stood, skidding his chair against the floor.

  “Christopher, is everything okay?” He appeared flustered and caught off guard as he tried to conceal the work he was doing in our absence.

  “What is a splendid idea?”
Christopher asked. He gathered up a stack of papers, shuffled them to even the edges then slipped them into a large brown envelope and closed the flap.

  “Bringing Pierre’s coachman from Paris, Nicholas Sheppard, to help out around here.” I went to him and kissed him. “You appear out of sorts. Is everything alright?” I asked again.

  “Yes, I am fine. I was not expecting you back so soon.” He smiled. It was one of those masked expressions used to hide the truth. I was not about to let it go.

  “What is going on?” I noticed Christopher looking over my shoulder as Pierre came up behind me. I turned, looked at Pierre, then back at Christopher. I could see in their eyes they were having a secret conversation about my presence.

  “Shall I set the table?” Crowe took the food from my arms and walked behind the bar, which separated the kitchen and the dining room.

  “Thank you.” I gave him a brief smile, then turned my attention back to the obvious secret Pierre and Christopher were keeping.

  “Do not look at me like that,” Pierre said.

  “Me? What are the two of you up to?” I glanced at the worn, leather envelope Christopher was holding under his arm. A faint memory flickered in my mind. I recognize the pouch, but from where? As soon as I asked myself the question, the answer came to me. “Those are the documents Mr. Finny had on Mr. Green, are they not?” I looked at Christopher. He would not look at me. Instead, his eyes once again looked past me. “Do not keep looking at Pierre to get you out of this. What are you doing with them? I thought they were turned over to the judge?”

  “The papers were,” Pierre said.

  “Then why is Christopher sitting here with them?” I studied Pierre’s expressionless face then turned to look at Christopher. I snatched the envelope from Christopher, then took a seat at the table. “Well?” I stared at the two of them standing across the table from me. They acted like school boys caught in some mischievous act. “I am waiting,” I said with growing agitation.

  “Thomas, please, you are over reacting.” Pierre placed his hands on the back of a chair.