Chapter Eighteen #2
In connection with blackmail. In connection to Jacintha St. John, with whom he had once eloped.
“And the outside chance of seeing Mrs. St. John,” Constance said. “But the shop was closed, so you skulked about, looking for a way in, and found Solomon was before you. And me.”
“Not by much,” Solomon said modestly. “I had only just got in when I saw Madly from the window. I wanted to see what he would do, only then you appeared too, and I thought it was time we conferred.”
Or he thought it was time he gave Constance his physical protection.
“It’s conceivable,” he added, “that Fynn was not careless but left the door open on purpose to see who would take advantage. In which case, the police will be back, and we should probably not linger.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” Madly said, even the politeness somehow insolent.
“There is no point in your staying, either,” Solomon said. “I have warned Mrs. St. John to stay at home and not to speak to strangers.”
Madly stared at him.
“God, I need a drink,” he said unexpectedly. “Join me. Or don’t you frequent such places now that you are so respectable, Mrs. Grey?”
“Just the same, Mr. Madly. I go where I choose and keep the company I choose.”
“Then, for the first time ever, do pick mine.”
It wasn’t really a request, but Constance had no intention of refusing it. Neither had Solomon.
The three of them left together and found a respectable public house that had a parlor for mixed company. They were the only customers in that tiny room, so they took seats as far from the door as they could get and were soon served with ale and port for Constance. Madly’s lips twitched at that.
“Is Kenny a danger to Mrs. St. John?” he asked abruptly.
“He has the same information that Veronique had,” Constance said. “Do you have any idea where he could be found?”
“Probably no more than you or the police.” He looked thoughtful. “Unless he plans to disappear for a long time. Go abroad, perhaps, to America or Australia.”
“He would need papers,” Solomon said impatiently.
“Forgers,” Constance and Madly said together.
Constance had never been sorry before that she had moved so far away from the criminal world.
But Madly had not.
“Who?” Solomon asked him. “Do you know where he would go?”
“I might. But I have to live in these streets after you’ve gone back to your palaces.”
“Actually, you don’t,” Solomon said. “You choose to. A man can change his mind.”
“This man has limited options, but I shan’t argue.”
Constance met Solomon’s gaze. “We could find Kenny through the forger. With the right story.”
“And the right teller,” Solomon said thoughtfully, transferring his gaze to Madly.
*
Janey and Lenny had spent an exhausting and frustrating day searching in some of the lowest and most dangerous places for any sign of Kenny. Besides discovering that his Christian name was, apparently, Horatio, they had learned nothing of any value.
As they trudged back toward the office, Janey couldn’t understand why she wasn’t more disheartened.
She didn’t like failing, and she didn’t like letting Constance down.
Nor Mr. Grey, who had become something of a hero to her.
And yet, while she still worried at the problem of where Kenny could be hiding out, she was aware that her background sense of wellbeing had never really gone away.
Which was odd in itself, considering where they had been.
“Maybe the others had more luck,” she said. “Or even the peelers—they got to be useful for something.”
“You always get more cynical when you’re hungry,” Lenny said. “My workshop’s only in the next street. We can make a cup of tea and get some bread and cheese there, if you like.”
“Why not?” she said, as though indifferent, though her heart suddenly beat faster.
She knew where his workshop was. She had dragged him out of it often enough to help with various investigations.
But she had never even sat down there before, just stood by the door, waiting for him.
His invitation was surely a gesture of trust. And certainly, she wouldn’t mind resting her weary feet for a few minutes.
He was looking at her, a faint, friendly smile playing about his lips. “You’re quite an asset to Silver and Grey, you know. They’re lucky to have you.”
“That’s what I keep telling ’em. You’d be nothing without me, I say, and—”
“I’m serious,” he interrupted. “You have an honest way of approaching people that makes them like you and tell you what we need to know.”
She laughed. “Honest? Me?”
“Yes, you,” he retorted. “I’ve seen you play brash and rollicking and respectable and seductive, but they’re all you. Just different bits of you. So yes, you are honest, and still do your job.”
Janey didn’t know what to say, so she was glad they were approaching the workshop. On the other hand, while she liked his compliments, they’d turned her steady wellbeing into unease. The truths she didn’t want him to know weighed her down, making each step heavier.
He unlocked the unassuming door with the wooden sign that said only, Knox, Carpenter, and stood aside to let her in.
She liked the smell of the workshop, all new wood and varnish. It wasn’t a large room, containing only a workbench, a shelf for tools, a stove, and three stools.
“I’ll get the tea,” she said.
But he pushed her gently toward the stools. “Sit. I’ll get it.”
She shrugged and let him. And truly, it was sweet to take the weight off her poor feet.
Sweeter yet to watch him light the stove beneath the kettle and set about spooning tea into the chipped pot and fetching two clean mugs from the shelf.
He sliced some bread and cheese while waiting for the kettle to boil.
His hands were quick and deft—strong, clever artisan’s hands.
“Got no milk,” he said apologetically.
“Don’t need it,” she said at once, watching him with a growing sense of desperation as he sliced bread and cheese and put it on a plate.
Honest. He thinks I’m honest. As long as he didn’t know about her, he could be her friend.
But not a close friend. Because she would always be waiting for him to find out, wouldn’t she?
And though it was novel and lovely to be admired, it wasn’t real if he didn’t know the truth. More than that, he deserved the truth.
“Honesty’s not the reason I can talk to those people,” she blurted. “The thieves and the pimps and the whores, the men who’d knife their own mothers for the price of a pint. I’m one of them, ain’t I? That’s where I come from. That’s where Constance found me. They know me.”
The kettle was boiling. He used a rag to lift it and pour the water into the teapot. He set the kettle down and put the lid on the pot, then picked up the plate of bread and cheese and came toward her.
“I know. Help yourself.” He put the plate on one of the empty stools.
Her jaw must have dropped, for she had to close her mouth to swallow.
“What do you think you know?” she demanded aggressively.
“I ain’t some poor bloody innocent rescued from noble starvation.
I got sick on the streets selling myself to men, including the scum of the earth.
I weren’t fussy. That’s where she found me. ”
He swirled the tea in the pot. Interestingly, he had a strainer, like the ones Constance used, to pour the tea into the mugs without the leaves. His poor, dead wife must have taught him that.
He brought both mugs, balanced them on the crowded stool, and sat on the other. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” she asked. “It ain’t your fault.”
He shrugged. “Not yours either, Janey. Everyone tries to survive. You and me, we’re the lucky ones. I forgot that for a while.”
He had been a mess when they first met, only half alive from shock and grief. Her reasonless anger vanished as quickly as it had sprung up.
“You helped me remember,” he said unexpectedly. “Saved me, if you like.”
She stared at him. “Mr. Grey did that.”
Lenny nodded. “He gave me a chance. Him and Mrs. Grey. And Mrs. Juliet. You helped me take those chances. Because you took yours, and you saw me, not some pitiful wreck who’d lost everything.” He gave a quick, awkward smile. “I learned from your strength.”
She held his gaze with difficulty. “Don’t you care what I did?” she blurted.
“No.” He didn’t even think about it. “Drink your tea.”
Obediently, she lifted the cup to her mouth and drank, while her free hand reached for the bread and cheese. It seemed the sense of wellbeing had come back, for she smiled as she lowered the cup.
“Are you saying we’re friends, Lenny Knox?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
She munched in contented silence for a while. Then she sighed. “I hope someone’s found a trace of that bastard Kenny.”
*
Jason Madly had much the same thought as he made his way up a creaking wooden staircase into the attic of a tall, dank building.
The attic door wasn’t locked. It didn’t need to be, for there were lookouts at the front and back of the building to warn of any approaching peelers. Anyone else who called was a prospective customer of someone in the building, if not the forger in the attic.
Madly stuck his head in and looked around. A balding, stoop-shouldered man in spectacles surrounded by paper, ink, and stamps sat at a large desk by the window. The room was remarkably bright after the gloomy stairwell, for the sun shone through a skylight as well as the window.
“Kenny not here?” Madly said in surprised tones. “He said he’d be here.”
“Then he probably will be. Come in and tell me what you need.”
“Can’t tell you that till I’ve spoken to Kenny and seen what you can do.”
“I am a professional,” the forger said coldly.
“Of course you are. I’ll wait for him.”
It was not a large space in which to wait, and there was only one other chair, which Madly promptly sat in, letting his gaze linger on the forger’s face and then travel slowly across the documents on his desk. There was little hope of privacy.
The forger put his pen carefully in the stand and glared at his visitor. “Really, sir, this is not a waiting room.”
“If Kenny was here, I wouldn’t have to wait, would I? Are his papers ready?”
The forger didn’t answer.
Madly got up and set about being annoying. He stood under the skylight, gazing upward. He clomped about the room, whistling, and stood at the window, blocking the light. The forger tutted.
“When do you expect him?” Madly demanded.
The forger sighed. “When he gets here.”
“With your money, I hope. What do you charge?”
“I’ll tell you that when you tell me what you want.”
“Damn Kenny’s eyes! Where is the scoundrel?”
“Not here. It would please me if you could imitate him. Good day, sir!”
“He said he’d be here,” Madly said firmly, and sat back down. He resumed whistling in a particularly tuneless manner. He struck his hat against the corner of the desk, causing papers to rustle and jump. “How long have you been in this business, then?” he asked. “Ever been caught?”
The forger set down his pen again. “Will you go away? Come back in an hour.”
“An hour?” Madly said doubtfully.
“An hour.”
Madly sighed. “Very well.”
He left and clattered back down the attic stairs. But he paused at the foot and sat on the last step.
In the end, he only had to wait half an hour and scare off one other prospective customer before Kenny’s heavy footsteps drifted upward and his large shape squeezed along the narrow passage toward him.
“Kenny,” Madly said lovingly, rising to his feet. “Just the man I’ve been looking for.”
Kenny had stopped dead at his first word, peering suspiciously into the gloom. “Madly?” he said in disbelief. “What d’you want me for?”
“Got a proposition for you.”
“I ain’t interested. Off to pastures new.”
“Yes, I heard about your spot of bother. Thought this might help set you up—and give you a spot of revenge into the bargain.”
“Revenge ain’t my game,” Kenny said virtuously.
“Really? But someone’s stuck their nose into your business and set the peelers on you.
I happen to know who. And I’ve got the information you need for one last job—help finance your travels, and you can do it at once.
She’ll pay up at once, being rich as Croesus.
And off you go laughing into the sunset. ”
Kenny took a step nearer. “What’s in it for you?”
“I’ll take a quarter only, since it’s to my satisfaction too. Fair?”
“Depends on your information.”
“The woman who foiled and humiliated your man last night is Constance Silver, the madam of the Mayfair brothel. You must have heard it. Costs an arm and a leg just to get over the door—which is, I’m told, only four down from the scene of your man’s, er, failure.”
“What’s she to me?” Kenny demanded.
Madly smiled with some malice. “Currently masquerading as Mrs. Grey, the wife of the shipping magnate. Society doesn’t know who she is.
I doubt he does, the doting fool. Either way, she’ll pay not to have her name plastered all over the newspapers.
So will he. All you have to do is turn up with me.
I’ll get you in and play the innocent while you do what you do best. You can be out of the country by morning. ”
Kenny thought about it. And he wasn’t a fast thinker.
“Wait,” he said at last, and brushed past Madly to go up to the attic.
Madly waited, his smile crooked. It was, he reflected, his only way into Constance Silver’s establishment. And oh, the carnage he could cause once he was there…
Kenny emerged, his coat fatter with documents, and ran down the stairs. “Let’s do it, then. You can get your quarter.”