Den of Thieves

by William Holden

  “Your knowledge amazes me, Bess.” I said as I felt a flush of warmth spread up my neck and cheeks.

  “It comes from working behind the bar in many of the public houses, and of course, the men. I hear things and am privy to information most are not.” She winked at me. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Please,” Pierre said.

  “It might be best if we do not all enter at the same time. Three people asking questions might not go over so well with the men in there. Thomas, why do not you go in first? We shall give you time to get a drink and find a spot to sit, by the door preferably, so you can keep an eye on everything. Pierre and I will follow and make the rounds.” She looked at Pierre. “I am sorry, Pierre, I hope my directions are not out of line.”

  “No, in fact, I am quite impressed. Please, you take the lead.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for, gentlemen? Let us get in there and see what we can find out?” Bess beamed with excitement as she nudged me forward and into the Gray Owl.

  Despite the time of day, a large assortment of men crowded the Inn. They were all in various stages of drunkenness. I stopped and lit my pipe, exhaling a cloud of grayish-white smoke into the already thick air. The clamor of two dozen men drifted to a little more than a hush as everyone stopped to look at me, the newcomer. Not meaning anything to anyone here, they resumed their chatter and boisterous laughter.

  I made my way to the bar and ordered a double gin, then turned and eyed a table near the front door, which would give me a proper view of my surroundings. I took my seat and tried to act inconspicuously as if I were just one of the many without purpose. It was not long before Pierre and Bess walked into the Gray Owl. Bess caught my stare without so much as a turn of her head. Her eye flinched, which I took was her way of letting me know she approved of my chosen location.

  The hush in the room grew longer by the second as Pierre and Bess made their way to the bar. It was then that I realized she was the only woman in the establishment who was not a barmaid. Looking around, I could see the lust and desire in the men’s eyes and wondered how many of them had wives at home and mistresses elsewhere. I knew I was hardly a man of moral upbringing, but I could not help feeling a bit sorry for them having to look for sexual pleasures outside of the home.

  I laughed at myself for such foolish and hypocritical thoughts. It was only a few short years ago that I was the one being paid to satisfy men outside of their homes and enjoyed every minute of the play, seduction, and sexual acts. I often looked back at those times with fond memories, but I was also thankful those days were behind me.

  Bess and Pierre received their drinks and began making their rounds. Their movement pulled me from my thoughts. I took a sip of my drink, relit my pipe, and watched as they approached the first table.

  The two men who sat drinking stopped their conversation and peered up at Bess and Pierre. I noticed how Pierre was standing just off to Bess’s left and slightly behind her. She was taking the lead. She adjusted herself in her tight bodice, and if I had not known what she was up to, I would have thought nothing of her action.

  Bess leaned against the table to let the men see her cleavage. Even from a distance, I could see the lust in their eyes. The two men looked at each other after Bess finished speaking. They turned back toward Bess and shook their heads. By the movement of Bess’s lips, I could tell she thanked them for their time. Pierre and Bess nodded, then moved on to the next table.

  Drawing another inhale from my pipe, I looked around at the various tables and the men who occupied them. Most of the men were deep in conversation, or a game of dominoes and paid no attention to the movement of Pierre and Bess. Then my eyes came across a man who appeared ill at ease at Bess and Pierre’s activities. I continued to watch him as he kept a close eye on them. He shifted in his chair, and that was when I recognized him. It was Mr. Thorne, the coachman, who had been hired to pick up the Durant’s the night of their murder.

  Mr. Thorne finished his drink in one quick gulp then looked around the room while Bess and Pierre had their backs to him. I ducked down in my seat to avoid being seen, yet kept my eye on him through the crowd. His eyes darted back and forth between Bess, Pierre, and the front door. He pushed his chair back from the table and repositioned himself. He was going to run, and that meant he had something to hide.

  Mr. Thorne without the slightest bit of demeanor jumped up from his chair and ran toward the front door. Within a few seconds, the relative calm of the Inn became chaos. Mr. Thorne tripped and stumbled into a table where three men were having a meal. Their drink and food scattered across the table and spilled over them and the floor. One stood and grabbed Mr. Thorne by the collar. Mr. Thorne shoved the stranger off him and managed to right his footing and head for the door once again.

  “Pierre, Bess.” I shouted to get their attention, but by the time I had acted, the whole of the establishment had eyes on the commotion. Mr. Thorne ran out the door with me chasing after him. I knew I had to act quick. If Mr. Thorne made it to his coach, I would never be able to catch him. Up ahead of us, I noticed several bales of hay stacked up for the horses. I changed directions and ran up the bails and pushed myself off them. I was air-born, but not for long. As I came down, I reached out and grabbed hold of Mr. Thorne, taking him down with me. We landed hard. The hot, dry summer had made the roads rough and hard. Dust and dirt billowed around our bodies as we struck the cracked ground.

  “Get the fuck off me.” Mr. Thorne struggled underneath me with brute strength.

  I was close to losing the fight when Pierre came up to us. He held Mr. Thorne until I could get my footing and stand. Then Pierre yanked Mr. Thorne up and threw him against a parked carriage, leaning into him to keep him in place. Bess handed me her handkerchief to clean the dust and sweat from my face.

  “I think we need to talk,” Pierre said.

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “I find that hard to believe the way you ran out of the Inn just now. It seems to me you might not have told us everything you know about the Durant’s.”

  “I am not—”

  “Talk to us, or I shall make a citizen’s arrest and charge you with perverting the course justice, then you can talk to the magistrate.”

  “All right, please, please, just do not get the magistrate involved. I beg of you.” He continued to struggle under Pierre’s tight hold, but it appeared more of a surrender than a new round of fighting.

  “Why did you run?” I asked.

  Bess and I came up to the carriage and cut off the only exit he had.

  “I panicked.” He looked at me, then Bess, then Pierre.

  “And?” I pushed.

  “I overheard them—” he nodded toward Bess and Pierre “—asking questions about the identity of the coachman who Mrs. Durant hired.”

  “Do you know him?” I continued with the questions.

  “It was me. I was the one Mrs. Durant hired that day.”

  “Why did you not tell us the other night after the murders?” Pierre took over.

  “I did not want to get involved.” He looked at Pierre. “Look, in my line of work, you learn not to ask questions. One keeps their head down and their mouth shut. I was scared of being implicated in the murders, or worse getting tangled up with the magistrate. Please, you have to understand—”

  “Where did she want to go?”

  “I do not know.” He held up his hands as if expecting Pierre to strike him. “Please, I do not know. She never gave me an address or name, just the directions.”

  “Do you remember them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, you are going to take us there, now.” Pierre pulled Mr. Thorne off the carriage. “Where’s your Hackney?”

  “Behind the Inn.” He nodded in the general direction.

  Pierre grabbed one elbow, I the other. Bess followed behind us as he led us to his carriage.

  “Thomas, Bess you ride in the carriage. I think I am going to stay up top with Mr. Thorne.”


  “As you wish.” Mr. Thorne mounted the carriage and waited for the rest of us to get seated. I knocked on the roof of the carriage, letting him know we were ready. The carriage pulled out into the street. As we made our way across the city, an uneasy feeling fell over me and hung with a heavy weight in the air.

  “Bess?” I asked as I stared out the window. The concern in my voice left a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “What is wrong?”

  “It just occurred to me that we are going into this blind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it. We are in a carriage going to an unknown location by a man none of us trust.” My words lingered between us as if they were alive and ready to strike us both down. The next thought forced me to look in her direction as I spoke. “What if Mr. Thorne is part of the resistance? What if he is taking us to our deaths?”

  Bess turned and stared at me. I saw the same worry etched across her face that I was sure was on mine.

  Chapter 13

  Bess did not respond verbally to my spoken thoughts. Instead, she reached over and held my hand. I gave her hand a gentle, reaffirming squeeze. It was not until the carriage passed through Ludgate did we pick up our conversation.

  “If Mr. Thorne is taking us out of the city,” Bess began. “That means Mrs. Durant was not going into the city. Where would she have gone?”

  “I assume we shall find out eventually.” I tried a reassuring smile. It was weak and weary, but it was the best I could offer. As we both took to looking out our respective windows, the carriage took an all too familiar route. I opened my mouth to speak then thought better of it. I did not want to worry Bess unnecessarily if I was wrong, and if I were correct, then she’d know soon enough.

  When the carriage came to a stop, I leaned across the seat and peered out of Bess’s window. My suspicions and fear were both confirmed.

  “Do you know where we are or why we stopped here?” She turned and looked at me. By the expression on her face, I knew she saw the worry in mine.

  “Please do not keep things to yourself. Share what you are thinking.”

  “This is Mr. Borgstrom’s private residence.”

  “That means…” she looked out the window.

  “Mrs. Durant came here for a private session with Mr. Borgstrom two days before she was murdered.”

  Pierre and Mr. Thorne stepped down from the carriage. They both stood facing the house. Pierre leaned into him and spoke.

  “Did you hear what he said?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Mr. Thorne nodded then walked back around and climbed up on the carriage. Pierre turned, opened the door, then leaned in, blocking our exit.

  “Pierre, what are you doing?”

  “I have asked Mr. Thorne to take the two of you back to Clapton’s, while I have a word with Mr. Borgstrom.”

  “I will not let you go in there alone.” The worry was evident in my voice.

  “Thomas is right. If Mr. Borgstrom is involved, you could be in danger.”

  “Mr. Borgstrom may have dirtied his hands in this, but he is a foreign diplomat, he is not going to murder me.”

  “Pierre, please—”

  “We do not have time to sit here and debate this. I will be all right. I promise. One on one I might be able to get Mr. Borgstrom to talk to me. The night at the dinner party, he said he knew of my reputation, and we would have a lot to discuss. Perhaps the magistrate has somehow forced Borgstrom’s hand. This may be our only way to Wilcox.”

  “He is right, Thomas,” Bess said with a heavy sigh and patted my leg.

  “I know, damn it, but that does not mean I have to like it.”

  “I shall see you both at home tonight.” He winked, shut the door, and slapped the carriage. Mr. Thorne snapped the reins. The carriage lurched forward. I turned around and looked out the back window as Pierre and I grew farther apart. My eyes remained fixed on the spot where he stood until I could no longer see him, and still I did not look away. A horrible feeling came over me as if I would never see Pierre again. I suddenly felt alone, despite the fact Bess sat next to me. A tear formed in the corner of my eye. I thought of Christopher in Cambridge, unreachable by at least two days. I turned away from the back window and took a deep breath. I had to trust Pierre knew what he was doing.

  * * * *

  The carriage came to a stop on Shoe Lane alongside Clapton’s. Not wanting to bother with waiting for Mr. Thorne, I opened the door, stepped out then turned to assist Bess. I shut the door and before I could say anything, the carriage took off down the road.

  “Thank you,” I said as I offered Bess my arm.

  “What in the world for? I have done nothing.”

  “With Christopher gone and Pierre on some solo vendetta, it is good to have you here.” I blushed at my confession.

  “Where else would I be?” She leaned her head against my shoulder. “If it were not for you I would be without home or employment. It is I who should be thanking you.” We paused at the door as I fished out my key. I unlocked the door and let Bess enter ahead of me. “Thomas? We have a guest.” Bess paused just inside the doorway and looked in my direction. She stepped aside as I entered.

  “Mr. Atwood? What are you doing here?” I bowed. “My apologies, this is Bess Dutton, Bess this is Mr. Gideon Atwood, deputy to the sergeant-at-arms.”

  “My lady.” He bowed and kissed the top of Bess’s hand.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Atwood.” She curtsied.

  “I was told by Mrs. Reid that Mr. Baptiste would be arriving with you. Is he about?”

  “I am sorry, he is not here.” Before shutting the door, I peered outside then returned my attention to Mr. Atwood. “Where is your carriage?”

  “It is waiting for me a few streets away. I thought it wise to show some discretion and not make my visit too apparent. Does Mr. Baptiste’s absence have anything to do with…” he paused and gave Bess a concerned look, “our previous meeting?”

  “Do not worry. Bess is aware of recent events. She lives here with us and works at Clapton’s. It seems anyone connected with Pierre and me could be in danger, so we thought it pertinent we tell her.”

  There was an awkward pause in the conversation. Mr. Atwood appeared to be waiting for a response from me. I took the opportunity to redirect the conversation.

  “Mr. Atwood, I do not mean to be rude, but is there a reason you have come here?”

  “I have a message for Mr. Baptiste from the king, via the sergeant-at-arms.”

  “Then in his absence, you can give the message to me.”

  “Very well, Mr. Newton.” He stepped around the room and peered into the bedchambers. “Is there anyone else in residence here?”

  “No. Please, Mr. Atwood.”

  “Lord Burnham has come across information he believes is crucial to stopping the resistance, which means if anyone finds out, he is in grave danger. Mr. Baptiste was to go to Lord Burnham, collect the information, and give him protection until we can arrange for transport out of London.”

  “How long?”

  “Two…three days at most.”

  “What are you waiting for?” I asked in a rush. “Take us there.”

  “Do you have the means by which to carry out the king’s orders?”

  “If not us, who will?” I asked with more irritation than was necessary. “Look, Bess and I can at least bring Lord Burnham back here. Mr. Baptiste will be home later, and we can update him then. I see no other option. If he is in as much danger as you suggest, then time is of the utmost importance.”

  “It is not in line—”

  “Mr. Atwood, if I may.” Bess interrupted. “Which would you rather report on, a slight change in plan to protect this man’s life, or his murder because you did not want to deviate from orders?” She cleared her throat. “I am sorry—”

  “No need, Miss. Dutton. Your point is well taken.”

  “Let me leave a note for Pierre in case he returns home before us.”

/>   I ran to the living room and jotted down a vague note to let him know we were gone but wouldn’t be long. I recorded the time, then signed it. “Let us go.” I opened the door. Mr. Atwood bowed as he left. Bess patted my cheek. I winked at her. The three of us made our way to the parked carriage and once settled inside, Mr. Atwood tapped his cane on the roof. The immediacy of the horse’s actions took us all by surprise as we were jostled about as the carriage took off down the street.

  “Mr. Atwood.” Bess pulled out her handkerchief and blotted her lips. “Lord Burnham, he regularly attends the House of Lords?”

  “He does. Why do you ask?”

  “Then he would have known Lord Green, Thomas’…”

  “He would indeed.” Mr. Atwood smiled.

  “Fuck,” I muttered. “My apologies, Mr. Atwood.”

  He raised his hand, pursed his lips, and shook his head. “Do not worry, Lord Burnham and Lord Green were not on the best of terms. In fact, they disagreed on nearly every topic.”

  “Lord Burnham, is he in the armed services?” I asked.

  “Yes, the Royal Navy. He has dedicated his entire career to serving our country.”

  “Then, regardless of this information he says he has, his life is in danger.”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “Do you know what we shall learn from this information? Or even what form it takes?” Bess asked.

  “I am as blind as the two of you to what this information contains. All I know is there are documents to back up what Lord Burnham claims.”

  “Then let us pray we get there first.” I smiled and placed my pipe between my lips. I smiled at Mr. Atwood when I caught him looking at me. I had not thought much about it as we were in close quarters, but as I struck the tinderbox to light my pipe, I noticed his eyes were still gazing upon me. They were not inquisitive or questioning as one would expect from someone in his position. If I had to place a name upon it, I would say there was desire in them. I let my eyes drift upward away from Mr. Atwood’s stare and followed the gray smoke as it hovered above our heads.