Den of Thieves

by William Holden

  “At the risk of sounding ignorant of such matters,” I said with plenty of sarcasm as I was starting to dislike Mr. Borgstrom’s polite arrogance. “What exactly does one do in the art of natural magic? What rub two stones together and make a wish?”

  “Thomas.” Pierre spat and shot me a glance, indicating I had overstepped my bounds.

  “No, that is quite all right.” Mr. Borgstrom laughed. “I find Mr. Newton’s frankness quite refreshing. We should all strive to be more open with our thoughts.”

  “I shall try to explain as best I can, in limited terms, so as not to bore or confuse those with, how would you say…nimble minds?” He took a sip of his wine. Opened up the small purse and pulled out his mouse who he placed on his shoulder. “Our world is a great source of energy.” He took a piece of bread and fed it to the nasty little creature. “This energy referred to as magnetism, is found in the earth’s natural ingredients. By concentrating these natural energies along with the alignment of planets and the world outside of our own, I am able to place individuals in a stage of mental sleep called a trance. It is in this realm between the living and the dead, where my subjects experience things not of this world. They are free from life’s limitations to explore and communicate with those who have died, and hence be told of wonders and secrets hidden from us in our daily lives.” He looked around the table at the blank or unsettled stares of the other guests. “I dare say I have made those who have come to honor me tonight uncomfortable with my talk of such matters.” He looked once again at the faces staring back at him and stopped when he came to Pierre’s stare. “Mr. Baptiste, of all the others, you appear to be most affected by my scientific discoveries and work. Why is that?”

  Pierre finished chewing his food then wiped his mouth before responding. “I meant no offense, but I must confess all this talk is a bit distasteful to me. I do not believe we have any right to discuss such matters or delve into the afterlife. If we were meant to have such knowledge of which you speak, we would have the ability to do so without interventions.”

  “I can tell by the way you stopped, you were not finished, but felt obliged to do so,” Mr. Borgstrom replied. “Please, Mr. Baptiste, do not let my official post with the Dutch parliament keep you from speaking your mind. You were going to say?”

  “Very well.” Pierre cleared his throat. “You talk of serving the Lord, but are you not, in fact, playing him? Your country’s Calvinistic beliefs cannot approve of your work.”

  “A blasphemous statement if I ever heard one,” Mr. Borgstrom chided. “I would never assume the Lord’s role, nor tout myself as anything more than a mere peasant to him. My studies and experiments are strictly of a scientific nature. Do you not think that by studying our minds, and what they are capable of, someday we might be able to cure madness?” Mr. Borgstrom took the mouse from his shoulder, cupped it in his hand, and stroked its small head. “Think of the benefits of understanding the mind. The science of death, and yes, I believe death is an area which we need to explore.” He looked around the table. “If we can understand what happens in death—”

  “What happens?” Pierre interrupted. “You speak as if death is another conscious experience.”

  “Is it not?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure? How can any of us know what exists until we study it?” He gave the mouse another piece of bread. “I can see by your expressions my words are not enough to convince anyone of the merits of my work. Therefore, I insist each of you come to my show and see for yourselves. I shall be hosting it in my home, two nights from tonight. I look forward to seeing you there.” He raised his wine glass, nodded, then took a drink. “Mr. Wilcox, you have been quiet on the subject?”

  “Since I have no background in the sciences, I have no authority on which to speak on the subject.” Mr. Wilcox wiped his mouth then added, “Mr. Borgstrom, I hope your accommodations are suitable?”

  “They are quite satisfactory, thank you. Though I must admit, my associates and I are feeling rather unnerved by the crime in this city. The broadsheets are nothing but accounts of the atrocities of London.”

  “I can assure you that you and your companions are safe in London, there is no need to worry.”

  “How can you say so with such authority? I have sat here and tried to entertain myself with pleasant conversations with your guests and to enjoy this delicious venison, but I cannot rest, as I feel ignorant of what might await me on my way home.”

  “As the magistrate, I can assure you we have everything under control.”

  “People seem nervous, afraid even to leave their homes. That is no way to live and is not the lifestyle the Dutch are accustomed to.”

  “Mr. Borgstrom,” Mr. Wilcox sighed. “It is a growing reality in this day and age that the more one has, the more afraid they become of losing it. It is a fact of life we must bear.”

  “An interesting statement coming from the magistrate,” Pierre said. “I must differ on that stance. It is not always the case. Take Mr. and Mrs. Reid for instance. It is not wealth, Mr. Wilcox. It is greed, pure and uncomplicated.”

  “This is preposterous. A few robberies and everyone acts as if someone has died.”

  “Perhaps the wine has clouded your memory,” Pierre replied. “Someone did die, Mr. Reid to be exact, or are you trying to cover up the facts.”

  “I will not be insulted in my own home, Mr. Baptiste.” Mr. Wilcox kept his voice quiet, but his anger was apparent. “I, along with the coroner, examined Mr. Reid’s body and found it to be no more than the old man falling and hitting his head. There was no cause to start an inquisition as there was no murder.”

  “I insist we stop this dreadful conversation,” Mr. Borgstrom said. “You are agitating poor Fielding here. Look at him.” He cupped the mouse in the palm of his hand and held it out in front of him for all the guests to see. “He is tormented by the rising energies in the room.” The mouse sniffed Mr. Borgstrom’s hand then sat up on his hind legs, its front legs curled up to its small chest. The mouse raised its nose in the air, smelling the remaining dinner. “I cannot bear this any longer. Our conversation is too upsetting.” Mr. Borgstrom rose and stepped away from the table. “You will have to excuse us for a few moments until we have time to compose ourselves.”

  “Well, this has turned out to be a fascinating evening,” Bess whispered in my ear.

  “Mr. Baptiste.” Mr. Wilcox stood and walked over to where Pierre sat. “A word, please.”

  “If I must.” Pierre placed his napkin on top of his empty plate, stood, and followed Mr. Wilcox over to one corner of the dining room. I rose to follow.

  “Thomas.” Bess reached out, held my hand and shook her head. “Stay here. Whatever has upset Jonathan, I am sure Pierre can handle it.”

  I watched Mr. Wilcox jab his finger into Pierre’s chest to make his point. Despite the powder on his face, I could see the red of anger rising to the surface. Pierre shook his head, and though I was no good at following a person’s lips, I thought I saw Pierre say do not threaten me. Their conversation was continuing to spark when the doors to the dining room flew open, and Sheppard stumbled through them. He was limping, the sleeve of his shirt was torn and splattered with blood. There was a gash above his left eye.

  “I am sorry, sir,” the Butler said. “I tried to explain—”

  “It is all right, Mr. Brant.” Mr. Wilcox turned from Pierre, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the uninvited guest. “What in the hell is the meaning of this? And more to the point who in the hell are you?”

  “Mr. Baptiste, sir,” he said through winded breaths.

  “Mr. Wilcox, let him in, he is my coachman.” Pierre went up to Sheppard. “What happened?”

  “I am sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Wilcox, everyone.” He looked around the room at the stunned guest. “Mr. Wilcox, please you must come at once. There has been another robbery, and this time both husband and wife have been found dead.”

  Chapter 5

&nb
sp; “Where did this take place?” Mr. Wilcox spoke in a loud and commanding voice. Most likely out of dramatics to impress his guests than any real concern.

  “Here in Mayfair, just a few streets away. At the home of Mr. and Mrs. Durant.”

  “Everyone,” Mr. Wilcox turned to address his guest. “Please stay here where it is safe, at least until we know more.” Mr. Wilcox turned back to Sheppard. “Well, come on.”

  “Please, Mr. Wilcox the man is injured,” Pierre pleaded. “He is in no shape to go anywhere at the moment.” Pierre slipped Sheppard’s arm around his body. “Go and check out the crime scene. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find for someone like you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Pierre assisted Sheppard toward the dining table. “I mean it is in your part of the city, just a few doors away. I am sure you can manage just fine on your own.”

  “Thomas,” Bess said. “We should make room at the table.” She reached over and held my hand. We both stood and moved out of the way. I noticed Mr. Wilcox across the room. He had not moved. It was as if he did not have the slightest idea of what to do, especially with everyone watching and expecting the mighty magistrate to act without pause.

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Pierre gave me a worried smile. Then looked at the stunned guests. “Can someone please go fetch a constable instead of sitting here like a bunch of bent sticks too addled to get aroused?”

  “Yes, by all means.” Another of the guests stood, kissed his wife goodbye, and left the room. Mr. Wilcox followed him.

  I smiled, nodded, and looked around the table as the other guests took up conversations speculating on who, where, and why. I looked over at Mr. Borgstrom. There were no emotions on display. He sat stroking his mouse, and despite his earlier claims of being worried about the growing rate of crimes, the news of two more deaths appeared of no importance to him. He must have felt my eyes upon him. He looked over at me. His expression changed. There was something about his elaborately painted face, and the stone-cold stare that gave me pause to reconsider my impression of him. Whether it was sadness or a sense of empathy I could not say. I, at that moment, felt sorry for the man, and for the life of me I could not figure out why.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Pierre knelt down by Sheppard, handed him my half-finished glass of wine, then took a look at his arm while Sheppard recounted the details.

  “I stepped down onto the street to stretch my legs while I smoked. Tobacco sometimes helps to calm my nerves. Being in this city has an effect on me. It is much more rambunctious and crowded than Paris.” He paused and took a deep breath. “My apologies. I seem to have strayed from the point. “As I said, I stepped onto the street. I noticed a carriage sitting down the road from where I had parked.”

  “What time was this?” Pierre asked.

  “I cannot be sure, but it must have been around seven.” He winced as Pierre dabbed the cuts with a dampened cloth. “The coachman got out of the carriage and walked toward the house. I assumed he was there to pick up someone.” He took a sip of the wine. “When he knocked on the door, someone came out of the house, struck him with what looked like a poker then came running toward the carriage.” Sheppard paused and closed his eyes for a moment. “The whole business being so close to…” He opened his eyes and shook his head. “I am sorry. Fright of the situation rendered me motionless, it was as if I had been struck with palsy. I stood in disbelief as I watched the man unbridle one of the horses from the carriage, then mounted the poor animal. I knew if I did not try to intervene he would escape. I went running after him, demanding he stop, but he turned the horse around and came toward me. There was no time to react. I was knocked down by the force of the animal.”

  “Were you able to get a look at the person?”

  “No, I am afraid not. The streets were dark, and everything happened so fast. I am sorry.”

  “It is lucky you escaped with your life. My apologies, I am Bess Dutton, a friend of Thomas and Pierre.”

  “Nicholas Sheppard, my lady.” He bowed his head. When Bess curtsied, and brought her large breasts near his face, Sheppard became flustered and turned his head without delay. Both Bess’s and Sheppard’s faces became flushed with embarrassment as a silence settled between the four of us.

  “Bess,” Pierre spoke. “Would you mind attending to him while Thomas and I go outside to question the coachman and take a look around.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” She pulled up a chair and sat next to Sheppard. “We shall wait here for your return.” She took the dampened cloth from Pierre, dipped it in a glass of water, then wiped the drying blood from Sheppard’s forehead.

  “Thomas?” Pierre nudged me. “Shall we?”

  “Yes.” I turned, looked around the room, and noticed Mr. Borgstrom meeting his two companions at the door. They each took one of his arms and escorted him out of the dining room. I hurried to catch up to Pierre.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Borgstrom,” Pierre called. Mr. Borgstrom and his two associates stopped and turned toward us. No one said a word while they waited with expectant looks upon their faces until we caught up with them. “Shouldn’t you wait here as instructed? I am sure Mr. Wilcox would want to ensure your safety.”

  “I cannot and will not be held captive.”

  “I do not consider this a place of captivity,” I said.

  “My apologies, I did not mean to lash out. My nerves are frayed, and poor little Fielding is beside himself. There is a terrible energy tonight. You feel it?” He looked at Pierre, then me then to his companions, who nodded in agreement.

  “Murder has that effect I am afraid,” Pierre said.

  “Ah, but of course you do not understand. It is not murder that brings the negative energy; it is quite the opposite in fact. The unrest of the universe is what has caused the demise of so many people.”

  “I do not believe in such preternatural influences.” Pierre bowed his head as a sign of respect, despite the difference in opinion.

  “Then I expect to see the both of you at my show the night after next. I believe you will have a different opinion afterward. Now, if you do not mind, I must insist you let me leave. I cannot stay here with the universe in such turmoil. I must return to my accommodations, where I shall be safe from all of this harm.” He bowed and held both hands out to his side near shoulder level as if he was expecting someone to kiss his hands. Instead, his companions grasped the tips of his fingers, turned, and led him down the hallway and out the front door. Their arms and hands extended in some strange ballroom stance.

  We followed them out of the house. The evening had turned unexpectedly cool. A welcome reprieve from the summer heat. A gentle breeze swept over my sweat dampened face and helped to dry the edges of my infernal wig. I followed Pierre out onto the street. As we stood there trying to determine the direction of the crime, we heard a woman cry out. We turned and hurried down the street in the direction of the voice. It was not long until we came upon the home of Mr. and Mrs. Durant. The coachman was sitting on the front steps. A woman was tending to a wound on his head.

  “I am sorry to bother you, sir. Is the magistrate inside?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Has anyone else arrived?”

  “No.” He shook his head, took the handkerchief from the woman, smiled at her, then held the cloth to his forehead. “Thank you, madam.”

  I am Pierre Baptiste.” Pierre took off his hat and bowed. “This is my associate Thomas Newton.”

  “James Thorne.” He nodded.

  “May we ask you a few questions about tonight?”

  “I suppose, though I have already told the magistrate everything I know. How are the two of you involved if I may ask?”

  “We were hired by a victim of a previous crime. We are trying to determine if this is somehow related. What brought you here tonight?” Pierre asked.

  “I was hired by the Durant’s.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To take them to t
he opera, Dido and Aeneas.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I was instructed to be here no later than seven.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “By indirect means. We have a business associate in common. We attended the same social events, and knew each other well enough to say hello, but nothing more.”

  “What happened?”

  “I arrived about fifteen minutes early, as I always do and waited. I thought it was strange when seven came, and they had not made an appearance.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They told me they would not tolerate being late and I should plan on receiving them promptly at seven.”

  “If I may? I am Mrs. Quinn. The Durant’s were obsessed with being on time. I have never known anyone more punctual than the two of them.”

  “You knew them well?”

  “Yes, they were wonderful friends. They used to watch our children on occasion so Theodore, my husband, and I could have a night out. We gave them our tickets to the opera tonight. We have a sick child and felt it best if we stayed home. They were thrilled with the offer and could not stop talking about it.”

  “What brought you out tonight?”

  “I was at the window when the commotion began. After the man fled, I came out to see if Mr. Thorne was all right. Mr. Wilcox asked me to attend to him until the constable arrived.

  “So, the Durant’s were not supposed to be at home this evening?” Pierre said.

  “No, but after what I just told you is it not obvious?”

  “I still have to ask.” Pierre turned back to the coachman. “What happened next?”

  “I went to fetch them from their house. I was not about to be blamed for making them late. I knocked on the door and waited. I heard footsteps coming from inside. It sounded as if someone was in a hurry, almost running. I double checked my pocket watch to make sure it was working, as I thought I might have been late. When the door opened, I looked up. All I saw was a large lumbering sort of figure coming out of the house with something raised over his head. The next thing I remember I was on the ground and my horse was gone.”