Chapter 2 #2
It only took a second, if that. All Adrian knew was that Crispin must have sensed the distraction for he suddenly turned, his hands gripping Adrian’s arm and shoving it sideways.
It connected with the doorframe with a loud ‘thwack’ and Adrian lost his hold on the pistol.
The gun went flying and landed somewhere in the hallway beyond.
Then came the door, which Crispin smashed against Adrian’s body, trapping his arm between it and the doorframe and pushing down hard. The pain was fierce, but quickly let up as Crispin took off.
“Bloody bastard,” Adrian muttered. He shook out his arm and flexed his fingers, pausing briefly in response to the cry that came from below.
Smug satisfaction filled his chest. He squared his shoulders and ambled toward the spot where his pistol lay. Once he’d retrieved it, he descended the stairs to the entryway where Ratcher still stood.
Adrian gave him a pound for the trouble, then stepped into the alley where Murry waited, his pistol pressed against Crispin’s skull. A gash was now present upon Crispin’s brow and one eye appeared to be swelling. Despite Crispin being the same size as Murry, he visibly cowered before him.
“Good man,” Adrian said, the compliment directed at his valet. To Crispin he said, “Try that again and I’ll put your head through the nearest wall. Got it?”
Crispin muttered something incomprehensible. A curse, no doubt. Adrian grabbed his upper arm and shoved him into a walk while Murry kept the pistol carefully trained upon him.
Together, they got O’Leary’s man back to their carriage and set off for home. Despite the late hour, their work for the night was just beginning.
* * *
“Tell us about your dealings with Finn O’Leary,” Adrian said once Crispin had been confined to the room that had always been used for these types of discussions.
Personally, he hated the space. It was where he’d been whipped for failing to do as his father asked, where the memory of what snapping bone sounded like still made him flinch.
Yet despite these things, or possibly because of them, this was where he’d chosen to end Clive Newton’s miserable existence last year.
More than anything, he’d brought Newton here for the same reason he’d now brought Crispin. Because it was private. None of the sounds produced in the room would filter outside. No one would guess that a man was being held captive beneath the otherwise prestigious Portman Square home.
An advantage that gave Adrian as much time as he needed to dig and probe and discover the truth.
He considered Crispin, who’d been placed in the same chair Newton had been made to stand on before it was knocked away, snapping the rope tight around his neck. No regret there. Not for the murderous scoundrel who’d slit Evie’s throat.
His poor, sweet sister…
Adrian’s heart shuddered at the reminder. The real person responsible for that tragedy had yet to be found. Until they were, there were other matters for Adrian to attend to, like the preservation of his good name and all that it stood for.
Leaving Murry near the table that held all manner of unpleasant tools, he stepped toward Crispin and dropped to a crouch, meeting him at eye-level.
“You asked me who I was earlier.” Adrian tilted his head and studied his captive. Blood was smeared across his brow and a dark bruise had started to form at the edge of his eye. Cold fury, as dark as Adrian’s past, stared back. Unperturbed, Adrian told him smoothly, “I’m the man you stole from.”
Crispin spat on the floor, barely missing the tip of Adrian’s shoe. “I’ve stolen from many, so ye’ll have to be more specific.”
Whatever bravado had failed him when he’d stared down the barrel of Adrian’s pistol earlier had clearly returned.
Adrian snorted and pushed himself upright.
“I’m referring to the wine and champagne.
Several crates of it, imported from France and already paid for by those I supply. People I now owe.”
It was one of the few businesses Adrian had agreed with his father on and consequently one of the ones he’d continued running after his father’s death.
The smuggling network already in place had made a smooth transition with minimal work required on his part.
And without the heavy taxes imposed by the government, he and his clients were able to turn a good profit.
Thanks to the weight of his name, his clients even paid in advance.
Which was good for business, until this sort of thing occurred.
“Where are the crates?” Adrian asked, circling toward the table Murry leaned against.
“Long gone,” Crispin said.
“I seriously doubt that.” There had been thirty in total. A large shipment for which it would take time to find other buyers. Besides which… “You were overheard last week, prattling on while drowning yourself in ale at The Black Swan.”
Adrian selected a long knife with a gleaming blade and glanced toward Crispin. The man clenched his jaw. “Whoever says they saw me there either lied or made a mistake. I’ve never set foot in that place.”
“No?” Adrian ran a gloved finger along the edge of the blade. He didn’t believe Mr. Crispin for one second. Not when the report he’d received was made by one of his own associates. Ellis would never have told Cummings to notify Adrian unless he was sure of the information he passed along.
Increasingly angry, Adrian dropped his hand and stalked toward Crispin, who shifted his gaze to the blade Adrian still held. “Finn O’Leary’s name was mentioned along with those crates.”
“I don’t know who this Finn O’Leary person is or where yer crates are,” Crispin insisted.
“Are you sure about that?” Adrian set the tip of the blade right beneath Crispin’s chin and pressed upward, puncturing flesh and forcing a wince from between his lips. “Stings, doesn’t it?”
“Let me go,” Crispin snarled.
Adrian only forced his chin higher. “Whatever you fear O’Leary will do, I’ll do ten times over unless you start talking.”
“Really?” It was clear Crispin didn’t believe him. “Toffs like ye don’t dirty their ’ands in such ways. It’s all bluster in the end, in’it? Show off some strength, some weapons, a tough bloke with a bit o’ muscle, and ye think ye can bend anyone to yer will. Bloody laughable is what it is.”
An unexpected laugh burst from Adrian’s throat. He stared at Crispin. “You really have no idea who I am, do you?”
“Told ye as much more than once, didn’t I?”
“Forgive me. All things considered, I thought you were just being rude or dishonest, but allow me to introduce myself then. I’m Mr. Adrian Croft, King of Portman Square.”
It was a curious thing, watching arrogance drain from a man’s every feature until the only thing remaining was pure dread.
Indeed, from the way in which Crispin was suddenly shuffling his feet and twisting against his restraints, it very much looked like he was hoping to make an impossible escape. Through the wall behind him.
“Just to be clear,” Adrian said, “I know you’re working for O’Leary. I also know you stole my crates. How I decide to punish you for it will come down to how forthright you choose to be.”
“They’re in a ware’ouse by the docks,” Crispin said in a rush. Incredibly, he’d blanched even more. “I…I was only followin’ orders.”
“When did O’Leary hire you?” Adrian asked.
“About a month ago.”
“And how many others are currently in his employ?”
“I’m not sure.” When Adrian snatched hold of Crispin’s finger and started bending it backwards, the man confessed, “Three others helped me steal the crates, and I saw two more when I went to report our success to O’Leary.”
Adrian released his hold on Crispin’s finger. “Where did the two of you meet?”
“At The Mad Bull. He likes the place or it seems that way ’cause that’s where I’m always able to find ’im. As far as I know, most of ’is crew, including me, was there to fight.”
Made sense, Adrian supposed. If one was in need of some tough enforcers, who better to recruit than the sort of men who were used to bare-knuckle brawling? O’Leary would have been able to gauge each man’s capabilities before making them an offer.
He considered the information Crispin had just provided, then told him, “You’re going to take me to the warehouse so I can reclaim what’s mine.”
Crispin started shaking his head. “He’ll kill me for the betrayal.”
Adrian’s blade connected with Crispin’s throat in a flash. “I’ll kill you right now if you don’t comply.”
Crispin’s eyes bulged and fine droplets of sweat appeared on his brow. He nodded. “All right. Yes. I’ll do as ye say.”
Instead of easing the blade away, Adrian pressed it more firmly against him, forcing Crispin’s head back. “Any attempt at trickery will put you six feet under. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Crispin wheezed.
Adrian held his gaze for a few more seconds, then slowly retreated. He returned the blade to the table and straightened his jacket before telling Murry, “We need to prepare in case it’s a trap.”
Considering what O’Leary had said — the threat he’d issued about taking Adrian down and stepping into his shoes — there had to be more to this situation than a mere theft.
For while the theft had proven problematic, it wasn’t worse than what could be solved with some added funds and a few apologies, even if it meant taking a loss.
Adrian had other forms of income. He would recover.
So if O’Leary meant to destroy him, this wasn’t the way to go about it, which made Adrian highly suspicious.
“We could involve Kendrick,” Murry suggested, his voice a low whisper. “Have Crispin lead him and his Bow Street Runners to the warehouse. Let them seize the goods.”
“Kendrick would know the liquor was smuggled,” Adrian murmured while pondering Murry’s idea. “I’d have to sacrifice my profits and pay compensations to all the shopkeepers if I’m to prevent him from learning of my involvement. It will cost me at least 800 pounds.”
Murry arched an eyebrow. “Might be worth it though, don’t you think?”
It probably wouldn’t be what O’Leary expected and that alone was enough for Adrian to make his decision. Instead of taking the bait and trying to reclaim his stolen goods, he’d leave it to Kendrick.
In the meantime, he’d regroup, gather more information, and plan a counterattack.
* * *
The morning air was wet. A heavy cloud cover blocked out the sun, muting the light that fell on the churchyard.
The effect was perfectly dismal. Appropriate for the funeral taking place, Keith Orwell decided, while staring at the freshly dug grave.
From where he stood, he could just about glimpse the top of the simple wood coffin in which his friend, Stewart Warren, lay.
“Earth to earth,” the vicar droned while Stewart’s family wept, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
A fistful of dirt was thrown onto the coffin, the soft thud sending a jolt through Keith’s chest. He stiffened his spine and ignored the way his stomach clenched when the bag of dirt was pressed into his hands next.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
The four friends had all survived the war. How many times had Keith thanked the Lord for sparing them?
But then, Howard had died. A tragedy that would stay with Keith forever. And now this? It wasn’t right. He and his brothers in arms were supposed to reminisce over battlefield stories when they were old men.
Yet now only Keith and Proctor Kipling remained.
Keith drew a ragged breath, then took a step forward. Praying for death to spare him and Proctor, he tossed additional dirt onto the coffin.
“Have you seen today’s paper?” Proctor asked Keith after the service. The pair had offered their condolences to Stewart’s parents, then walked to the nearest tavern so they could drink in his honor.
“Which one?”
“The Morning Post and The Chronicle had the same announcement.” Proctor folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Bow Street is asking for information from people who knew Stewart.”
“I’m aware, though I’m not sure we’ll be of much help.”
“We were with him the night he died.”
“True, but we didn’t see anything.” Keith dipped his chin. “As far as I know, Stewart had no enemies. Can you think of any?”
“No.” Stewart had been a likable fellow. It was difficult to imagine anyone finding a motive to kill him.
“Then we’ve nothing much to add, have we?”
“I suppose not,” Proctor agreed. “I just wish there were something we could do to see justice served on his behalf.”
Keith nodded. “As do I. But with no useful details to add, we’re more likely to hinder the investigation than aid it. Don’t you think?”
“You’re probably right. We know nothing besides the fact that Stewart didn’t deserve this.”
“True.” Keith raised his tankard. “To Stewart. And to Howard as well. May they both rest in peace.”