Chapter 12
Twelve
Once Stephen had a moment to look at the burglars without trying to hit one or the other, they proved to be unremarkable-looking enough. One was young enough to still be spotty; one was old enough to have lost most of his hair.
Bound with several of Stephen’s cravats—Baldwin was going to have a few things to say about this entire evening—the younger burglar shifted nervously, to the extent that he could, and looked between Stephen and Mina. “What’re you gonna do now?”
“That depends on you, I should think,” Mina said.
Ice clinked in her voice. In her dark dress, with her hair loosened by her run through the house, she looked like the more attractive sort of avenging angel.
“You got yourselves into this situation. I’d imagine you can get yourselves out, if you can be clever. ”
The man looked from her to his still-unconscious companion, chewed on his lower lip, and then sighed. “What do you want,” he asked, “and what’ll you give me for it?”
“Who hired you and why and when and where.” Stephen crouched down beside the thief. “You tell us, and perhaps you won’t be seeing the inside of Newgate any time soon.”
The threat of the law had lost some of its power. Fifty years ago, he’d have mentioned hanging or transportation. Perhaps mortals’ fears adapted as easily to a changing world as everything else about them did, though, for the name of the prison made the thief’s face go pale beneath its spots.
“We never got a name, m’lord.”
“You must know what he looked like, though,” said Mina. “Hooded cloaks stand out a bit these days.”
“Tall and kind of fat. Dark ’air. ’Is collar was turned up, though, and it were dark where we met.”
“And where was that?” Stephen asked.
“Dog an’ Moon, m’lord. Cable Street.”
Mina’s eyes flickered for a second, but she didn’t volunteer anything. “When did you first enter into your arrangement?” Stephen went on.
“’Bout three weeks ago, or the like.”
“Then this wasn’t the first job you did for him,” said Mina. “What was that?”
The thief looked down. “Deliverin’ a package, ma’am. Through a letter slot, it was.”
“Ah,” said Stephen, not at all surprised. “How did you meet?”
“The barman there sometimes passes word on to us, word of jobs and that. ’E’s the one set up the meeting.”
Stephen nodded. “What was your job this time?”
“’E wanted us to look around. Tell him about anything odd we saw, take anything we thought was important, that sort of thing. Said nobody’d be about at this ’our. Never should’ve trusted ’im for that. Bloody toff.”
“Watch your language,” said Stephen, though Mina’s face hadn’t changed a bit at the words. Indeed, he’d heard her use similar terms, though rarely. Still, he felt a need to make the gesture. “Anything else?”
“Not for ’im, no.”
“When did he hire you for this job?” Mina asked.
“Two days back. Said we’d get money when we brought ’im the crown.” The young man sighed. “That’s all I know of it, m’lord, I promise.”
He was, as far as Stephen could tell, speaking the truth. Stephen sighed and got to his feet. “For what it’s worth,” he said absently, “I very much doubt that he would have followed through with the payment he promised you. And I suggest that you avoid his company in the future.”
“Yeah, o’course,” said the young man. Perhaps he meant it; perhaps he didn’t.
It probably didn’t matter either way. He and his companion hadn’t seen enough of the house—or of Stephen—to be a threat.
The police couldn’t get any more useful information from them than Stephen already had and wouldn’t know how to follow up on it anyway.
At least, Stephen’s prior experience with Scotland Yard had led him to expect no great feats there.
Stephen bent and picked up the knife from where it had fallen.
It was cheap work. Even if its wielder had landed a blow, the blade might have broken before doing Stephen any real harm.
The club had been more effective—he had a sore place just under his ribs now—but there was something visceral and intimidating about a knife, and he didn’t keep them lying about his bedroom these days.
“Would you be kind enough to untie our visitor?” he asked Mina.
She set to work, her slim fingers flying over the knots. The cravat fell away, leaving the young man rubbing his wrists.
“Get up,” said Stephen. He adjusted his grip on the knife—casual, but not too casual, just enough to make the thief aware of its presence. “Pick up your friend.”
That process involved some grunting. “’E’s heavy,” the young man said.
“That’s very unfortunate for you,” said Stephen. “Now walk.”
At knifepoint, the two thieves went out the door, through the hall, and down the dark staircase. Stephen followed closely behind, as did Mina, who had stopped briefly to re-arm herself.
At some point, Stephen thought, he’d just have to give her a poker, perhaps one with her initials on it. Certainly she looked as natural holding the thing as anyone could under the circumstances.
At last, after a dim and silent journey that was mercifully free of further incident, they reached the back door.
Stephen stepped forward and jerked it open, then gestured to the small street beyond, where a gas lamp barely cut through the growing night.
“You’d best be getting on your way, hadn’t you? ”
The young burglar started forward, moving slowly under the weight of his older companion. As they crossed the threshold, Mina spoke again.
“I’m going to send for the police now. I’ll tell them I saw someone lurking around the house. It’ll take them”—she looked off down the street and did a few mental calculations—“oh, about ten minutes to get here, I should think. If you move fast, I might just be a silly girl spooked by the fog.”
Then she shut the door.
“I don’t suppose,” she said, looking up at Stephen, “that this sort of thing happens often?”
“It’s the first time of it to my knowledge,” he said and then cleared his throat. “I’ve you to thank for making sure they didn’t do worse or see more. You had no reason to risk yourself the way you did.”
The flush on Mina’s cheeks deepened, and she shrugged. “A hundred pounds seems a fair reason to me. I don’t go back on a bargain.”
Being tactful, she didn’t add whatever you may have thought.
She was looking down again, Stephen noticed, and her hair fell across her face. Tired? Worried? He stopped at the foot of the stairs and put a hand gently on her shoulder. “Is anything wrong? Other than the obvious, I mean?”
“I—no. Not really. Um…” She took a breath and then gave a what-the-hell sort of shrug.
Oh, this was going to be good.