Chapter 5
5
2 February, 1827
On Way Back to Mercer Tenement Warehouse
As Con and Wu swung easily down the fog-covered street back toward his fortress-like home and center of business, Wu ventured a word. "Guv...?"
"Spit it out, Wu. What's on your mind?"
Wu drew in a deep breath, the sound of which carried easily within the cocoon of smoky fog surrounding them. "What are we going to do about this Robin Hood character who's handing out counterfeit blunt to the poor?"
The now broken-fingered thief had provided some information about the Dials' latest mysterious scoundrel, but not nearly enough for Con. "Is that all we know about this churl? He dresses up like Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest, he carries a bow and arrows, and he doesn't know fake pound notes when he sees them? What else on the street?"
"He's dangerous, that's what he is. He's stealing from a lot of your best customers...slipping right into their houses in the middle of the night, brazen as you please."
"Why has no one caught him out yet?"
"He studies the habits of the households, probably listens to servant gossip in the neighborhood taverns, and strikes when the house is either empty, or barely staffed while the owners are back at their country estates."
"But why the damned bow and arrow?"
"He's bloody good with the bow and has escaped a few times from tight situations."
"You mean he actually shoots arrows at people who try to stop him?"
"Remember the story you beat out of that thief?"
"Right," Con admitted. "But what kind of man would be that terrified of a single bowman? Come to that, what kind of man would be stupid enough to rely on a bow for his only protection?"
Wu stroked the short beard on his chin. "To be honest, I think people are so shocked at staring down an arrow about to be loosed, they lose their nerve, and the bastard gets away."
"Doesn't anyone ever give chase?" Con kicked a dead rat out his path in frustration.
"He seems to disappear into thin air. No one's run him down yet."
"Well, let's look at the map, mark the places he's stolen from that we know about."
"And then what?"
"We'll figure out where he's going to strike next, we get there first, and take the bastard down." Con silently mulled over his roiling thoughts for a moment. "A week in our dungeon should loose his tongue and give me a chance to break that ridiculous bow over his head. He'll tell me everything by then: his source of the unknown counterfeit money, his childhood dreams, everything he's ever stolen...and maybe even turn in his own grandmother to save his skin."
* * *
2 February, 1827
No.'s 25-27, Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
When Con and Crisp returned to the Mercer Street compound, the converted tenement building reverberated with loud shouts and curses emanating from the lower level, in the vicinity of his own private dungeon.
He loped down the steps two at a time to quell whatever riot might be brewing amongst his men. He'd maintained a razor-thin truce over the years to manage the warring groups of street cons, thieves, and sharps who reported to him and his brothers. The simple process of naming captains to be in charge of certain areas of the various rookeries had worked fairly well thus far, but uprisings seemed to occur on a weekly basis.
The main source of shouting was one Solomon Leeds, who ruled the rag business below Petticoat Lane. Leeds towered over a similarly rowdy gentleman who kept leaping from a low stool, fists windmilling in all directions. The two other captains in the room stood back to give the combatants room.
"What's going on here?" A brief, deadly silence followed Con's demand for an explanation only to be immediately interrupted by the man on the stool taking advantage of the pause to jump up and onto Leeds, pummeling him to the floor where the rag dealer cowered, covering his head.
When the other two captains stood mute, mouths open, at the brutal display of their compatriot writhing in pain on the floor, Con waded into the melee. In a move no one anticipated, he used the advantage of his height and unusually large hands to grasp both of the combatant's hands and slam him back down onto the stool. Without warning, he crushed four fingers of the man's right hand brutally backward. When the sound of breaking bones filled the air, Con could hear a sharp intake of breath, probably from Crisp, who still stood safely at the stairway.
Now the only sounds in the room were that of the man's moaning. Con turned once more to his captains, including Leeds, who had regained his feet. "Now...someone...tell me...what the hell is going on here?"
Leeds found his voice first. "We were only trying to do as you asked. We rounded up all the known thieves in the neighborhood to see if someone's been robbing our clients at night after they leave the premises." He paused for effect, possibly sensing now that he'd made a poor showing in front of the powerful gang lord to whom he owed allegiance.
Con sucked in a sharp breath of annoyance. "We don't argue or negotiate with people who cross us." He jerked the man off the stool again and crushed back the fingers of his left hand. After dropping the howling thief back onto his seat, he quietly pulled a chair close to him. Slamming the chair around so that he sat in front of the prisoner, he tipped forward and leaned onto the back of the chair. His voice still quiet, he asked, "Did you rob any of my clients in recent days after they left my establishment in the morning hours?"
"No," the thief insisted, but when Con drew back a fist, he hastened to add, "but I may know somefink 'bout who might have."
Con glanced over his shoulder at his captains. "Now this is how we get somewhere."
He turned back to the captive on the stool. "You'd better weave a believable tale, or I promise it'll be your last."
"There's a cove what prances around dressed like Robin 'ood, an' 'e's wicked good with a bow an' arrow. Breaks into houses what seem empty."
"How did you find out?"
"A footman left behind to care for a townhouse over on Hanover Square tried to catch him one night and got an arrow in 'is rump for 'is trouble."
* * *
* * *
3 February, Midnight, 1827
Covent Garden Warehouse
Marianne pulled on a pair of dark green wool trousers before having Lucinda help her bind her breasts. It was so much easier to draw a bow without the heavy appendages getting in the way. Once she'd been bound to the edge of being unable to breathe, she pulled a man's white shirt over her head, followed by a buttery soft leather vest she buttoned over her chest. A half-mask and a jaunty green wool cap with a feather completed her disguise.
She twirled in front of her floor-length mirror before asking Lucinda, "Do I look like Robin Hood to you?"
"Ye look like a spiled young wo...man playing at thiev...ery, if ye ask me, but ye niver do. Do ye?"
Marianne wrinkled her nose and frowned at the only person in the world she still trusted. During all the years she'd spent at private schools in France, she'd missed the sing-song Welsh voice of her mother's elderly maid, now her own servant and reluctant partner in crime. "You do know I'm not doing all of this for myself?"
Her maid tilted her head and rolled her eyes. "That's what ye say."
"But look at all the poor families I've helped."
"Have ye niver thought to wor...ry about some of them being brought before a magis...trate for having all that blunt they canna ex...plain?"
"The Bow Street Runners stay well away from the rookeries, unless there's something in it for them. The last thing they'd investigate would be where a poor street-seller found the blunt to buy a bit of meat for his family."
She tried to ignore the lingering skepticism in Lucinda's bright blue eyes while she gathered together her bow and a quiver of arrows. She knew well the dangers associated with her mad undertaking to steal from Mayfair's rich and benefit the poor of the rookeries. But what else did she have to live for? She was tired of her boring existence as the pampered only child of one of the richest mine owners in England. At least she was accomplishing something important, cracking her own whip, and maybe making the lives of a few poor families a little better.
Now she had an even bigger goal in mind. With the chests of pound notes she'd been accumulating over her many nights as "Robin Hood," she could almost imagine in her mind's eye the look of a building in Seven Dials she could fill with desks and teachers for the children of the poor.
However, in the dark of one of the nights after she'd pulled off an especially daring theft, she'd come to a shameful realization. She was beginning to enjoy the thrills of her illicit excursions. She looked forward to thieving nearly as much as helping the poor.
Slipping out the back door of the warehouse she'd rented from the leader of the infamous Four Horsemen, she stayed to the shadows until she reached the rear mews. At a soft whistle, Robbie, one of her father's grooms who had helped her escape the Welsh estate, along with Lucinda, rolled quietly out of one of the doors in a black curricle drawn by two black horses. He'd muffled the wheels with rags wrapped around them, in between the spokes. She easily climbed up beside him on the seat and whispered the directions to that night's destination. She wished she could wear trousers all the time, but was well aware Lucinda would have a fit of apoplexy.
After delivering her with great stealth into an alleyway near the residence, Robbie would return to their warehouse, collect Lucinda, and come back with a larger carriage, the better to carry off the fruit of their thievery. Robbie would wait a few streets away whilst Lucinda and Marianne made their way to him by different, circuitous routes.
A half hour later, she slid silently down from the high perch and dropped onto a dark street whilst he was still rolling through a neighborhood near Berkeley Square. The townhouse that she'd walked past many times in the demure dress of a house maid stood dark and silent. She knew from eavesdropping in a neighborhood tavern that the master and mistress were gone, visiting friends in the countryside, with only a few footmen and maids as well as the housekeeper still in residence. Perfect .
* * *
4 February, 1827
Early Morning Hours
Lord Fenneman's Townhouse
Hanover Square
Marianne dragged the heavy cloth bag bulging with the night's take from Lord Fenneman's townhouse toward the window they'd pried open earlier. She'd had to use all of her thieving instincts that night to find the family strong box. The master of the house had thought himself clever, but not as clever as Marianne as it turned out. He'd had a carpenter carve out a rectangular hole in a wall in his study in which to hide his smallish safe. The metal box had not only a keyhole but two small knobs which one had to twirl to the proper combination of numbers to gain access to the inside of the box where he stored his blunt. Fortunately, this was not the first time she'd encountered such a puzzle.
The keyed entry was easy. She'd had a metalsmith fashion her a set of long pins of varying sizes and diameters which she used with a great deal of facility. She'd yet to encounter a keyhole worthy of more than a five- or six-minute probe before the lock yielded.
At first she'd been flummoxed by two-number access puzzles until she'd realized that most people would not bother to create complex numbering codes. Although the dials usually contained twenty options each, the wealthy owners inevitably chose only single-digit numbers, and those rarely went above nine. Which meant the possibilities encompassed only about eighty-one pairs, absurdly easy to run through in a reasonable amount of time. And this safe was no different.
When the metal door swung open with a muffled click, she wasted no time pulling out the two- and five-pound notes within. Odd . They were from Chatham, the same bank from which all the others she'd stolen had originated.
Lucinda moved swiftly next to her. She nestled the notes beneath a cloth and then added loaves of bread in a large basket she'd carry out into the square when dawn broke. She'd disappear into the crowd of costermongers hawking their wares. After a leisurely walk and perhaps selling a few loaves for the sake of anonymity, she'd quietly slip onto the side street where their coachman awaited with Marianne herself safely ensconced inside, now wearing her mourning weeds.
"It's time to go, mistress. You don't want to face off with another angry footman and risk having all of us brought up before Bow Street."
"We have another hour before dawn." Marianne pointed back toward the study where she'd been busy earlier stripping anything of worth and slinging it into her bag. "I wish your opinion on something."
Lucinda set down the basket of baked goods and followed her, a look of curiosity on her face.
Once they were back inside Lord Fenneman's study, Marianne pointed to the wall. A large woven tapestry hung from a wooden dowel near the ceiling. Still vivid hues of green and deep blue with touches of gold and blood red depicted a mythical garden with dragons prowling the perimeter. "What do you think? Could we roll this up and take it back to the warehouse?"
Her maid sucked in a sharp breath. "Mar-i-anne," she spat out in elongated fashion. "Have ye lost yer senses?"
"What? We could hang this along a wall in that great, cold storage room. The tapestry would keep out the drafts and warm up the living area where we're barely making do now."
Lucinda gave her a horrified look. "Have you forgotten why we're doing this, or are you beginning to enjoy larcenous behavior?" Her maid crossed herself fervently for good measure. "Your sainted mother is probably crying out from the grave right now."
"Mama was a kind soul. She barely concerned herself with what I chose to do when she was alive."
"What you mean is she finally gave up trying to see you grow into a proper young lady."
Marianne started to give her maid an eye roll, but stopped at the stricken look on the woman's face. "Well, there is that." She sneaked a covetous look at the lush tapestry before admitting. "You're right. Maybe that would be an act of theft too far."
"We're supposed to be stealing from the rich to give to the poor, not ourselves."
After a pause for one more longing glance at the covered wall, she gave a contrite nod. "Not tonight, my beauty. It's time to go."
"Wait." Lucinda pointed to something her mistress carried tucked beneath her arm. "What's that?"
"A locked box I couldn't open." She glanced down at the small green malachite box encrusted with jewels. "There must be something extraordinarily precious in here."
"If you can't open it, why take it home?"
"I'll open this little beauty at my leisure."
The look in Lucinda's eyes turned accusing. "You know poor people can't eat jewels, and if they try to sell them, they'll be thrown into prison."
"Well, then, I guess it's up to me to find a buyer."
Instead of pointing out the danger in Marianne's latest rationalization, Lucinda merely shook her head and picked up the basket of breads again. She pushed out through the servants' entrance and disappeared toward the mews at the rear of the townhouse.