Chapter 4
4
* * *
2 February, 1827
No.'s 25-27, Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
Con threw an annoyed look at the door to his study being pounded vigorously by someone. Whoever was on the other side was in imminent peril of being tossed through his office window.
When he finally opened the door, the last person he expected to see on the other side was his young groom, James. As soon as the door snapped open, the young man lowered his head and said, "Remember the beggar who stole your orange yesterday?"
Con nearly rolled his eyes at the absurd reason for the groom nearly raising the dead with his wild pounding. "Yes, and this had better be good."
"We found him lifeless just now, around the front of the building."
Con was finding it difficult to follow James's convoluted story. He gave the young man an uneasy look. "He was a beggar and seemed fairly ancient. That sort of thing happens from time to time in this part of London."
"He was poisoned, sir."
"What?" Con was dumbfounded at the news and dreaded the natural progression of reasoning concerning what had happened.
"When I used an old rag to pick up the half-eaten orange he'd stolen, the bitter smell of burnt almonds was strong." James explained.
Con's stomach rose to meet his gorge, and he fought the urge to cast up his accounts. "Why...Who?" And then he remembered the woman who'd run up to his horse when he was headed toward St. James Park on Bu. He'd thought it odd at the time the old crone had been wearing gloves.
His every instinct screamed to return to where he'd encountered her, but realized that was exactly what the killer expected him to do if he'd survived the poison's effects.
He was not surprised he had such vicious enemies, but this was an unusually bold attempt on his life. The poisoner had taken a huge risk. Con walked to a set of bells on his study wall and rang for Wu.
* * *
When Wu presented himself, Con said, "We have a problem."
"Yes, Mister Dyer, we do."
"Did James tell you about the poisoning before he came to me?" Con's temper flared at the thought of the young man going to Wu first.
"The poisoning?" Wu unfolded his arms abruptly, tensed, and turned his head to stare back toward the rear stairway as if expecting a full-on attack. "What poisoning?"
Con raised his palm toward his head of security. "Let's discuss your problem first before we tackle the problem of someone trying to kill me."
Wu reflexively gripped the dagger at his waist. "My bad news is nearly as serious. Noam Katzav, the butcher who runs the shop at the front of the building, showed me these." Wu handed over a fistful of two-pound notes. The ones on top of the pile were the same two-pound counterfeit notes from the Chatham that were distributed through Con's gambling hell.
"What in the bloody hell are the aristos who win at Commerce upstairs doing spending their winnings at my blasted butcher shop?"
Wu shook his head sadly. "The worst news is that these notes were used by a few poor families from the Dials to purchase meat for their tables."
Con felt the world tilt a little as he tried to work out how the counterfeit bills he and his casino workers carefully parsed out to the wealthy, titled big winners at his card tables had inexplicably ended up in the hands of poor families who occasionally patronized his butcher shop.
The kind of men who frequented his gambling establishment did not normally give to the poor. They were the most uncaring, self-centered lot he'd ever encountered. Then suddenly, he snapped his fingers. Maybe one of them was robbed when he'd left the gambling hell in the early hours of the morning. The thought of his patrons being preyed upon by petty neighborhood criminals made him even angrier.
"Send all of our men out to the streets to round up the usual thieves. If anyone's been robbing my patrons, they'll wish they'd never been born." Con leapt to his feet and jerked on the bell to summon Crisp
"But what about the poisoning?" Wu gave him an odd look.
Con waved a dismissive hand toward him. "Forget about the poisoning for now. If our counterfeit distribution channel has been compromised, poisoning is the least of my worries. Hell, we could all swing at Old Bailey."
Wu nodded and hastened toward the stairs to begin the roundup of the usual crowd of thieves and sharpers in the Dials.
A sudden black thought bit at Con, and he picked up the pile of counterfeit notes again, carefully sorting through the lot with the magnifying glass on his desk. Of the nine notes, only six were from the recent lot from his printer. The other three were certainly counterfeit Chatham notes, but the small design with which he'd coded his own lot was missing, replaced with another, similar design. Someone was printing counterfeit bills behind his back...and distributing them right under his nose on his own patch. Not just his patch...but his butcher shop.
"Crisp--" he shouted.
"I'm here, sir. No need to shout." Crisp materialized silently, like some sneaky feline.
Con nearly snarled at his right-hand man. God, he hated people creeping up on him. "Have James ready the carriage."
"Where are you going?"
" We're going to see Whitcombe, the publisher. You're coming along."
"But you don't read erotica, sir."
"You have no idea what I read, Crisp." At the startled look on Crisp's face, he added, "Whitcombe is also an expert on printing. I'm going to have him tell me who in the hell printed these counterfeit notes." He waved said notes at Crisp as he pounded toward the stairway.
Crisp hastened quickly behind his employer to keep up with the man's lengthy strides.
* * *
2 February, 1827
Rented Covent Garden Warehouse
Marianne ran a thumb over the fletching of one of her arrows before sliding her hand down to the end to test the sharpness of the edges of the arrowhead. She realized her proficiency with the bow was probably not sufficient to fend off a substantial number of attackers at once, but she took comfort in her craft.
So far, the mere vision of a woman dressed as one of Robin Hood's "merry men" with strength enough to pull back a bowstring had been sufficient to stun her pursuers long enough for her to escape into the darkness of Mayfair's alleys and mews. Although she'd tried to plan her stealthy excursions to occur in the deep, black hours of the night, she'd been caught in the act of burglary a few times by suspicious, light-sleeping house servants.
With her lady's maid as accomplice, they'd managed to steal a few precious objects along with stacks of two-pound notes hidden in drawers within the studies of the wealthy: silver candlesticks, ancient Chinese vases, and in one rare find, an old oil painting by a well known artist. The warehouse she'd recently rented from the feared Connor Dyer was a perfect, hulking repository for the stolen items which had been piling up in the limited storage areas of the rooms they'd previously occupied.
Early on, she'd concentrated on finding secret caches of blunt, but at one home they'd broken into, she'd realized there were lots of expensive items she was leaving behind. That was when she'd bought a large drover's cart and a set of fat ponies so that no one could connect their clandestine night-time ventures to the four roans who drew her formal carriage.
Somehow, she'd have to take the stolen items around to second-hand shops to see what she could get for them. Maybe she'd revert to her widow's disguise for that job. Although the thefts originally had been designed to ease the lives of the poor of London's rookeries, she now saw greater possibilities. She'd accumulated enough wealth to expand her original hopes. She was close to affording to build a school for the children of the poor.
She'd had virtually no interference for what passed for policing in London because she suspected the money and precious things she'd taken from the wealthy homes in Mayfair were items the families behind the locked doors and high walls did not care for the rest of the world to know about.
Marianne actually feared her landlord, Connor Dyer, much more than the people she'd stolen from. However, she'd quelled her fears with the suspicion that he was more focused on his vastly profitable gambling hell. The gambling hell he kept hidden on the top floor of the ramshackle warehouse he'd reinforced and turned into a sumptuous residence and center for his own criminal empire.
Why should he care about her small operation which, in all fairness, was more of a social endeavor than actual wrongdoing?
* * *
* * *
2 February, 1827
Daedalus Whitcombe's Office
Forbidden Pleasures, Holywell Street
Con stared intently at the man across the desk from him. Daedalus Whitcombe's desk overflowed with piles of paper and books. He'd inadvertently pushed his wire-rimmed glasses atop his head and was now frantically searching for them amongst all the untidy piles.
Con's man Crisp sat silently in a chair next to him, his hands steepled beneath his chin.
Con handed Whitcombe the strange counterfeit note passed at his butcher shop earlier that day. "What do you make of it? Can you decipher from the quality which printer may have produced the note?"
Whitcombe had finally located his glasses on top of his head and was using them, along with a large magnifying glass to examine the thin bank note. After a long while, he admitted, "Definitely one of the Monmouth Street presses."
"But not my printer?" Con demanded, his voice a growl.
"Not as far as I can tell. The engraving doesn't seem the same quality." He laid down the magnifying glass on an unsteady stack of books and pushed his spectacles back atop his head before rocking back in his chair.
Crisp's fidgeting by Con's side could mean only one thing. His factotum had no idea how Con and Whitcombe had become confidantes. And Con had no intention of revealing that part of his private life. Crisp had stumbled near the truth earlier when he'd wondered aloud why his gaffer was seeking out the largest publisher of pornographic material in England. What Crisp didn't know, and Con was not about to enlighten him, was that he and Whitcombe were mutual aficionados of a certain kind of literature which, um, could not be obtained legally in England.
"How would you suggest I find out exactly who printed this?" Con slapped his hand against the counterfeit note.
"My guess is that some print shop employee is slipping in after hours to print those notes. If you question all the owners of the print operations, maybe they can find out if one of their printers has been coming back at night to do jobs on the side."
* * *
2 February, 1827
Monmouth Denizen Offices
Edge of Seven Dials
Con strode easily through the door of the print establishment. The elegantly lettered sign hanging on the outside of the building proudly proclaimed The Monmouth Denizen.
He wondered how much it would take to loosen tongues within an establishment which apparently thought so much of itself. That mystery resolved in a hurry. The man standing at the front counter wasted no time. "Mr. Dyer...I've wondered for years whether you'd ever grace my modest establishment." He paused for a few moments to rub his hands together before continuing. "What can we do for you today?"
With that, he extended a meaty palm which Con grasped tightly and leaned in, increasing the pressure of his grip. "I'm not going to prance about here. I'll come directly to the point. I suspect you may have an employee who is working for himself and using your press to venture into a trade that could be injurious to his health. I thought you might be concerned for his welfare."
A bare flicker of awareness in the man's placid gaze meant he not only was aware of the illicit activity on his press, but might also be involved somehow. Con came to a quick decision. "I know how hard it is to keep track of what workers get up to." He squeezed harder. "Perhaps you could have a few private words with your men? Find out who's working their own jobs behind your back?"
He'd much rather give the man an opportunity to end the competing counterfeit business before he and his men would have to take matters into their own hands. He'd hate to see a flourishing Dials business end up smashed to bits.
The muscular, fit printer before him trying to hide the pain of his hand encased in Con's iron grip would be better served by continuing into old age with all his appendages intact. He seemed an intelligent young fellow, and Con didn't want to insult him by spelling out the perils of going against the Horsemen. He assumed the sight of Wu outside the shop window, flexing and unflexing his huge, gloved hands would serve as sufficient warning.
Con suddenly released the man's hand and gave him the eerie smile devoid of all emotion that sent most competing criminals in Seven Dials running for their lives. He turned to leave but swung back just before exiting the shop. "Oh, and, by the way, if your man has any extra product stacked back there, you should advise him to burn it before we return to make sure you've shut down that dangerous side business of yours.
He abruptly stepped outside and into the street, motioning for Wu to follow. Con began whistling a tune, an off-key version of "Greensleeves," which echoed all the way down the fog-plagued street until the two men disappeared into a side alley, and the sound stopped.