Den of Thieves

by William Holden

  I nodded, even though much of what he said made little sense to me.

  “This is rather rude and ill-mannered of me, especially after our intimate time earlier this evening, but I have somewhere else I need to be. May I drop you off at Clapton’s on my way into London?”

  “Thank you.” I followed him out of the small room and back into the warmth and light of the parlor. He assisted me with my overcoat then led me out of the house. We remained in quiet contemplation for the duration of the journey. Once the carriage had stopped at Clapton’s, I began the next part of my plan.

  “I appreciate the ride home, Mr. Borgstrom. We are pressed for time this evening if Bess and I are going to make it to Newgate to see Pierre.”

  He smiled and bowed as he opened the carriage door for me. “Let us not waste any more time then shall we? He stood back from the door. “We shall be dropping Mr. Newton off at Clapton’s on Shoe Lane before heading into the city.

  “Yes, sir.” The coachman called down then waited for Mr. Borgstrom to climb into the carriage and shut the door. Despite our evening together, Mr. Borgstrom never looked at me, nor said anything during our ride across London.

  “Thank you.” I said once the carriage came to a stop on Shoe Lane, and the coachman opened the door. Mr. Borgstrom nodded but did not speak. I stepped out into the street. The carriage took off and I watched it disappear into the dark before making my way around the back and entering through the cellar.

  “It is I, Thomas.” I called out to let Mr. Atwood and the others know of my presence. Bess stuck her head out of Mother Clap’s old room. Thomas, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I am fine.”

  “Mr. Newton?” Mr. Atwood came up the back stairs. “How did it go?”

  “I believe he fell for it. Which reminds me, Bess, get your coat.”

  “Why?”

  “I told Mr. Borgstrom you and I were going to visit Pierre in Newgate, leaving Lord Burnham alone. I am sure they are watching the house.”

  “Would it not be better if we remained here?” Bess asked.

  “We are not going anywhere. We shall take the carriage, park it a few streets away, then slip back in through the cellar.”

  “Well then, what are we waiting for?” She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. “Forget the coat.” Bess kissed me on the cheek.

  “He also inquired about any money I had in the house. I told him it is hidden under the fire grate in the kitchen.”

  “Tobias, Jenkins, get back to your stations behind the bar and wait this one out. We cannot afford to fuck this up.” Mr. Atwood’s stern voice made it sound as if the men in his company were not the best at what they did.

  Tobias and Jenkins stood behind the bar with their pistols drawn and ready. I nodded at them then followed Mr. Atwood into the living room as he took a seat in front of a dwindling fire. It gave off little light, which I assumed was to aid in the fact that it was not Lord Burnham sitting alone in the dark. He looked at me when I approached.

  “I have to admit I am surprised someone in your high position is playing the decoy.” I sat on the arm of the sofa.

  “I am leaving nothing to chance. Tobias and Jenkins are good men, but young and inexperienced.” He took a sip of his drink. “We have only one shot at this, and I am not going back to the king and telling him we failed.”

  “I am sure Mr. Borgstrom took the bait, and with all of us here, we shall get him.” I stood, reached out, and laid my hand on his shoulder. He patted my hand and smiled at me. “Bess and I will leave in the carriage, then double back through the cellar.” Walking back through the near dark house, my mind returned to Mother Clap. I wondered how she would feel about her once thriving business being turned into a trap to catch a deadly plot to overthrow the king. I smiled, knowing all too well she would be standing in some dark corner with her pistol waiting for the action.

  Bess was waiting for me by the side door. I took her hand in mine, and we walked out of Clapton’s together. The warm, wet night had turned damp and cold. As we made our way to the carriage and untethered the horses, the night took on an eerie silence. I looked around in the darkness. Someone was out there watching our every move. I climbed up next to Bess. She grabbed the reins and with a click of her tongue she guided the horses into the street and headed down Shoe Lane.

  “This should be a safe distance.” I said and pointed toward a row of fences where we could tether the horses. She pulled the carriage to a stop, I hopped down and tied the horses off. They snorted and bobbed their heads as I patted each one on the nose. I helped Bess down then we made our way back toward Clapton’s by keeping off the main roads and using nearby alleys and yards.

  Bess and I slipped back into the cellar of Clapton’s and walked through the back hallway. The house was dark and quiet. The faint light from the still burning fireplace gave us our only source of light. I stopped at the bedchamber door, expecting Bess to go where it was safe. She shook her head. Her eyebrows furrowed. I pleaded with my eyes, but she was firm in her resolve. She wanted to be a part of the plan. During those moments of unspoken silence, I heard a noise coming from the main part of the house. Bess and I looked at each other. Fear shown in our eyes. The murderer was here and trying to get inside.

  I walked toward the partly open door and peered into the dining room and waited. Bess came up behind me, pressing her body against mine to get a look over my shoulder. The lock disengaged and the door opened with a slow, cautious pace. The whole of my body trembled with fear. Even through the darkness, I could see the pale white mask the man was wearing. I turned and nodded at Bess. This was it. My plan had worked, and yet something did not sit right with me.

  As Bess and I continued to watch, the masked man entered the dining room and pulled out a dagger. He turned toward Mr. Atwood sitting in the living room. Mr. Atwood’s head was laying against the wing of the chair as if asleep. The man walked without making a sound. The pistol raised. Tobias and Jenkin’s leaped up from behind the bar and shouted for the man to stop. In all of their youthful excitement and nervous energy, they tripped over one another as they tried to come out from behind the bar. Their pistols fell from their hands and skidded across the floor. Jenkins remained on the floor but Tobias stood. The masked man turned and aimed his pistol at Tobias.

  The sound of the gun firing echoed through the darkened room. Tobias was hit and fell against the bar then slumped to the floor. In a panic and without thinking, I opened the back door and went bounding down the stairs. I stopped when the man turned and pointed a gun at me.

  “Drop the gun.” Mr. Atwood said as he rose from the chair and aimed his pistol at the man’s head. “Do not think about it.” Mr. Atwood cocked his pistol and pressed it against the back of the man’s head. “I said drop it.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped. He tossed the gun off to the side and raised his hands. Mr. Atwood raised the butt of the gun and struck the man on the head. He collapsed on the floor. Bess rushed down the stairs and went to Tobias, while I went to find out who the murderer was. I knelt beside the man and removed the mask.

  “Ansell Van Dijk.” I muttered in shock. “Mr. Borgstrom’s assistant.”

  “Stay here.” Mr. Atwood said then rushed out of the house. I heard a carriage pulling away and Mr. Atwood shouting for it to stop. “Fuck.” He came back into the room. I could not get a look at the driver.”

  “It does not matter. We have our murderer.” I said as Ansell started to regain consciousness. Mr. Atwood handed me a pair of shackles. I made quick work of clamping them around Ansell’s wrists. I wanted to be sure he was not going to be able to fight his way out of this.

  “Get up, you piece of shit.” Mr. Atwood grabbed him by his bound wrists and pulled him to his feet. “Who was the driver?”

  “Fucking wanker,” Ansell grumbled. He winced and shook his head. “You cannot do anything about it. You will never stop us.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “T
homas,” He looked at me then nodded toward the dining room. “Miss. Dutton, how is he?”

  “Just a shoulder wound. I can get it wrapped, but he needs to see a doctor.”

  “Who killed your sister, Cassia, Mr. Van Dijk?” I asked.

  “My life is not worth—”

  “Unlike your boss, you are touchable. Who did it?” Mr. Atwood demanded.

  “Please, I know Pierre is innocent.” Then a thought came to me. “Do you know what nails have to do with it? Please, do the right thing for once.”

  “I lost my sister for the cause. Seems only appropriate that you lose the one you love for the same cause. Take me away from here.”

  Mr. Atwood pulled Ansell away then leaned toward me. “Do not worry, Thomas. We shall work this out.” He gave me a weak smile then escorted Ansell toward the door. He stopped and turned around. “Can he travel?”

  “Yes. He is in considerable pain, but he will be okay.”

  “Jenkins, help get Tobias out to the carriage.” Mr. Atwood’s irritation was evident in his tone and expression.

  Bess walked toward me as Mrs. Reid and Lord Burnham came down the back stairs. The four of us watched Mr. Atwood and Tobias take Ansell away. Despite having managed to capture the murderer, I had no idea how I was going to prove Pierre’s innocence.

  Chapter 17

  I walked down the dark streets of central London. Few people were out at that time of night, and the ones I passed seemed not to take notice of me. The darkness made the city take on a new identity, one which breathed death, grief, and murder. I became all too aware that something was not right. The city felt different, or was it I who was different? I took a deep breath. The usual charred remains of the coal laced air was gone. In fact, the air, the city was odorless. The dampness of the warm night caressed my face, while the slop and sludge of the streets made every step difficult. It was the same city, and yet I felt as if none of it were real.

  As I crossed into Covent Garden, I saw two people walking several yards ahead of me. The smaller of the two individuals I recognized as Cassia Van Dijk. The other person, however, was blurred, and out of focus as if concealing themselves from view. I assumed it was a man by the size and shape of the darkened silhouette alone. The realization that Miss Van Dijk was walking ahead of me gave me pause in my thoughts, wondering if perhaps the whole ordeal of her murder and Pierre’s arrest had been nothing more than a horrible dream brought about by the stress of our daily lives.

  The man was holding onto Cassie’s arm, and even with the darkness of the streets, it looked to me as if she was not going with the man willingly. The man pulled Cassia into an alley. It was then I realized I was about to witness Cassia’s murder. I quickened my pace to keep up with them, yet maintain a safe distance. I peered around the corner of the alley. The man had thrown Cassia against the wall and appeared to be yelling at her. I could hear nothing coming out of his mouth. It was as if I had gone deaf.

  “Stop,” I yelled. No one heard my plea. Someone walked by me. I reached out to them to get their attention, and my arm passed through their body. I jerked my hand back and stared at my fingers. They itched as if I had touched something I shouldn’t have. What in the hell is happening? I turned back toward the alley. The situation was growing more intense. I tried to step into the alley, realizing I had to do something, but my feet wouldn’t move. I looked down at the ground, raised my left foot, then the right. Then tried to step into the alley again. Any forward movement on my part was being blocked by something I could not see. Driven to a halt by an overwhelming fear, all I could do was stand and watch the violence escalate.

  The shadowed man, whose facial features were as absent as the rest of his body, slapped Cassia and threw her to the ground. She screamed and yet I heard none of it. She began to fight back, pushing the man’s face with her hands. He brushed her weak attempt off as if she was nothing more than a swarm of bothersome flies. Her hands began to pound on his chest as he pulled a dagger out of the waistband of his breeches. She clawed at his shirt and tore it open, then dug her nails into his chest. Her fingers came away bloody, then with a force of something inhuman, the shadowed man plunged the blade into her chest. I stood, horrified, as he continued to assault her body with the blade, even after she had breathed her last breath. It was in those split seconds I realized the meaning of what Mr. Borgstrom had said to me.

  “Nails,” I screamed. “Her nails.”

  “Thomas, wake up.” A distant voice came to me.

  My body lifted off the ground near the scene of Cassia’s murder. I hovered over the area as the pull continued to take me.

  “No, wait. Her nails.” I jolted awake in bed with Christopher holding me in his arms. I wrapped my arms around his body and pulled him into me as I shivered from the nightmare. I looked around the room. Bess and Sheppard stood at the foot of my bed. “It was not Pierre.” I began to cry into Christopher’s shoulders. “It was not Pierre.”

  “Shh,” Christopher rubbed my back and rocked me in his arms. “Of course, Pierre did not do it.”

  I pulled away from him. “No, you do not understand. I can prove it.” I looked at Bess and Sheppard and smiled through the tears. “I can prove it.” I held Christopher’s face in the palms of my hands and kissed him. “Thank you for coming back so soon.”

  “There is nothing that would keep me away, my love.” He kissed my nose and smiled.

  “Thomas,” Bess spoke up. “Please, do not keep us in suspense, what do you know?”

  “Cassia attacked her murderer. She dug her nails into his chest and drew blood.”

  “How do you know this?” Bess asked.

  “I saw Cassia murdered in my dream.”

  “Lord save us.” Sheppard crossed himself. “It is unnatural. Mr. Borgstrom has bewitched you.”

  “I cannot explain it, Sheppard, but I certainly do not believe that he or anyone else has cursed me. All I know is that I was there and watched everything as it happened. I tried to call out, but my voice fell away to nothing. I tried to walk into the alley, to stop him, but it was as if there was a barrier keeping me from interfering.”

  “This is not right. No one should have the power of hindsight.”

  “Nicholas, please, this is no time for a religious rant of yours. Thomas needs us, and regardless of how he learned of this, the information can free your friend and employer.”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Thomas.”

  “Do not worry. I am just as spooked by it as everyone else, but regardless of how or why, I need to get to the dead house this morning and inspect Cassia’s body. If the dream was some unearthly hindsight brought on by Mr. Borgstrom’s strange magic, then I expect to find blood and skin under Cassia’s nails.”

  “Why wouldn’t the coroner have mentioned it?” Christopher rubbed my back.

  “I would stake my life on the fact that the coroner is in the magistrate’s pocket.”

  “Do you think he is stupid enough to risk his reputation for Mr. Wilcox?”

  “Either he is too stupid to think to look under the woman’s nails, or he is keeping the evidence a secret to make sure there is no proof of Pierre’s innocence. Either way, I need to inspect her body.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Bess sounded excited and ready for anything.

  “Bess, you and Sheppard stay here and keep an eye on Mrs. Reid and Lord Burnham. I do not want them going back home until we are sure they will be safe.” I saw a pained look in Bess’s expression. “Is something wrong?”

  “I think Nicholas and I would be of much more use if we were out there with you. You need a coachman, and I, well, I want to help.” She cleared her throat. “Not sit here and babysit.” She gave a quick glance at Sheppard. He nodded.

  “Bess, I know you are capable of more…I do not want you to get hurt.”

  “And what about you and Christopher? Do you think I want to sit here, unable to help if one or the both of you get into trouble? I can handle myself.”

  “I know
you can, more than most men I know.” I sighed, knowing it was a losing battle to argue with Bess and we were wasting time. “Sheppard, get the carriage ready.”

  “Yes, Mr. Thomas.”

  “Bess, tell our guests to stay here, then meet Christopher and me at the carriage. It looks like the three of us are going to the dead house.”

  “What if the coroner will not allow you to examine her body?” Bess asked.

  “I shall work that out as we go along.” I shifted on the bed and waited for Christopher to stand. “Let me get dressed, and we shall be on our way.”

  * * * *

  “Thank you.” I reached over and held Christopher’s hand as Sheppard rushed us through the busy streets while the hawkers vied for customers and money.

  “For what? I have done nothing.”

  “I was thinking back to my childhood. You have done so much for me over the years. I wouldn’t be alive if it were not for you and your compassion and love.” I choked on the last few words as a wave of warmth rose into my chest and caught in my throat.

  “You do not need to keep thanking me. I do not do it for gratitude, or to get something in return. I do it out of love for you.” He squeezed my hand and winked.

  “With everything going on, I forgot to ask you about Cambridge. Did you find anything out about my father?”

  “Thomas,” Bess spoke. “Let us focus on getting Pierre cleared of these charges. Christopher was there such a short time. I doubt there is much to tell. I think our energies at this moment need to stay focused on the coroner and Miss Van Dijk’s body.”

  “You are right. We need to stay focused.” I turned and looked out the window as we passed through London. My mind drifted aimlessly, looking at the people milling about, the butchers with their cleavers in action, trying to sell their stock before the heat spoiled the meat. The carriage came to a stop. I sighed, trying to release the nervous anticipation of what we were about to find inside the dead house.

  “Are you all right, Thomas?”

  “Yes, I just hope I am right about this.”