Chapter 17 #2
“Oh.”
James shifted in his chair. “I figured nothing would come of it. But a week later, there were two new men in my cell, and one of them was drunk and started bragging that he dragged two women out of a carriage, stole their jewelry and clothes, then killed them both and threw them into an old boathouse. He was laughing like a bloody Punch puppet.”
“Oh, God.” I shivered.
James stood and opened the square stove door, crouching to tong a few pieces of coal from the brass hod. “About a week later, Fuller comes back and pulls me into that room again. Only this time, I told him I had something to say.”
“You told him about the dead women.”
He shut the metal door with a clank and settled back in his chair. “It wouldn’t help Fuller with his articles about smuggling, but I thought the families should know they didn’t just vanish.”
“They could bury the bodies properly,” I said.
“Aye.” Absently, he raked his hair from his temple.
“He said he’d look into it. If the bodies were where I said, he’d be back.
I started to say he couldn’t spring me straightaway, it would kill me, seeing as everyone in prison has someone outside, and it would be clear who told about the murders.
But as Fuller left, he played it proper, called me a bloody eejit, cussed me under his breath, saying I’d lost my chance.
Made it clear I’d given him nothing and he was fed up with me, without overplaying it.
” His tone was one of grudging admiration.
“But you were right,” I said.
“Two days later, two guards came to the cell, threw a black hood over my head, and dragged me out like I was done for.”
His voice sobered as he spoke, and despite him sitting in front of me, alive, my heart skipped a beat as I imagined the terror of it.
Into our silence came the evening’s sounds from the street—carriage and cart wheels, men’s laughter, the whinny of a horse, the slam of a door, the scrape of a shovel against the cobbles as the nightsoil men began their labors.
“So no one knew he’d sprung you,” I said at last.
He shook his head. “They brought me to the Yard by carriage and took off my hood. An inspector named Stiles had ordered my release, though he was none too happy about Fuller stepping on his toes.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, one murdered woman was a rich man’s daughter—the family’d paid to keep the case out of the papers—and the other was her maid.
They’d been missing for three months.” He shifted in the chair.
“Stiles thanked me, and Fuller gave me a letter of introduction to a Custom House agent who owed him a favor. He made me swear I’d never tell a soul about what I’d done for the Yard or the paper, or what he’d done for me.
” His mouth twitched, curved into the grin I knew.
“Stiles was waving his hands, like he didn’t want to know anything about it.
The agent at the House gave me a week’s trial to prove myself, and I’ve been an honest man since. ”
“Lucky for you, you speak French.”
“Aye.” A wistful look. “One of my ma’s blessings. I use it all the time.”
He settled back in his chair with an expectant look.
My fingers twined themselves in my lap. “You’ve never told anyone about your deal with Fuller?”
“No. Not even Emma.”
I held his gaze, considering, and he waited for my next question.
“Were you afraid,” I said slowly, “when that Yard man said he’d let people think you were a rat?”
His entire body stilled, his very breath halted, but he answered. “I was afraid from the minute I entered the cell and heard the clang of the latch behind me.”
The rawness took away my breath, and I sat for a long moment, silenced by the ache in my throat.
Now I understood. I could have asked him anything, and he’d have answered. His story had nothing to do with Maggie’s dodge. This was an offering, with both hands turned up, as open and honest as he could make it, to show how much he was willing to trust me. To show me I could trust him.
The words came chokingly out of my mouth: “Maggie wants me to steal a necklace. A family heirloom worth several thousand pounds.”
He leaned forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them. “Where is it?”
“She says it’s at Simonson’s in Hatton Garden, for cleaning.”
He frowned. “So it’s safe-kept, isn’t it?”
His mind ran in the same direction as mine.
“If I were to take it during the day, it would have to be when it’s out of the safe being cleaned or repaired,” I replied.
“I can’t imagine how to do that, unless it’s at knifepoint.
It’s not as though they’ll have the real thing displayed in a case, like a piece for sale.
” I bit my lip. “But I think Maggie intends to steal it at night, after the shop is closed. Only the constables are all over Hatton Garden. There’s a swarm of them. ”
“Does she know about the constables?”
I spread my hands. “I told her. I might be able to scale the gate that blocks the alley, but I’m rubbish at picking locks beyond the usual ones, and I’ve certainly never cracked a safe.
But she has a man who can manage that.” I saw the look he gave.
“I don’t know who. She’s only telling me bits and pieces. ”
“Hm.” He sat back, resting an elbow on the chair arm, rubbing his mouth with his fingers. “What necklace?”
“It belongs to the Marquess Hargrave. French made, with a ruby the size of your thumb.”
He let out a soft whistle. “No small prize.”
“I know.”
“Where exactly is this jeweler?”
“Do you have some paper and a pen?”
He fetched them for me out of a drawer, and I sketched Hatton Garden, the three main streets and the crosses.
“Here.” I pointed to the southern corner of Hatton Garden Street, which ran down the middle of the rectangle. “Just below Charles. It’s on the east side of the street, so the front door faces west.”
He studied it a moment. “Is Simonson’s part of one building, or its own?”
“It shares with Willingham’s to the north.”
“You probably know that whole area is a rabbit warren of vaults and doors and secret passageways among the buildings,” he said.
My heart skipped. “That’s what I was hoping. You don’t think they’ve crumbled or been bricked up?”
He shrugged. “Some might be but I’m guessing most are still in use, one way or another. Maggie might’ve picked this jeweler because she knows about one that’s still open.”
I frowned, thinking back to what Maggie had said and how she’d said it. “I could be wrong, but I think she picked the necklace first. And I got an odd feeling about it. She sounded . . . bitter when she mentioned the marquess’s family. Mocked them for being in Debrett’s.”
“Hm.” He lowered his gaze to my scribbled map. “I imagine most jewelers have Yale locks on the doors, front and back?”
“Simonson’s does. I checked. Two in the back, one in the front.”
“Tell me more about the shop.”
I gave him all the details I’d given Maggie, and I could see him building the shop in his own mind.
“Do you feel you have to do this for her?” he asked. “Or do you want to?”
“She offered me two hundred pounds as my take,” I said.
His eyebrows shot up.
“I know.” I hesitated. “I just don’t know how much to trust her.
I mean, I’ve told you why I’m leery—not least because she’s tried to gain my trust, flattering me, telling me I’m the best thief she has, confiding in me about her time in Swan River, making me feel sorry for her.
” I rubbed my thumb along the end of the wooden arm.
It was worn smooth from years of hands curving around it.
“But now she’s pushing Mary and Nell out of the ring. ”
“Oh.” His face registered dismay.
“So I don’t trust her to look out for me. I think she’s putting together a dodge that ends up with me in prison.”
“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s think on this.”
We were silent for a long minute, and then his face changed.
“What?” I asked.
“Well, I’m just wondering if there’s a reason the marquess is having it cleaned now.”
I should have wondered that myself. “You think his wife will wear it to a special event? I could steal it there instead?”
It would likely be easier to steal the necklace from the Marchioness Hargrave’s neck than from the shop. But it was curious that Maggie hadn’t considered this. She, who used to take necklaces from women’s necks. Perhaps she doubted I could do it.
James shrugged. “We could find out.”
“How?” I asked.
He rose from his chair. “You stay here, make us some tea, and I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve a friend who keeps newspapers.”
James put on his coat and left, and I poured water from the jug into the kettle, stoked the fire, rummaged in the cupboard for a pot, cups, and a tin of tea. I opened it and sniffed. Bergamot.
But a kettle takes time to boil, and my eyes wandered around his room.
There wasn’t much to it—a bed, made, covered with a beautifully quilted counterpane that I guessed was Emma’s handiwork; a large table with wide wooden planks and four chairs; a smaller table for a lamp; some books; a wardrobe for clothes.
I wanted to play fair; he’d left me here, trusting me not to snoop, but by my reckoning, that gave me license to look at anything out in the open.
I approached his shelves and examined his books.
There were only eight, and three were in French.
I opened one to find a signature—his mother’s—Adelaide.
His step sounded on the stairs. I replaced the book in its space and returned to the stove, where the water was close to boiling. He entered bearing a sheaf of papers under his arm, the cold dampness of the night entering with him.
“Why does your friend keep papers?” I asked.
He dropped them on the table and rehung his coat on a nail by the door. “My guess is he keeps them for the obituaries, but I don’t ask.”