Den of Thieves

by William Holden

  “This is not going to solve anything,” I said. “We need to get rid of the body.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Thomas?” Sheppard looked at me. “We must do the right thing and call the coroner. He needs a proper burial.”

  “No,” Pierre said. “No one can know of this.”

  “Mr. Baptiste, you cannot be serious.” Sheppard pulled Bess closer to him.

  “I am sorry, but it is the only way.” Pierre looked at me. I nodded in agreement. “If we get the coroner and a constable involved, Jonathan will learn that Ash was here in our home. He and whoever else is involved will assume Ash told us everything. And with that knowledge, all of our lives will be in danger.” He looked at me, then Bess, and finally Sheppard. “I need a solemn promise from each of you that this goes no farther than these walls and each other.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  “Bess?” Pierre questioned.

  She looked at Sheppard before answering. “I am sorry, Nicholas, Pierre is right, God cannot help Ash or us at the moment. We are on our own.” She looked at Pierre. “Yes, I agree.”

  “Sheppard?”

  “God help me, but yes. I shall not say a word.” He crossed his chest, knelt down next to Ash, and began reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

  “What do we do with the body?” Bess said once Sheppard finished the prayer.

  “I suppose it is better than the alternative,” Pierre spoke without looking up from the body.

  “What is?”

  “A resurrectionist.”

  “We cannot.” Sheppard stood. “That is immoral.”

  “Do you not think it is immoral to dump his body in the Thames or throw him into an unmarked, unconsecrated grave?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I understand your feelings, Sheppard, but what other options are there?” Pierre waited and looked at each of us.

  “At least with a resurrectionist, his body will be sold to a doctor or hospital for study. Perhaps something good can come from his death.”

  “Do you know a resurrectionist?” I had to ask. I had heard rumors most of my life about the body snatchers, who robbed graves, dead-houses, even bodies hanging from a noose, but they were all secretive underground groups. I never thought one might be able to seek one out like one would an apothecary.

  “In my trade, it is hard not to know an odd assortment of people.” He smiled, but the dimples I grew to love were missing. He was tired, as we all were, and the night was not over. I walked up to him and gave him a hug. He kissed the top of my head. “Shall we? Sheppard, I do not believe you are stable enough to handle the carriage this evening. If you could assist Thomas in finding something to wrap the body in, a rug, or a heavy blanket. In the meantime, Bess and I will move the carriage around the back and wait. Once wrapped, take the body through the cellar. We shall meet you with the carriage out the back. Bess and I will make sure we get to our destination.”

  I ran into the cellar and searched until I found an old blanket of Mother’s. I almost placed it back in the corner, then decided she would have wanted to help if she were here. Sheppard stood over the body, praying. He looked up as I approached.

  “We are all going to hell for our actions.”

  “I do not know about you, Sheppard but I have had my place in line for Hell for most of my life.” I laid out the blanket next to Ash. “If the Lord is as unforgiving as you and others make him out to be, Heaven will be an uninhabited wasteland, and Hell will be just like London, dirty and overcrowded.” I smiled hoping to ease his worry—it did not appear to work. “Come on, help me roll him up, so we can get this over with.”

  “I have made a mess of things, have I not?” Sheppard said as we rode through the city streets.

  “Yes, you have.” I saw his eyes flinch at my brutal, honest reply. “We all make mistakes, Sheppard. Lord knows I have made many in my life, but that does not mean we cannot right them.”

  “I am torn between my love of the Lord, and what I feel for Bess, but what she had done with her life…I do not know how to reconcile it.”

  “You will find a way. Trust me. It will not be easy, but you will find one.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I have done things in my life I am not proud of, things that were both illegal and immoral. I realized if I did not change I would live my life alone, and unloved. Find a way to live with both your loves, Sheppard, or you will lose both.”

  The carriage came to an abrupt stop. I peered out the window to get a sense of where we were. I did not recognize a single building. Pierre appeared at the door and startled me.

  “Stay here, and do not say a word. Jenkins, as he is known, does not like outsiders.”

  Sheppard and I sat without a word, with the corpse of Ash across our laps, trying to act as discretely as possible. I kept an ear toward the door, hoping to overhear the conversation between Pierre and Jenkins. They spoke in less than a whisper, making it impossible to catch a single word. As the carriage door opened, I leaned away from the window, though I could tell by Pierre’s glare he knew I had been eavesdropping.

  “Cause of death?” Jenkin’s asked.

  “Self-murder. Slit his throat.” Pierre reached in and pulled the body across our laps. He unfolded the blanket and exposed Ash’s face.

  “This is recent.” Jenkin’s touched Ash’s face and examined the wound. “He should fetch me several shillings at least. I am impressed.”

  “No word on where this body came from, or who delivered it to you.” Pierre held out his hand. They shook.

  “For you, Mr. Baptiste anything.” He turned and nodded, then two other men appeared and took the body from us. The exchange took no more than a few minutes, and before the men could carry Ash’s body into the building, Bess had steered us back onto the street heading home.

  Chapter 9

  “Thomas?” A voice called to me. The voice was familiar, but in the darkness of my nightmare, I could not place it, nor determine its proximity. At first, I thought it was the spirit of Ash as he lingered in the shadows of my mind. I fell asleep that morning thinking about Ash. I saw the blood leaking from his neck. His eyes frantic with fear staring at me, accusing me of betraying his trust. I heard my name again. The sound of the voice was closer than before. The edge of my bed shifted. I knew it was not part of the dream. Someone was in our bedchamber. The thought terrified me. A hand touched my shoulder. I cried out. My body jerked me awake. “Thomas, I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you.”

  “Christopher?” I pulled myself up and leaned against the headboard.

  “Thomas, what…Christopher?” Pierre leaned against his elbow and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What is going on?”

  “Thank God you are all right.” Christopher embraced and kissed me as if it had been months since we last saw one another instead of a few days. He touched my cheek, then leaned over my body and kissed Pierre.

  “What gave you the idea we wouldn’t be?” Pierre asked as he sat up in bed.

  “I saw the bloody shirt in the kitchen when I went to make coffee. I did not know what to think. When I came out of the kitchen, I noticed the stain on the floor and thought the worst.”

  “We are fine, Christopher.” I looked at him and noticed something in his expression that was impossible to read. “It is unlike you to be this unsettled.” I tried to make eye contact with him, but he seemed to be avoiding looking at me. Then it dawned on me. We were not expecting him home for several more days. “Why are you home early?” I asked with trepidation.

  “By the amount of blood out there, someone is not so fine.” Christopher, ignoring my question, removed his shoes and crawled across the bed, settling himself between Pierre and me. He folded his arms across his chest. “So, who is going to tell me what happened and whose blood that is?”

  I knew we owed Christopher an explanation, after all, he was just as much at risk as the rest of us, but the last thing I wanted this morning was to relive the events of the
previous evening. Despite the distasteful memories, I spent the next several minutes filling Christopher in on the numerous events that took place since his departure.

  “How is Bess holding up?” Christopher asked after I finished recounting the last days.

  “She is upset.” I kicked my feet and legs out from under the sheets. I felt too agitated and restless to sit still.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Pierre asked.

  “You were a little rough on her last night.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Pierre, you basically accused her of not being trustworthy. I think your behavior hurt her more than anything else last night.”

  “Please, no fighting.” Christopher placed a hand on each of our legs.

  “You have to admit, all of this has peculiar timing.” Pierre ignored Christopher’s plea.

  “All of what?”

  “Bess suddenly showing up at our door, needing a place to stay immediately after our meeting with the sergeant-at-arms, and you going to work for Mr. Wilcox.” He paused and took a deep breath. “All I am saying is Ash was terrified when he saw her last night. He accused you of betraying your trust simply by being acquainted with Bess. He has been in Mr. Wilcox’s employ for several years. He knew things, maybe he had reason to believe Bess could not be trusted. Maybe she is part of the uprising, a member of the rebels.”

  “I am not sitting here and listening to any more of this.” I stood and reached for my under-linens.

  “Mon amour, I am sorry.” Pierre came over and wrapped his arms around me and kissed my neck. “Please, I care for Bess, you know that. Christopher and I owe our lives to her.” Pierre turned me around, lifted my chin, and kissed my nose.

  “Then why are you so convinced—”

  “I am not convinced of anything. On the contrary, mon amour, but the only person who had information, murdered himself last night in our home after seeing Bess. All I am saying is, we need to be careful.”

  “As careful as you were with your former butler, Mr. Sutton?” The minute the words left my lips, I regretted them.

  “That hurt.”

  “I am sorry, I did not mean…”

  “Yes, you did.” Pierre turned from me and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked pained by my words.

  I knelt down at his feet. “All I meant was that you were willing to give Mr. Sutton the benefit of the doubt, why can you not do the same for Bess?”

  “Look where that misplaced trust got us. I refused to see the mounting evidence against Mr. Sutton, because I believed in his loyalty to me, and he nearly murdered us all.”

  Not able to look him in the face, I bowed my head. He was right. I was letting my feelings for Bess cloud my judgment. I cared for Bess deeply, but knew without ever wanting to admit it, that she was filling the void created by Mother Clap’s murder. There were unanswered questions, and events without explanation. Despite my affection for Bess, I had to admit trust could no longer be assumed. It needed to be earned and cultivated.

  “Your point is well taken.” I stood and kissed Pierre. “I am letting my affection for her obscure my judgment.”

  “Can we please stop fighting?” Christopher came up behind Pierre and placed his chin on Pierre’s shoulder and made a sad, pouting face. He looked at me with a long and troubled gaze. I saw his lips tremble.

  “Christopher, you still have not answered my question.”

  “What question was that?” He scooted off the bed and began to fold our dirty clothes.

  “What is going on? You were not gone long enough to get your parents settled. Is everything all right with the house?”

  “Yes,” he glanced over his shoulder at Pierre and me. “The house is fine. How about some coffee?” He opened the bedchamber door and left without further explanation.

  “That is not like him,” Pierre said.

  We finished dressing, then joined Christopher in the dining room as he brought out a pot of coffee. As we approached, Christopher took his leather pouch and placed it out of our reach.

  “What is in the bag?” Pierre and I sat down at the table.

  “Nothing,” Christopher replied.

  “You did not answer my question. Why did you come back early?” I waited for Christopher to put out some bread, roast beef, and cheese. He seemed to be stalling. When he finished setting out the food, he took a seat across from us. “Well?” I poured the coffee. Christopher blew across the surface then looked at Pierre and me. “Christopher, I can tell something is troubling you. Why are you avoiding our questions? What happened on your trip?”

  “I am sorry” Christopher set his cup down. “I came back because of this.” He patted the satchel. “I planned on telling you immediately, but with everything you have been through yesterday, perhaps it is not the best time to bring more upset to our lives.”

  “You are scaring me. You are not leaving us, are you?” I reached out and held Pierre’s hand in expectation of bad news.

  “No, I would never leave you, or Pierre. I love you both and cannot imagine a life without the two of you.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I thought I was doing the right thing by searching for information on your father, but I am not so sure anymore. Maybe somethings are better left unknown.”

  “What have you found out?” Pierre and I asked simultaneously.

  Christopher sighed, opened up his leather bag, and pulled out an old tattered book. He placed both hands on the top of it but did not offer it to either of us. He looked at us, then said, “My parents and I went directly to the new house to have a look around. I was in the room next to Lord Green’s bedchamber.”

  “The one my mother used as her bedchamber?”

  “Yes. My mother thought it would make a good room for her sewing. I walked up to the fireplace and felt one of the floorboards shift under the weight of my foot. Upon inspecting it, I discovered several floorboards in front of the hearth were also loose.” He took a deep breath. “After closer inspection, it was obvious those boards were loosened on purpose. Your mother stored her diaries there.”

  “My mother?”

  “Yes. I did not read them, but I did open them up to look for dates and found this one.” He pushed the diary toward me but kept his hands on top. “It spans the year of your birth.” He lifted his hands and slid the book in front of me, though by his hesitation and look in his eyes, I was not sure he thought he was doing the right thing.

  I pulled the book toward me. Through tear-filled eyes, I stared at the frayed, discolored cover etched with intricate rose patterns. Did my mother like roses? That single thought made me realize how little I knew of her. I ran my finger over the cover, trying to quiet the thoughts and emotions swirling inside me.

  “Mon amour,” Pierre placed his hand on my back. “Are you all right?”

  “To be honest, I do not know.” I pulled my eyes from the diary long enough to look at Pierre then Christopher. As I stared at them, I felt the etchings of the book pressing against the tips of my fingers. I choked back a rising flood of emotions and returned my attention to the diary. I opened the cover and turned to the first page. The breath caught in my throat. My mother’s penmanship, which hauntingly resembled my own, left me with a strange and unsettling connection to a woman I never knew. I do not know how long I stared at her signature, which elegantly declared the book belonged to her. As I concentrated on her name, the emotions broke free. I lost all control of them and wept. I slammed the book down, stood, and walked away from the table.

  “Thomas,” Christopher called to me, but they both approached. They turned me around and pulled me into a three-way embrace. “I am so sorry I brought this to you. I should have left well enough alone. Can you ever forgive me?” Christopher touched my chin.

  “There is no reason to ask for my forgiveness. It is not your fault.” I gave him a weak smile, but in my present state of mind, it was all I could give. I looked over their shoulders and saw the diary lying on the table. They must have noticed
where my attention lay and turned to look at the book.

  “Do you want me to get rid of it?” Christopher asked.

  “No.” I shook my head, walked between them and stood in front of the book. “This was my mothers.” I touched the binding. “She held it in her hands and entrusted it with all of her secrets. It is all I have of her.” I picked it up and turned toward them. “And yet I am terrified of what I might find written in these pages. I have gone my entire life without knowing who my mother was, what she looked like, how she sounded when she sang, or if she sang.” I faced the book toward Pierre and Christopher. “I did not know she liked roses, and yet her diary is adorned with them. I never thought any of those things were important to me. I am not sure anymore.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be important?” Pierre asked. “She was your mother. She is a part of you even though you never met her. Do not let guilt beguile you when reading her words, she would want you to read them, I am quite certain of that.”

  “Christopher, get Thomas some gin to help calm him.”

  “I feel as if my heart has fallen into the pit of my belly. It just sits there, and quivers and aches and I cannot understand why. I remember these feelings so vividly when Mother Clap died in my arms.” My body shook uncontrollably as I let the tears fall.

  “Thomas, that is not guilt. It is grief.”

  “How can I grieve over a woman I never knew?” Christopher handed me a drink. I took a sip, breathed deeply in hopes of calming the overwhelming emotions before continuing. “It does not make sense. She is a stranger to me. I know absolutely nothing about her except the few times Mr. Green talked about her, and what Mr. Finney told me.”

  Pierre came to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. “There is no explanation for grief or how it works, but you have to remember, her blood, who she was, is also inside you. Your mother has always been a part of you. You are holding her life in your hands.” He placed his hand on the diary. “A life you thought you would never get to know.”

  “Thomas?” Bess came out of her room. “My Lord, honey, what is the matter?” She came to me, wiped a tear from my cheek, and replaced it with a kiss.