“Yes, sir.” For once I held my tongue and did not press with additional questions.
“I have a carriage waiting for the two of you by the back door. Oh, and Thomas? A word of warning, there is a lot of mistrust in our city these days, especially when it comes to the people you associate with. Once word gets out you are working for me, people are not going to take too kindly to news like that. Be careful.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Why would I threaten my latest pet? It is a fact and nothing more.” Mr. Wilcox opened the door.
“I am no one’s pet.” I followed Ash out of Mr. Wilcox’s office.
“Obedient, loyal, and unconditional love for their master. Oh, you are indeed my pet.” He shouted then shut the door. I followed Ash through the underground labyrinth and back to the outside world.
“Do you know where the Westford’s live?” I asked, forgetting Ash was unable to speak, I stood, as well as one can in a moving carriage, and repositioned myself on the cushioned bench facing my new partner in crime. He looked at me with the one suspicious eye but made no indication he had even heard me. His silent stare rubbed my nerves raw, but I knew I had to try to find common ground on which to build trust with some of Jonathan’s men. “How long have you worked for Mr. Wilcox?”
He raised four fingers in response.
“You must have seen a lot in those years.” As soon as I said the words, I knew they were a mistake. “Most of us do.” I tried to redirect my conversation. “The things I have seen and done in the past four years would make most men fall to their knees.” I saw a faint smile curl Ash’s lips. “Do you know anything about Mr. and Mrs. Westford?”
He shrugged.
I looked out the window and noticed we were passing through Mayfair and into the more affluent areas of London. “Mr. Westford must be well off to afford to live in this area. Do you know his trade?”
Ash studied me with an emotionless expression. The carriage hit a few particularly nasty ruts and threw us back and forth. Once righted, he resumed his stare. He pointed to my overcoat and nodded. I looked down and touched the fabric.
“He is a tailor?”
Ash shook his head and pointed in quick repetition as if frustrated by my lack of understanding. I heard him grunt. The noise coming from him startled me as if he was trying to yell at my ignorance. He leaned forward and yanked the pocket watch from my coat. He held it in the palm of his hand and showed it to me.
“A clockmaker?” I asked, surprised, knowing clockmakers did not make the kind of money necessary to live in this part of the city. “I take it then he was not in the military?” I saw Ash’s expression change. It was another moment of regret over my loose tongue. In recent days, I have found myself asking, how would Pierre handle this situation? This was one of those times.
Ash dropped the watch, leaned against the seat, and turned his attention away from me for the first time since we had met. The sudden change in his demeanor hinted of his knowledge of the armed forces connection between the murdered men. I reached between my legs, gathered the chain and watch, and returned them to my pocket. It was not long before the carriage came to a stop in one of the less traveled side streets. I began to wonder if Ash was one who had carried out the murders, but then the question of who ordered them came to mind. It went without saying that my initial reaction was Jonathan Wilcox, but that seemed too convenient and implausible. After all, Jonathan was well situated. I could not see him involved in a plot to overthrow the king and take a chance of ruining the empire he had spent his life building. There had to be more I was not seeing.
Ash and I stepped out of the carriage. Even with the hours of daylight remaining, oil lamps adorned the front of the Westford’s house; a luxury few could afford, or afford to waste. Ash touched my elbow and nodded toward the left side of the house. He ran ahead of me toward the narrow path between the two homes. I took off after him and found him standing by a side door.
“What about the neighbors?” I looked at our surroundings. The streets and houses stood eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the noise and crowded streets inside the walls of central London.
He put a finger to his lips then crouched down in front of the door. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small pouch made of cowhide. He unrolled it and exposed an impressive collection of thieving tools. My thoughts turned to Pierre and the few tools of the trade he had for such an act. I would have to ask Ash where he acquired such instruments. As I watched him, a flutter of excitement rippled through my body at the prospect of what we were doing. It was then I realized why so many people turned to a life of crime. It was full of risks, but the excitement, I could tell, was more intoxicating than the harshest of spirits. Soon we were entering as the servants did and stood inside the well-appointed kitchen.
Ash pulled out the note Jonathan had given him, then walked through the empty house without making a sound. It was then I realized the note was our instructions on where to find the brooch. I followed Ash and soon found myself standing in a spacious parlor. A piano sat in the opposite corner of where we stood. Scattered around the room were several chairs and small sofas. Ash walked over to a large desk. He turned and looked at me as I came up beside him. Ash handed me his pouch then nodded at the lock. He stood with his arms crossed and waited for me to get to work.
Pierre had taught me the skill of picking locks. I could have made easy work of this particular lock but pretended to struggle with it for a few moments to play my skill down. Ash started to fidget at my lack of talent. I worried I was overplaying my act. I let the pick slip farther into the lock and made the connection. I stood back as I dropped the lid, which doubled as a writing table. I stepped aside, handing Ash the pick and tool pouch. Once again, the only emotion I received from him was one of curiosity and mistrust.
I returned my attention to the task at hand and looked around the desk, expecting to see the piece of jewelry. Ash nudged me and pointed to one of two small drawers mounted to each interior side of the desk. He ran his fingers under the two drawers. He stopped and nodded. I reached under the drawer with him. Our fingers touched. He looked at me. His smile disappeared. He guided my finger over a small metal tongue and pushed. The drawer slid open, exposing the brooch cushioned on a small bed of silk. Ash took the pin and slipped it into his pocket, then relocked the drawer, and desk. He nodded. I followed. The time, from when we entered the house until we left, was no more than fifteen minutes.
With Ash’s inability to speak, the silence inside the carriage only made my mind want to question everything I had witnessed. The robbery we just pulled off was identical to the others, right down to placing everything back in order. What did not make sense was how the murders played into the robberies. I was starting to think my initial thought of Ash being guilty of both crimes seemed incorrect. There was also the knowledge I had gained tonight from watching Ash enter the home. He was well trained in the art of picking locks. If Ash was involved in the other robberies, why go through the trouble of switching the key from around Mrs. Reid’s neck. Nothing was adding up. I wanted to ask Ash a thousand questions but knew I wouldn’t get any response out of him other than more silent stares. I looked up at him once, ready to speak, but his one eye glaring at me was enough to keep me quiet for the remainder of the ride back to the Goose and Gridiron.
By the time the carriage pulled up in front of the public house, Ash was acting more agitated than before. He would no longer look me in the eye. Instead, he sat staring at his hands as he fidgeted with the brooch. As the coachman came around to open the door, Ash nudged me and placed the jewelry in my hand. I was barely standing on solid footing before Ash took off down the street.
“Ash?” I called out. I started to follow in the same direction, but Ash became swallowed in the growing crowds of a late Friday afternoon, “Shit.” I turned and entered the Goose and Gridiron by myself. Mr. Wilcox saw me, stood, and motioned for me to join him.
“Where’s Ash?” He asked as I app
roached. I knew he was more concerned about the success of our afternoon than he was the whereabouts of one of his men.
“I have no idea.” I poured myself a beer, grimaced at the foul taste, then refilled my glass before taking a seat. “He took off through the crowds the minute we were dropped off.”
“What about?”
“Do not worry. It is right here.” I patted my pocket. The relief was apparent in Mr. Wilcox’s face. He sat down and held out his hand. I shook my head at his greed, took the brooch out of my pocket, and handed it to him.
“I knew you had it in you. So how did it feel, Thomas?” He sat back and smiled.
“This is all a game to you, is it not?”
“Life is a game, Thomas. I thought you knew that from our earlier conversation. And you played your part perfectly.”
“You are a son-of-a-bitch.”
“I am, and it is good you know that early on. Oh, there is no need to answer my question, I can tell by the twinkle in your eye, you loved every moment of the theft. Deny it to my face if it will make you feel better, but do not lie to yourself. I knew from the moment I met you; you were just like me. You are a player, Thomas. A man who is not afraid to buck the rules to get what he wants. Are you ready for some real fun, Thomas?” He raised his glass, smiled and waited for my response.
“I shall not deny anything, Jonathan. Yes, I loved every minute of it.” I smiled and returned his nod as our glasses clinked, toasting our new arrangement.
Chapter 8
It was well past the hour in which any respectable person would walk the streets of London alone, but that is where I found myself. After the first drink to celebrate our business arrangement, Mr. Wilcox insisted I have another one, then another. After departing the Goose and Gridiron, hours after I handed over the brooch, I had at the last reasonable count emptied seven glasses of beer. I should have known better, but a free drink was a free drink. If it had been gin, a drink I had grown accustomed to at an early age, I doubt it would have had any effect on me. As it were, my feet felt as if they were not on solid ground. My stride was off and unsteady. The city seemed to move in direct opposition to me. I did manage my way, however, through the streets dodging the drunks, and whores. A few times I shouted slurred obscenities then had to remind myself that I, was one of them - a drunk and a whore. Realizing I was with my own kind, I managed to convince myself I could make it home without any trouble.
As I crossed through Ludgate leaving central London behind, the streets became deserted, darker, and more threatening. I stopped under the gate to relieve myself of the excess alcohol then started off again toward home. I was less than a few hundred yards, when I realized there were footsteps behind me as if they came out of nowhere. My steps became more careful as I listened to the movement behind me. I slowed my pace. The footsteps slowed. I stopped and so did the footsteps. When I started again, they recommenced. I suddenly felt ill at ease. I knew these streets better than most, but something told me a chase would not end well given my current state of intoxication.
I paused, remembering the sword Pierre had given me, and the edge of my discomfort faded. No one would attempt to rob an armed man. I gripped the handle with my right hand but did not draw. I stopped. The footsteps continued to close in behind me. I turned around and drew my sword, but instead of fleeing, the man stopped and laughed.
“You are a dead man, Mr. Newton.” The stranger spoke with an accent I did not recognize, or perhaps I was too drunk to be able to decipher between the languages. I began to sober the minute I saw the stranger pull out his sword and charge me. I wanted to turn and run but knew if I did I would lose any ability to fight back. Instead, I readied myself as Mother Clap had taught me. Our swords clashed, their metal song drifted in the dead of the night air. As he moved passed me, he kicked out with his foot. The impact threw me off guard. I fell to the ground.
I used my feet to push myself along the ground as I swung my blade out in front of me, hoping to fend off the stranger until I could get on my feet. As he approached, I swiped the blade toward the ground, hoping to strike a leg or foot. He skirted around my awkward swordsmanship and avoided injury. The maneuver gave me a few additional seconds to right my footing. I stood and faced him. My head ached from the beer laced fear running through my body. I felt sick in the belly and knew there was no way out. One of us would die on the street tonight. I was determined the dead body found in the morning wouldn’t be mine.
We began to walk around each other in a wide circle. I, waiting for him to make the first move as he did the same toward me. As we danced to the silent music of our duel, I had to ask myself, why me? Then a terrifying thought came to me. This was not a random street robbery. I was the intended target. He knew my name. I remembered the warning Mr. Wilcox gave me. The man must have followed me from the Goose and Gridiron.
I tired of the wait and decided to make the next move. I tightened my grip on the handle, raised the sword in the air, and ran toward my assailant. I was not skilled at any level in the art of the sword, all I knew was to hit with force and with intent to kill, while at the same time avoid being struck. Our swords clashed into a strange cross. We came within inches of each other. I stared into the face of the man, who wanted me dead and did not recognize him. With all of my strength, I threw my arms out in front of me, sending the man stumbling backward. I charged him and leaped forward, aiming for the man’s chest.
He used his sword to deflect mine, ducked under my raised arms and came up behind me. Before I could turn around, I felt his foot slam against my back. I cried out in pain and landed against the stone wall of Ludgate. I felt the damp chill of the surface of the stone caress my cheek. I closed my eyes knowing he could, at any minute, end my life.
“Your death shall not be an easy one.” The man pressed the tip of his sword against my cheek. “Turn around you wanker and fight me like a man.” He flicked his wrist as he pulled the sword away. I felt the sting of his blade slice into my cheek. I winced from the burning pain as the sharp edge of the blade split my skin open. The warmth of my blood trickled down my face. I gritted my teeth and readied myself for another bout.
Without so much as a warning to my attacker, I swung my sword in a backhanded arch and caught him off guard. I heard the blade sing through the air. He let out a cry of pain. I knew I had hit him. A thrill of victory rushed through me with a glimmer of hope that I might, in fact, survive the night. I turned around, bringing the sword in a large sweeping motion back out in front of me. He raised from his crouched position. His shirt torn across his chest. Even in the dark, I could see the mark of my blade etched across his pale chest.
“Fucking wanker.” The mysterious man raised his sword and struck my wrist as I was bringing the sword back down for another attack. The pain in my hand was immediate. The sword flew from my grasp. I heard it strike the ground, but it was too dark to see where it landed. The stranger laughed and charged. I fell to the ground and scrambled away on my hands and knees. His blade whistled through the air. I rose to my feet and turned around to have the blade poised at my throat. I raised my hands and stepped back, knowing my life was about to end.
“You shouldn’t meddle in matters you know nothing about.” With the point of the sword pressing against my throat, he backed me up against the wall.
“If I am to die at your hands, at least have the fucking courage to tell me who has taken my life.” I swallowed hard and felt the edge cut into my skin.
“Fuck you, Mr. Newton.”
“You wish,” I said looking the man straight in the eye. As I readied myself to feel the blade slide into my neck, an explosion echoed through the street. I felt my entire body quiver from the proximity. Then a dampness, like a warm spring rain splattered across my face. Before my mind could find an explanation for what had happened, the sword fell from my neck. My attacker collapsed on the ground at my feet with part of his face torn away. I knelt down in front of him and checked for signs of life. There were none. I looked out
across the way and noticed a man coming out of the shadows.
“Ash?” I called. He holstered his gun and came up to me with a smile. “But how?” I stood. My legs felt as if they would no longer support me. I reached behind me and felt for the stone wall and leaned against it.
“Mr. Newton, please we must leave.”
“Wait, you can speak? I…” He placed his hand over my mouth to silence me.
“Shh,” he looked up and down the street, then leaned into me, and whispered, “it is not safe for either of us.” He handed me my sword then took my hand in his. “You must trust me.”
He removed his hand from my lips. He nodded with a finger raised and waited for my silent response. I returned the nod, letting him know I would cooperate. Satisfied, he led me down the alley from which he came. About halfway down we stopped. He looked in both directions, then opened a hidden door and pulled me inside. The door shut behind us. It was pitch black, but Ash seemed not to be troubled by the lack of sight. I heard him moving about me then a light blossomed around us from a lamp. I looked at our surroundings. We were in a small, one-room living space, below ground with not even straw or a blanket for a bed. “It is not much, but it is all I have now. Please sit.”
“I am sorry, I do not understand any of this.”
“After I murdered my father, I needed to provide for my mother and younger sister. I went to work for Mr. Wilcox. I thought it best to earn his trust if he thought I was dumb.
“He would think you incapable of telling anyone what you have seen.” I looked at Ash. He nodded. “Why did you help me tonight?”
“You must get out from under Mr. Wilcox.” He raised a hand to me and paused. He leaned toward the door and cocked his head. I heard nothing, but he seemed unconvinced we were alone. He leaned into me before continuing. “He will ruin you as he has me. I am a dead man, Mr. Newton. There is no way out of this for me.”
Den of Thieves Page 12
