Chapter 10
10
1 0 February, 1827
No.’s 25-27, Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
Instead of going directly back to his lair, Con detoured to the butcher shop. Sometimes, he liked to pretend he was a simple butcher, surrounded by the implements of his calling. The wicked sharp knives and saws for carving whole hogs, cattle, and sheep were neatly arranged on hooks along the wall at the rear of the shop. Huge vats for boiling away animal hair and rendering fat were hidden away in the alley behind the tenement building, next to Con's mews.
He wondered what Noam Katzan did after a full day of serving customers here in his snug shop. He'd never met the man's missus, but he wondered. Did they love each other? Did they fight? Did they find comfort in each other's bodies every night in the tidy cottage Con had provided for them on a street over from Mercer? Were there children? Why didn't he know these simple facts about one of his employees?
Katzan turned from chopping beef cuts and smiled. "Mister Dyer. What can we get for you today?"
Con pointed to a pile of fine steaks. "I'll take two of those for Lugh and Aengus."
"Fine choice. Those boys of yours will be happy to see you walk in with these beauties." When he turned to wrap the bloody beef cuts, Con interrupted him. "Mister Katzan - do you and your wife have any children?"
The man turned immediately, a broad smile on his face. "Four boys, the light of our lives." The tiny, dark-haired woman who served as his shop assistant turned and beamed at Con as well. The only other employee in the shop he knew of was an apprentice who handled all of the pork for the Katzans' gentile customers.
In fewer than five minutes he'd learned more than he'd ever known about the man who efficiently ran the butcher shop on the bottom level of his tenement headquarters. The Katzans apparently worked together, and at some point they'd certainly enjoyed each other's bodies with four sons the proof of how well that had turned out. And his wife? She was his assistant. Con had never before made that connection.
A vision of the petite whirlwind to whom no lock posed a mystery flitted through his brain. His cock stiffened at once, and he grabbed the treats for the dogs, whirling away from the counter before the poor butcher and his wife thought he was going to do something unthinkable with the wrapped beef steaks.
Once he'd dropped off the beef for the wolfhounds to Mrs. Bonham, he returned to his office. Crisp appeared immediately with a long list of things awaiting his decision. Con stuck out his palms, fending off his right-hand man. "Crisp--could we, ah, wait an hour or so before tackling whatever it is you have there?"
"Of course, sir. I'll return in two hours. Would that be sufficient time?"
Con replied with a simple salute, and as soon as the door snicked shut behind the man, he walked to a corner bookcase and pulled out a dry treatise on the history of Roman roads in ancient Britain. He flipped the heavy tome onto a nearby chair and reached into the empty space to turn the lever on the wall behind where the book had been on the shelf. Half a wall of books swung out to reveal a passageway lighted with gas-fed wall sconces. The gate behind the bookcase doorway could only be opened with two small keys in addition to three dials set to multiple-number codes.
After unlocking each one, Con gave a broad smile and the iron gate swung open He carefully swung the bookcase wall shut behind him and re-locked the gate from the other side. Now, he was alone with his secret beauties, and no one would interrupt him while he had his way with them.
* * *
10 February, 1827
Prostitute's Crib
Off Maiden Lane
Marianne faced off against her lady's maid, Lucinda. Both of them had their arms crossed and were engaged in mutual stares of censure.
Lucinda spoke first. "I thought you'd ended your obsession with that old blackguard years ago." She spread her arms out, encompassing the small prostitute's crib. "And we find ye here in this godforsaken place."
Marianne's sense of high dudgeon, which she'd learned at Lucinda's knee, made her stiffen with anger at her old friend. "I sent for Robbie... not you."
"And just who is it that keeps the two of ye out of trouble, out of gaol, and above ground?"
"I have to find Uncle John."
"And why would that be?" Lucinda had never trusted Thomas Oxley's lawless younger brother.
Marianne pulled the malachite casket from the folds of a deep pocket in her day dress. "He'll know what to do with this."
Lucinda's face blanched and she crossed herself. "Why have ye kept that blighted box? Do ye niver learn?"
"Mister Dyer took it from me, and I, um, took it back."
"Why, Marianne? Why? You're going to get yourself, as well as no doubt the two of us, killed just to see what's inside that devil's-own green box."
Marianne sniffed. "You, as I recall, would be in no danger at all if you'd minded your own business and stayed where I put you. I sent for Robbie to take a message to my uncle in Birmingham, not you."
Robbie stepped between the two of them. "Stop. Lucinda - we made a pact to protect Miss Oxley." He turned to Marianne. "We want ta keep ye safe, and I know ye'll embark on this havey-cavey mission ta find yer uncle on your own if we don't help, So let us know what we can do."
Marianne smiled. "I have a plan."
Lucinda shot her an uneasy look. "Ye're sending the poor boy on his own?"
"No. Since we're all here, and you're determined to interfere, we'll go together."
"The Horsemen will surely hunt us down to get that box back." Robbie reminded her of just whom she was dealing with.
"They'll never know us in the disguises I have planned."
"Who are we going as, then?" Uncertainty crept into Lucinda's voice.
"The Anglican priest, Father Kingsman, and two sisters of the poor will be on a mission to help at the Birmingham Infirmary." Marianne was already opening a trunk in the corner of the prostitute's crib and pulling out costumes she'd fashioned from a rag stall in Covent Garden.
Lucinda huffed out a sigh of exasperation but moved closer to the trunk to see what she could wear.
Hours later when they climbed aboard a public coach at the Swan with Two Necks, no one gave them a second look. Marianne and Lucinda wore mob caps and wide-brimmed bonnets covering their hair, drab gray dresses, white aprons, and gray shawls.
While they waited outside the inn for the coach to arrive, Lucinda observed, "Robbie, ye look as if ye were made to be a man of the cloth." Marianne had somehow managed to scavenge a trim black jacket, trousers, and fine black bowler hat that fit him well, complete with a high white collar to finish off the disguise.
When he blushed crimson at Lucinda's remarks, Marianne shushed them. "From now on, we are Father Kingsman and the sisters of the poor. The better actors we are, the more likely we'll live to see Birmingham."
* * *
10 February, 1827
No.'s 25-27, Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
When he'd constructed his sanctuary squarely in the center of the long tenement building, in order to hide it from spying eyes, he'd employed the same sort of coup d'oeil with mirrors they'd used to hide the watchers who surveyed the casino and its occupants each night to forestall excessive cheating at the tables. Sometimes, he'd allow one of his better customers the benefit of the doubt, but usually, the miscreant would be thrown out and given his conge' to never return.
No one but Crisp had an inkling as to where he'd disappear to in the middle of the day. The complete absence of prying eyes meant he could have his way with his prize beauties for hours on end with no one to interfere in his clandestine pleasures. If the rest of the world knew how he indulged himself within his sanctuary, the reputation of the feared Four Horsemen would be destroyed forever.
He sighed a libidinous sigh and pulled his latest victim from her luxurious prison, placing the poor soul gently on his lap. Con He spread her wide open to his inspection and took a deep inhalation of his latest victim's rare scent before proceeding to devour her, every last bit of her, from one end to the other.
After his latest, shameful indulgence, he had a quiet talk with his favorite saint, Nicholas, patron of repentant thieves. Although he and his brothers were guilty of many shameful acts they'd had to perform over the years to survive, they'd always tried to protect helpless, innocent souls along the way on the streets of London's rookeries. He hoped their good works might satisfy the saint and perhaps balance out their questionable acts until they reached a point, maybe someday, where they all could be truly repentant.
* * *
10 February, 1827
"The Greyhound" Coach to Birmingham
No one paid attention to poor women, let alone poor sisters who toiled for minimal wages at hospitals around Britain. Which suited Marianne and Lucinda just fine. In fact, most of the women who shared various legs of the coach trip with them invariably had eyes only for Robbie in his disguise as Father Kingsman.
At one short stop along the way, Lucinda could contain herself no longer. "If these women knew how hard the wives of the clergy have to work and bow down before the rich women of the congregations, they wouldn't be acting so cow-eyed over Robbie."
"I rather think he's enjoying himself with all the attention he's getting." Marianne grinned at Lucinda's consternation.
"That's all we need. A coachmen taking on airs about himself."
"Shhh." Marianne brought her lady's maid up short. "We have to stay in our parts so we don't get caught out if one of the Horsemen's men, or Papa's guards, catches up to us."
* * *
11 February, 1827
"The Greyhound" Coach to Birmingham
A Little Past Midnight at Stony Stratford
It was a little after midnight when they returned to the carriage for the next leg of the journey and discovered they'd been joined by a new gentleman.
He tipped his hat to them as well as Robbie. "Sisters...Reverend"
Marianne did not like the look of the latest cove. He seemed to be trying too hard. She kept her head down, hiding her face with the huge bonnet and feigning modesty when he tried to engage her in conversation. Lucinda followed suit. They did their best to fade into the uncomfortable coach seats for the rest of the way to Birmingham, which was easy, considering the darkness in the interior of the coach was only partially illuminated by lanterns on the outside of the coach.
Marianne hadn't remembered the length of the trip from London to Birmingham. As a child, she'd been fascinated by all the sights, and hadn't noticed how long they'd spent on the road. Misgivings began to quirk along her spine in the depth of darkness. What had she been thinking? She hadn't seen her uncle in years. Maybe he'd moved to another city, or perhaps had been killed, or was mouldering in jail, all distinct possibilities in the thieving business.
She shook her head to clear away the niggling doubts and leaned into Lucinda's body heat. They hadn't thought to bring along blankets, so they'd been relying on their shawls for warmth. Robbie, on the other side of the coach, next to the new passenger, began to mumble in his sleep. She gasped and quickly reached across the coach floor to poke Robbie out of his sleep-talking. She hoped the mysterious man next to him hadn't noticed the lapse in propriety of a sister of the poor poking a priest. Thank the gods for the low light.
Once she'd prodded him, Robbie began to mumble in his sleep again. "Miss Ox...oof." This time she jabbed him smartly in his ankle with her foot, which finally wakened him enough to stop his mumbling.
"How kind and thoughtful of your congregation to purchase all three of you seats inside the carriage. Not many priests can say that about their parishioners." The new passenger's comment abruptly broke the silence of the coach interior.
Marianne was so startled, she came fully awake and sat up, prodding Robbie again who grudgingly opened his eyes and came to sitting. She knew she dare not answer the man, because a lowly sister of the poor would never carry on a conversation with a man to whom she'd not been properly introduced. Lucinda must have heard him speaking as well.
"The Reverend Kingsman, at your service." Robbie extended a hand to the man who grasped it warmly.
"Whitewell, James Whitewell. I'm an accountant from Bedford, but I've been visiting my ailing mother in Clerkenwell."
"I hope your journey home means your mother's health is improving?" Marianne gave her head an imperceptible shake. Robbie seemed to have disappeared into the part he was playing.
The man merely nodded, a noncommittal smile on his face. And then, he made a move so sudden, he caught all of them off guard. He grabbed Marianne, pulled her across the floor of the coach to his lap, and poked a hard metal object into her ribs. "Where is it?" he rasped into her ear. "Give it up now, and I won't kill your friends."
Across from them, Lucinda did something Marianne could never in her memory recall the woman doing. She swooned dead away into a faint, banging her head against the inside of the door of the carriage.
The strange man relaxed his hold on Marianne for a second whilst he leapt to his feet and pointed the gun at Lucinda. Marianne took advantage of his moment of weakness by butting her head backward into his forehead with all the strength she could muster. At the same time, Lucinda rose up like a righteous spectre from the dead with an umbrella she'd brought along. While she beat their assailant over the head, Robbie climbed onto the man's back and began battering him from the rear with his fists.
In a moment of sheer frustration, their attacker began firing shots up through the roof of the coach. The conveyance lurched to a stop, throwing everyone inside to the floor, followed by angry shouts outside.
The first man to yank open the coach door gave Marianne a hard look, and her heart sank. He looked suspiciously like Wu, Mr. Dyer's head guard. Devils must have brothers. She felt all her attempts at subterfuge fly out the coach door opening, like pigeons into the night. Apparently, she hadn't been nearly as clever as she'd thought.