Den of Thieves

by William Holden

  The silence between the three of us and the near constant stare of Mr. Atwood made the journey to Lord Burnham’s home feel twice as long. As the carriage came to a stop, a loud, and rather impertinent sigh escaped my lips. Bess nudged me, and when I looked out her window, I noticed the slightest blush and smile curling her lips. I waited rather impatiently for the coachman to tie up the horses before opening the door for us. Bess stepped out first, followed by myself then Mr. Atwood.

  “We shouldn’t be too long,” Mr. Atwood said.

  His coachman nodded and returned to patting and combing the horse’s mane.

  “Does he know to expect us?” I asked.

  “I am assuming he was told someone would be coming, whether now or later, I cannot say.”

  I stopped and held both hands out to keep Mr. Atwood and Bess from getting too close to the house.

  “What is wrong?” Bess asked.

  “The front door. It looks as if it is part way open.”

  “Stay here.” Mr. Atwood instructed then walked with cautious steps toward the house. I looked at Bess. She shrugged. I nodded. We ignored Mr. Atwood’s instructions and followed him. As he approached the door, he turned and saw us directly behind him. There was a brief look of exasperation, or perhaps irritation, but he said nothing. He sighed, shook his head and returned to the open door.

  He held a finger to his lips then leaned his head toward the gap in the door. “I,” he whispered, then paused. He leaned closer to the opening with his finger still extended toward us. He nudged the door. It opened without a sound. He stepped inside. We followed him into the foyer then into the living room.

  Bess wrapped both arms around me and pulled me into her as we looked at Lord Burnham’s ransacked home. The overturned furniture was scattered throughout the room and was mixed among the torn cushions, the batting, and stuffing tossed about the floor. The buffet’s drawer had been taken out, their contents dumped and scattered about the floor. The walls were barren of artwork, what remained of the framed paintings were torn. The shadowed outlines of where the art once hung was all that decorated the room.

  “How in the hell did they arrive before us?” Mr. Atwood said more to himself than either Bess or me.

  “When was the last time someone heard from Lord Burnham?” I walked around the clutter, trying to think of what Pierre would do to piece together the events. I wondered if he was all right, and back home by now.

  “The sergeant-at-arms received word from him yesterday, I believe.”

  “They were obviously intent on finding the information Lord Burnham claims to have.” Bess walked back through the foyer and into the parlor. “Mr. Atwood? Thomas?”

  “What is it?” I called as Mr. Atwood and I ran into the other room. We found her peeking around an archway from the dining area. “What did you find?”

  Bess turned around. Her eyes darted back and forth around the room. “Nothing.” She looked at us. “There is no body. Where is Lord Burnham?”

  “Let us hope that he was not at home when this happened,” Mr. Atwood replied. He walked back into the other room, and I walked over to Bess.

  “I do not like this, Thomas.”

  “Nor do I. This is all wrong.”

  “What is?” Mr. Atwood came back into the other room.

  “This does not fit the profile of the other crimes. As far as we can tell, there hasn’t been a murder, and the place is a disaster. The other robberies, they were…well…orderly.”

  “Are you saying this is not related?”

  “It is made not to look like the other crimes. I am guessing whoever is behind these murders is starting to get nervous—”

  “What, and making mistakes?” Bess asked.

  “Mistakes yes, but it is also a sign of desperation, which makes them more dangerous.” A floorboard creaked above our heads. All three of us looked up simultaneously. “What or who is up there?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Mr. Atwood walked back into the living room, started up the stairs, then stopped and looked over his shoulder toward Bess and me. “Stay here.” He started to turn back, then stopped. “And I mean it this time.” He waited for my nod, indicating my willingness to oblige him, then moved quietly up the stairs. Bess and I waited below and listened.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Atwood’s voice carried down to us. Then a door slammed shut. I went toward the stairs. Bess held me back. A shuffling of feet and the creaking of more floorboards told of a brief skirmish in one of the upper rooms. “I have got him.” Mr. Atwood called down.

  “Who?” Bess and I questioned together.

  “Lord Burnham. He is alive and well, though certainly not from any bravery of a Royal Naval officer.” Mr. Atwood appeared at the top of the stairs. He had one hand around Lord Burnham’s waist, and his other across his body and holding onto Burnham’s arm. “The louse was hiding in a small passageway behind a bureau.” Consternation was present in his voice. “Imagine,” he said as he brought Lord Burnham down the stairs. “A Navy man afraid—”

  “He did the right thing.” Bess interrupted and went to the foot of the staircase.

  “I…I…did not want to die.” The man was shaking and could barely keep his legs from collapsing with each step.

  “Lord Burnham,” Bess took his arm and pulled him away from Mr. Atwood. “I am Bess Dutton, this is Thomas Newton. We have come to help you. There is nothing to be ashamed of for keeping yourself alive. Whoever did this would have murdered you like the others.”

  “Lord Burnham, how did you elude them?” I asked, taking his other arm and leading him through the rooms and into the foyer.

  “Oh, my home.” He stopped, threw his hands over his mouth, and stared at the clutter and damage. “Those bastards, they destroyed my home and everything I worked so hard to protect.” He shook his head, walked to the far wall, picked up a painting to rehang it then noticed the tear. He hung it anyway, then righted a chair and sat down. Bess went to him and held his hand. “I do not…I am sorry. To answer your question. I was upstairs in my bedchamber. I heard the front door. Its lock is old and quite loud. I have meant to have it fixed. As no one has a key to my house, I knew it was them. They were making such a racket downstairs I thought it would be safer to hide.” He patted Bess’s hand. “Miss. Dutton, is it?” He waited for her to nod. “Would you mind ever so much getting me a glass of gin?” He motioned with his head toward the kitchen.

  “Of course, but shouldn’t we get you somewhere safe first?”

  “We can take him back to Clapton’s.”

  “Do we have the room?”

  “Miss…please the drink?

  “Sorry.” Bess hurried into the kitchen. I heard cupboards opening and closing, the clinking of glass, the uncorking of the bottle, then Bess returned and handed Lord Burnham the drink.

  “Thank you, my dear lady.” He tipped the glass to his lips and drank the entire contents in one long gulp. He sighed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Lord Burnham, you cannot stay here. It is not safe.” Bess took the empty glass. She looked around for an upright table on which to place it. Lord Burnham took it back from her.

  “What difference does it make?” He tossed the glass on the floor among the rest of the clutter. He looked around the room. I saw worry and fear etched into his expression. “I suppose you are correct. Staying here would not be wise.” The gin seemed to have quieted his nerves. He combed his fingers through his thinning, gray hair. I saw a strong, youthful, and handsome man beneath his old, nervous exterior.

  “Lord Burnham,” Mr. Atwood finally spoke. “What about the documents we came here to protect. Do you know if they found the evidence? Where was it, and I will go and check.” Lord Burnham threw up his hand, clicked his tongue, and shook his head. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Mr. Atwood’s irritation was apparent.

  “They did not find the documents, I assure you.” He shook his head as he went about righting a cha
ir and a table.

  “How can you be so confident? You were hiding until I found you.”

  “In order to find the documents,” he interrupted. “One must be searching in the correct place.” He looked at Mr. Atwood and sighed. “The documents, Mr. Atwood, were not here. Do you think I am that nimble in the mind as to hide important documents in my home, knowing what was going on?”

  “Then where are they?”

  “No one is going to know until I can be assured there is sufficient evidence against the magistrate and the others to ensure my safety.” The frightened man we first encountered seemed to have vanished before our eyes. He stood and walked toward Mr. Atwood. “Until then the location of the documents will remain a secret.” He turned on his heel. “Mr. Newton. Miss. Dutton, I believe you have promised me protection. I would like to leave now.” He bowed, extended his hand, and waited for Bess and me to escort him out of the house and into the waiting carriage.

  * * * *

  “Pierre?” I called out as we walked into Clapton’s. There was no response. I walked toward the back stairs and called again, still no answer.

  “Mr. Baptiste has not returned.” Mrs. Reid came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. “I have just taken some bread out of the oven if anyone is hungry.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reid, perhaps something to eat would help ease the day.” I smiled at her as she walked back into the kitchen.

  “Where am I to sleep?” Lord Burnham demanded as he poked his head into the three small rooms which lined the back of the house.

  “You can take the room on the far right,” I replied. “Sheppard is traveling at the moment.” I noticed a distasteful smirk on his face. “Is something wrong?”

  “It is a little…simple for my tastes.”

  “We are here to protect your life, not to make you comfortable, Lord Burnham. If you would prefer other quarters then you can take your life into your own hands.”

  “My apologies, Mr. Newton, you are right. The day has been a trying one for all of us. I think I shall turn in for the evening.” Without another word, he entered the bedchamber and closed the door.

  “Shall I stay, Mr. Newton?” Mr. Atwood stood by the door.

  “It might not be a bad idea, Thomas,” Bess said.

  “I agree, but we are out of room.”

  “Do not worry about lodgings, Mr. Newton. It is a pleasant evening, my coachman and I can take up sleep in the carriage. The important thing is to make sure Lord Burnham, and everyone here, remains safe.”

  “If you do not mind a bit of labor, Mr. Atwood, I believe there are some extra mattresses in the cellar we can bring up. I cannot attest to their comfort, but you and your coachman are welcome to use them.”

  “Thank you. Let me have my coachman pull the carriage around the back then we shall find our way to the cellar ourselves. No need for you to make a fuss.” Mr. Atwood bowed then showed himself out.

  “Looks as if you and I are running a protection service.” Bess smiled and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Why the kiss?”

  “Does there have to be a reason?” She paused as she studied my expression. “Honestly, Thomas. I am proud of you. You have grown into quite the man in the last eight months since I have known you. Mother Clap, I am sure would be overjoyed with you making room here for people in need.”

  “Yes, I guess she would.” I smiled at the thought. Then my mind turned to Pierre, and the smile flickered away. “I wish I knew what was keeping Pierre. It is getting late.” I walked over to the dining table, took a piece of warm bread, and poured Bess and myself a gin. Mr. Atwood came back into the house. “Up the stairs and to the other side of the hallway.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded then disappeared. It was not long before he and his coachman came back with two small mattresses.

  “Make yourselves comfortable anywhere you can,” I said. I took the gin bottle and walked into the living room and sat down. Bess joined me. “Please, make yourself at home and help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Newton.” Mr. Atwood called from the dining room as they maneuvered the mattresses side by side near the door.

  “Good night, Mr. Newton, Miss. Dutton.” Mrs. Reid nodded. I think I shall turn in and read for a bit.”

  “Thank you for the bread.” I raised my glass to her.

  “You look tired, Thomas. You should go to bed as well.”

  “I will not be able to sleep. I shall wait up until Pierre gets home. Go on, take Mother’s room.”

  “Are you sure?” She finished off her drink.

  I nodded my response. She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. She stood and walked through the dining room, mindful of the two men stretched out on the floor. I watched her as she ascended the stairs.

  It was not long before I heard the men snoring from the other room. I poured myself another drink and sat in the dark room and waited for Pierre.

  * * * *

  I awoke the next morning to chatter and the banging of pots. I stretched against the cushions of the sofa, then sat up and placed my feet on the floor. My neck and back were stiff from the awkward position in which I had fallen asleep. I stood and stretched again. A thought drifted through the fog of my mind, Pierre. I staggered into the dining room, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  “Good morning, Mr. Newton.” Mr. Atwood stood in nothing but his undergarments. The top of which was unlaced, exposing a mass of burnt red chest hair. “Care for some coffee?” He asked with an air of ease about him, despite being able to see the shadows of body hair, and the outline of his prick through the thin fabric. His royal demeanor all but stripped away.

  “Please.” I waved my hand at him, then made it up the stairs and to the back hallway. I opened the door to our bedchamber. The bed was still made up from the previous morning. Pierre had never come home. “Mr. Atwood,” I shouted. The panic, which rippled through my body chased away the remains of sleep. I ran down the hallway and back into the dining room. “Mr. Atwood, do you know if Pierre…Mr. Baptiste came home during the night?”

  “Thomas, what is going on?” Bess appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “No one came in, Mr. Newton.”

  “Bess, Pierre never came home.” The panic was more than I could stand. I reached out and grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself.

  “Thomas, please, there must be a logical reason.” Bess came down the stairs to comfort me. Both Mrs. Reid and Lord Burnham were out of the chambers in their dressing gowns, trying to make sense of the commotion. As I was ready to explain to them, the side door flew open, and Crowe ran into the room.

  “Mr. Thomas, my Lord. I came as quick as I heard the news. You must be beside yourself.”

  “Please, Crowe, slow down. What are you talking about?”

  “You have not heard?” He crossed himself.

  “Heard what?” Despite the question, I knew the news was about Pierre. I felt it inside me. The panic and building sense of loss burrowed a hole in my heart. It ached, and if I did not know any better, I would have said at that moment that my heart was weeping. I readied myself for the news.

  “Mr. Pierre. He has been arrested.”

  “For what?” Bess gasped.

  “Murder.”

  Chapter 14

  “Murder?” I repeated as if I needed to hear it again to believe it. “Who?”

  “They say he murdered Mr. Borgstrom’s assistant, Cassia Van Dijk.”

  “That is ridiculous.” Despite knowing in my heart that Pierre would never take the life of someone, even in self-defense, I had to pull a chair out and sit for fear my legs would betray me. I knew Mr. Wilcox was behind this. He would do anything to send Pierre to the gallows to get his way. “What evidence do they have?”

  “They found him unconscious from too much alcohol. He was lying next to Miss. Van Dijk’s body. He was covered in her blood.”

  “Thomas.” Bess placed her hand on my shoulder. “What are we goi
ng to do?”

  I felt the emotions rushing to the surface. I wanted to weep, to scream, to run away from the anger, hurt, and vindictiveness of London. Just as I was readying myself for a complete emotional explosion, a sudden calm came over me and soothed the rage building inside me. I began to think clearly, with purpose and composure. There was a familiarity to this feeling. The placement of my emotion came to me. I was an adult. I was no longer a child who ran from his troubles. I thought of Mother Clap and how she, despite the laws of England, gave us, the sodomites, a place to love and be loved. She never lost her composure, no matter how big the fight. This was what Mother had groomed me for, a man who did not give up without a fight. I stood and looked around the room at the amazing friends who were here to offer their support.

  “We are ending this fight once and for all. Clapton’s will close until further notice.” I turned to Crowe. “Where are they keeping Pierre?”

  “Newgate Prison.”

  “Very well. Crowe, I need you to stay here in case Christopher comes back while we’re away and let him know what is happening.”

  “You can count on me, sir.”

  “Mr. Atwood. You and your coachman will take me to Newgate. I will need someone with your rank and status to get in to see Pierre unattended.”

  “We shall be dressed and have the carriage ready in minutes.” Mr. Atwood and his coachman pulled on their clothes without care of formality, then left to ready the horses.

  Bess held my hand. “What can I do?”

  “I need you to stay here. Keep Lord Burnham and Mrs. Reid safe.” I went behind the counter and pulled out mother’s pistol, and handed it to Bess. “I assume you know how to use this?” I said, trying not to sound condescending with a false assumption that a woman did not know how to protect herself.

  “Yes.” She smiled, placed the pistol in her right hand, and aimed it across the room. “No one is getting in here who does not belong.”