by Amy Corwin
Setting-to with the rest of them, Sam unloaded the bricks into wheelbarrows and hods, keeping her eyes on her business. Nonetheless, despite her concentration, she couldn’t shake her anxiety. The occasional passersby sporadically paused at the entrance to the alley to gawk at the workmen. Their curious gazes felt hot against her back.
Sam tried to ignore the idlers, but suddenly, her short hair tickled the back of her neck. She stopped. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for a pair of watchful eyes. A quick movement caught her attention, but it disappeared around the corner before she could be sure of anything.
The mouth to the alley appeared empty. All the workmen were occupied unloading the cart and getting ready for the day’s labors. Mr. Hawkins had pitched in with the rest, unloading ten bricks at a time with his massive hands.
The sensation of being studied faded as Sam slipped through the alley to the back of the house. She carefully stacked her load near the decorative wall they were building. Then, she looked around, relieved that the townhouse blocked the view from the street.
Had the man who murdered Major Pickering followed her?
Unlikely.
Perhaps she just didn’t like the city and it’s busy, crowded streets overmuch. Her uneasy feeling had started when they had arrived in London a little over a week ago, but it was hard to resist Mr. Hawkins’s joy over winning the bid. He had finally gotten an opportunity to gain a toehold in the great city, and all his men would profit from it.
However, Sam wasn’t interested in cities—great or otherwise. It wasn’t an opportunity from her perspective. The job was just another wall with an arched doorway leading into an herb garden. And now, London also presented the danger of a dead man who might have had her name in his pocket.
Not to mention Mr. Hawkins’s sudden and appalling scheme to marry his only daughter off to Samuel Sanderson, the lad who was going to handle their London office after the wedding. It was all a miserable tangle.
Glancing down at her empty hod, Sam shook the brick dust off her hat before going back through the alley for another load of bricks. Her chest thumped wildly as she got within sight of the bustling street. The hair along her arms rose under the long sleeves of her smock, feeling like spiders running over her skin. With conspicuous nonchalance, she turned her back to the road and filled the wheelbarrow with the last of the bricks. The sense of someone observing her gave her no peace.
Wheeling the last load toward the half-built wall, she took a deep breath and filled her mind with the comforting, solid geometry of bricklaying. The brick townhouse behind her glowed with deep rich red in the midmorning sun. Some previous bricklayer had spent extra time and effort to lay in a subtle design in the brickwork around the windows. The wall’s arch should match if they followed her plans, elegantly repeating the unknown bricklayer’s design.
Then, if they did well, Hawkins and Hawkins would expand to include a new London establishment. And she would be in charge, as Mr. Samuel Sanderson-Hawkins, the son-in-law to Mr. Edward Hawkins of Clapham. Pride swelled in her chest.
However, despite the soothing repetition of her work, she couldn’t ease her growing tension. Over lunch, she made yet another half-hearted attempt to dissuade Mr. Hawkins from his ridiculous idea to make her his heir and business associate.
He laughed, slapped her on the back, and commended her humility. None of the other men had been with him as long or worked as hard. None of the others could read or do sums. So Hawkins made it clear that Sam could either marry Kitty, his sole living child, or search for other employment.
And employment was not easy to find. Sam didn’t want to risk losing the only job she knew. Bricklaying was hard, methodical work but after her hands callused up, she’d grown to like the permanence of it. What she created would live on, well past her lifetime. One day, she would be the unknown bricklayer whose work was admired, or even imitated, by a fellow craftsman.
On a good day, when she stood back to contemplate her efforts, her heart nearly choked her as she examined the high, solid walls soaring toward the sky. The heavy bricks and mortar stood as an enduring testament to her existence. Her legacy.
So she’d done well by Mr. Hawkins, and he knew it. Her brickwork formed more intricate designs than Hawkins and Hawkins traditionally tackled, and because of this, business had grown from Clapham to London. His reputation was built upon her back, her ingenuity, and talent. And she took immense pride in that accomplishment.
Finally, as the sun drifted behind the steep roof of the townhouse, Mr. Hawkins slapped her shoulder. Sam stood up in surprise. A sudden wave of exhaustion rolled over her as she rotated her sore shoulders. It was after seven already.
The men were idling along the wall and waiting for dismissal so they could visit the tavern before heading home. Mr. Hawkins stood back and grinned as Sam laid the last brick for the day.
With a satisfied chuckle, Hawkins released the men.
Gritty dust covered Sam’s face. She rubbed the sweat from her eyes using the crook of her arm, which only served to deposit more reddish dirt over her cheeks than she swept away. However, the brick dust hid the fact that she alone of all the workers had no day’s growth of beard shadowing her jaw. Wiping her arm up over her brow, she smeared a bit more on her face as Mr. Hawkins strode along the wall to examine the work.
“Good job, lad. Another week like this, and we’ll be on to the next.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam agreed. She stacked the remaining bricks in the rectangular hod next to the wall and covered them with a canvas tarp before picking up her tools.
“To the tavern, then?” Hawkins asked in a voice rich with anticipation.
“Sorry, sir, not tonight,” she said. “I’ve got some personal matters to attend to.” After an uneasy day, she had decided she could not ignore the past any longer.
She had to find out what Major Pickering died trying to tell her. If she was truly under observation, then like as not, it was related to his murder—and her past.
And whoever was watching her might intend to kill her, too.
“Personal?” Hawkins eyed her with a frown. His face had the look of a round piece of partially-baked dough with plump cheeks, a soft, bulbous nose, and small blackcurrant eyes. Still, he had a friendly expression despite the beetling brows wrinkling at her. “What business could you have that I wouldn’t know about, eh, after thirteen years?”
She glanced at him and then stared down at her dusty shoes. Unconsciously, she scratched the codpiece she wore under her trousers to hide her sex. Then, realizing what she was doing, she felt a flush seep through the dust on her cheeks. “I’ve got something I’ve got to do, sir.”
Noting her actions, he laughed and clapped her on the back. “A visit to the apothecary, eh? I told you to leave old Peggy alone last night. Though I guess there’s nothing to stop a lusty young man from sowing his wild oats while he may. Crabs, is it?” Instead of anger, Mr. Hawkins appeared proud of Sam for allegedly doing what so many young men desired to do. Perhaps he thought it boded well for his chances of getting grandchildren.
Sam mumbled something under her breath and scratched again. Old Peggy was an understanding woman who liked nothing better than to sit on her rickety bed and talk to Sam for a few shillings. Indeed, according to Peggy, she had many customers who preferred to spend a few minutes gossiping instead of other more strenuous activities.
And although spending time in private with Peggy lead to many ribald jokes from the other bricklayers, there was no one who doubted Sam was exactly who and what she said she was after a half hour or so spent in a “confidential chat” with the woman.
So, if a case of the crabs could get Sam a little privacy tonight, then she was willing to have them.
“I’d best be getting along, sir.”
“The apothecary were closed, son. Hours ago,” Mr. Hawkins said, walking with her to the cart.
Sam unhitched the tan-and-white draft horse and led it over to Hawkins. He brought up the tra
ces of the cart and held them while Sam strapped the horse into place in their familiar routine. The horse nuzzled her shoulder. Sam rubbed the warm velvet of its ears before fastening and readjusting the harness straps.
“I’ve one near my lodgings. I can catch him right enough and get what I need.”
“Sulfur and ashes, that’s what you want,” Hawkins said, climbing into the seat. “Rub it in every morning and night. You’ll be right again soon enough. Climb in, my lad.” He smiled before adding, “That is, son.”
Scrambling up, Sam took the reins and clicked her tongue, trying to ignore Mr. Hawkins. She didn’t want to think about Kitty tonight—or any other night. The horse clopped forward, head down, looking as tired and glum as Sam felt. The empty cart lurched and bumped as they moved down the cobbled road, renewing the ache in Sam’s bruised back.
As she drove, Hawkins warmed the cool evening air by talking about his plans for their new offices in London. He grew so entranced by the prospect that he fairly ignored Sam unless she failed to grunt during his brief pauses. When they got to High Street, she gave the reins over to him and scrambled down.
“I’ll get out here, sir. Good night!” With a wave, Sam slipped away, quickly cutting between the buildings and heading for her street, determined to put an end to the prickling sensation between her shoulder blades.
Across from the dilapidated boarding house where Sam rented a room, there was another townhouse with a small, brass sign. Second Sons, Discreet Inquires. Sam passed that building every day, morning and night, barely glancing at it.
The townhouse itself was unremarkable, built out of plain red brick with neat white window frames and black shutters. A narrow walkway abutted a black, wrought-iron fence embedded in a three-foot tall wall to keep the passersby at bay. The black door seemed almost invisible in the shadows of the entryway, but a brass knocker and door handle glittered in the dimness.
If Sam stopped to consider it overmuch, she would have passed the building by and returned home for supper, served at nine sharp. Her fellow lodgers were all working men who left at sun-up and returned at dark. With the spring days lengthening, supper moved along with the sunset to a later hour.
Sam’s stomach growled, but she ignored it. She stared at the building, torn between her need to know why Pickering was murdered and her cowardly desire to ignore the entire matter.
But she would lose her job if she missed work investigating on her own, and she had to know—the knowledge might mean her life. So, she had to have help, even if it meant spending a few of her carefully hoarded coins.
Indecision made her step back from the narrow walkway between the black iron railings.
What if she foolishly spent her pay and learned nothing?
She had little enough to live on as it was. Her hand gripped the cold iron as she tried to weigh her decision. She could hold back the rent a few times— let Mrs. Pochard complain—and make it up to her later.
And she could do without a few meals.
Mouth tight, she pushed open the gate and let it clang shut behind her. She mounted the four brick steps to the front door and eyed the well-polished knocker.
Doubt stayed her hand as her heart fluttered in her chest.
She took one last deep breath and lifted the brass knocker. Her fingers shook so much she slammed the cold metal knocker down not once, but twice. She winced at the sound and nearly turned to run away.
A butler, formally dressed in dark blue coat and black breeches, opened the door. He stared down his long nose at her before moving to stolidly block the entrance.
“What do you want?” he asked coldly. His eyes moved from the top of her head down her smock to her dusty shoes. “Tradesmen use the back entrance.” With that remark, he started to close the door.
She shoved her foot in the crack. “I’m here on business.”
“If it’s a bill, you may leave it with me.”
From the depths of her past, she pulled forth a tattered memory of the manners of those who did not work for a living. She raised her chin and stared down the length of her sunburned nose.
In the richest tenor she could manage, she replied, “It is a private matter. Announce me.”
The butler eyed her another moment before opening the door a foot or so and standing aside.
“You are?”
“Mr. Samuel Sanderson.”
“Very good. Wait here.”
Without deigning to glance at him again, Sam entered. She stopped a few feet beyond the door and stood still, hat bunched between her hands. Small clouds of reddish brick dust gently settled on the black-and-white marble of the hallway, surrounding her in a rust-colored pool that looked very much like dried blood.
Chapter Two
William Trenchard sat in his office with his feet up on the desk, mindlessly bored and staring at the naked angels painted on the ceiling. His associate and employer, Mr. Knighton Gaunt, had neglected to repaint the ceilings when he refurbished the elegant townhouse to turn it into offices. He then added to his neglect by failing to give William any sort of meaningful work, which was rather exasperating.
So, floating above William was an entire harem of angels, and he had absolutely nothing to do but stare at them. There was one voluptuous, fair-haired beauty he was particularly fond of, with a flowing white scrap of material clinging to one plump shoulder. Her drapery managed to cover only a small portion of one arm and her waist while leaving all the more interesting bits quite well displayed.
He closed his eyes and imagined the angel walking into his office, weeping and imploring him to assist her in finding her dear, late husband’s foul murderer. Of course, she’d have to wear more clothing during the initial interview. After that, well, it was quite convenient to have his apartment right upstairs.
His desk was also quite large and solid.
Very convenient, indeed.
“Sir,” Sotheby asked from the doorway. “There is a person here.”
William turned his head, but didn’t bother uncrossing his ankles. There was a tone in Sotheby’s voice that made William’s chest spasm with a suppressed laugh. “What sort of person?”
“A—a common laborer, sir.”
“Really?” William sat up, removing his feet from the desk. “Well, show him in.”
A laborer? What on earth would a common laborer want with an inquiry agent? He stared at the door that Sotheby held open. The butler’s nostrils pinched as if he smelled a disagreeable odor.
To William’s surprise, a slender man walked in. Small puffs of reddish dust delicately swirled in his wake. The young man examined him while William half-stood, leaning over his desk with a hand outstretched. Finally, the lad clasped his hand in a firm handshake, his fingers hard with calluses.
“I’m Mr. Trenchard. And you are?” William asked.
“Samuel Sanderson, sir.”
A pair of clear gray eyes met his. Steady, honest eyes fringed with ridiculously long lashes that gave him a faintly feminine look. William sat back in his chair and motioned to his visitor to take the seat opposite the desk.
The man was indeed a laborer. His smudged and torn linen smock had large red patches of brick dust. Grit obscured his face and hands. His short, brown hair had long streaks of blond, bleached from constant exposure to the sun, no doubt. Large, intelligent eyes dominated his face. He stared at William directly, measuring him even as he weighed his odd client.
Firm mouth, square chin, and a short, straight nose. William instinctively liked the lad, feeling a sudden and surprising rush of warmth. He looked like someone’s younger brother, in trouble and manfully resolved to admit it. Although his clean features appeared very young, no more than eighteen, there was something in his gaze that made William think his client was older. Still, Sanderson’s narrow shoulders and slight build spoke of hardship and near starvation, as did the hollows under his stark cheekbones.
Something caught suddenly in William’s chest in a ripping pang of sympathy.
&
nbsp; “So, Mr. Sanderson, what can I do for you?”
Sanderson nodded sharply and fumbled under his smock for a moment before pulling out a worn leather purse. “Money’s always first. There is nearly a guinea here. I don’t carry more, but I can pay you an additional sum when the work is completed. Within reason.”
William stared at him, trying not to appear surprised. A guinea? Mr. Sanderson obviously had no idea how much Second Sons normally charged their illustrious—and generally noble—clients.
Still, business had been slow. And he had a desire to prove to Mr. Gaunt that he wasn’t just another bored boudoir bantam who thought working as an inquiry agent might be amusing.
And William’s curiosity had been aroused.
“And what would be reasonable?” William asked.
“Five pounds. No more. That ought to be enough,” Mr. Sanderson said, his chin rising slightly.
“Enough for what?”
“There was a man murdered this morning.” Mr. Sanderson scrabbled about his person again before he pulled out a scrap of paper. He threw it into the middle of the desk.
William picked up the note and read it over twice before raising his brows. “Did you kill him?”
“Certainly not. I was to meet him this morning. He was murdered before I could.”
“Then why come to me?”
Mr. Sanderson’s remarkable eyes stared back. William thought he saw a flicker of disappointment and then fear, quickly submerged in their clear depths. “I want to know what he knew.”
William leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes studying Sanderson. That brief glimpse of dissatisfaction in the lad’s eyes annoyed him. He had noticed it too many times before when others had seen only a handsome exterior and failed to note that William also had a keen wit, when he chose to exercise it.
