Chapter 3 #2
Sam ambled along the busy thoroughfare in the bustling heart of London’s commerce and trade.
One could buy anything from hats, cottons, silks, and timepieces to perfumes, stationery, and pianofortes.
It was a convenient location for a residence too.
The shops stood next to houses and apartments, and many affluent merchants made their homes here.
From his bedroom window, he could see the Tower of London on a clear day.
When he reached the fork at Cornhill, he veered left toward Threadneedle Street and the Stock Exchange Coffee House. He often stopped there, for it was near his home on Bishop’s Gate, and the food was good at a reasonable price. He tossed his rein to a small boy and gave him a coin.
“A penny now, and another when I return to collect the horse. Understood?” he asked the open-mouthed boy, who stared at the penny but nodded his head. “Good.” Another memory from his youth, of holding horses for men dressed to the nines and standing for hours for a ha’penny.
“Afternoon, Doc,” the proprietor said in a loud voice over the din of patrons. “Wanted to thank ye. The missus is doing much better.”
“Glad to hear it, Max. Could you have Sally bring me a coffee, meat pie, and white soup if you still have it? If not, oyster is fine.” He perused the crowded house but didn’t find a familiar enough face, so he sat at the end of a long trestle table.
He grabbed the Sunday edition of The Recorder from the center of the table to occupy him while he waited for his meal.
“Well, if it ain’t the ‘andsome Dr. Brooks,” said a cheerful female from above. He tilted his head and smiled at Sally as she set down his coffee. “I saved ye the last bit ‘o white soup. It’s beef and kidney pie if that’s to yer likin’.”
“I would be forever grateful,” he answered with a wink.
“Aw, go on with ye,” she gushed. “I’ll be back in two jiffs.”
He returned to the newspaper, letting the din of the coffee house fade into a dull clamor. When the food arrived, he continued to read as he ate. Until a huge paw slapped him on the back.
“Spare a poor man a wee bit o’ bread?” Patrick O’Brien loomed over him, his huge frame still as intimidating as it had been when Sam was ten. But now he knew better.
“Ho! Tis a beggar, is he now?” Sam rolled his eyes, hearing his own poor attempt at an Irish brogue.
“Only when needed, boyo,” Paddy said as he sat down with a thump. “Figured I’d find ye here. Tis Margaret’s birthday Sunday next, and she wants all her boys to be with her. Since I can’t tell her no, I’m roundin’ all of ye up in advance.”
The “boys” were the misfits the Irishman had collected over the years.
The O’Briens took them in, spending the time to find and develop each boy’s strength.
As they grew, Paddy turned them into a unique team, creating a detective agency that had a reputation for never failing to solve a case or find their man.
Sam had gone to medical school, and besides making a nice living as a physician, he also performed autopsies for the Peelers and London constabularies.
In court, he was occasionally an expert witness, testifying with medical opinions and the results of the autopsies he performed.
On occasion, he went along with the detectives as an extra man, mostly to treat injuries that may occur.
The agency included several detectives who had all put in time as Bow Street Runners.
The O’Briens had also raised a solicitor, whose law expertise helped prepare cases for court, and a woman who’d played so many different parts in Paddy’s investigations, she had become an actress.
The only member of the team who hadn’t lived under the same roof was the barrister, Angus Marshall.
He presented their cases, often pro bono, once the evidence for a client had been collected and verified.
“I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the day.” He lowered his voice. “Have we heard any more of The Vicar?”
Paddy shook his head and combed his thick fingers through his still vibrant red hair. His blue eyes narrowed in disgust. “The man’s like fog. He just dissipates ‘fore ye can catch him. Word has it he’s left Town for a while. But his time is comin’. I feel it in my bones.”
“Even the slipperiest of eels eventually make their way to the trap.” Sampson laughed, remembering when he first heard that saying.
He and Gus had been taking biscuits from the kitchen, and one day, Maggie had lain in wait.
The wooden spoon she’d rapped on their hands had certainly felt like a trap.
Sam thought about Mrs. Brown as he walked home.
Perhaps he’d stop by St. James’s Park next Sunday before going to the O’Briens.
His family had a passion for sweets, and that delightful costermonger had a passion for making them.
He could provide Maggie with a birthday treat and give some business to a hardworking woman. What would be the harm?
As he took the steps to his rented quarters, a smile curved his lips, and his heart beat a little faster.
Two days later
“Well, Dr. Brooks, what did you find?” asked Walters. “Drowning, or no?”
They were in the back room of the Dog’s Bone. Ben had come along with Sam since they were taking in a play later at Vauxhall.
“Your instincts—and the landlady’s—were correct,” Sam informed Harry.
“The man didn’t drown—unless someone followed him into the Thames and then stabbed him repeatedly underwater.
” He paused, remembering the gruesome sight under the dead man’s clothes.
“He was wearing a good quality wool coat in August, which I would assume was supposed to soak up the blood while they transported him to the river. The bruises all over his body, and the differences in color among them, indicate he may have been tortured for some time before being dumped.”
Walters snorted. “That’s what I needed to know. I’ll start with who he was seen with last. I wonder if they got the information they wanted—or didn’t want him talking. Mayhap an interrogation gone wrong.”
“If anyone can find the truth, it’s you, Brother,” said Benjamin. “But if you decide to search his home, please don’t tell me. Unless you are caught, then of course I will be there.” Humor sparked in his light-brown eyes.
“Won’t be the first time,” Walters agreed with a grin. “If he was working for The Vicar, I doubt anyone will miss him. Or stick their neck out to talk to you.” Sampson knew his
words sounded cold, but the man had been a criminal, working with two of the men who had sent his parents to debtors’ prison.
“True. His wife was robbed and killed not too long ago, according to the tavern keeper on the corner.” Harry rubbed his jaw. “Sounds like a lot of bad luck in a short period of time.”
“Coincidence?” asked Ben, a doubtful look on his face.
“You know what Paddy says.” Guilt enveloped Sam now, thinking of the dead man’s wife. It was wrong to judge a man, not knowing his circumstances.
“There are no coincidences,” the three said in unison.