Chapter 15
Sheffield allowed himself to be pushed into the conveyance without further protest, and its shabby silhouette was quickly lost in the quick-shifting shadows of the night.
After crossing to the other side of the street, Wrexford was soon rolling on his way in the opposite direction. To his left, moonlight flickered off the weathered stone walls surrounding the Tower complex, only to die away as a scrim of clouds blew in with the ebbing tide.
The clip-clop of hooves slowed and then came to a halt on a quiet side street. He descended from the hackney and found the tavern mentioned by his colleague tucked between two warehouses, their bricks and mortar nearly black from the coal smoke of a nearby ironmonger’s workshop.
Despite its rough-and-tumble exterior, the tavern’s taproom crackled with a cheery warmth, the yeasty scent of ale mingling with the pungent tobacco smoke swirling just below the age-dark oak beams. The place appeared to cater to a collection of respectable working men toiling within the lower fringes of the middle class—junior law clerks, scriveners, and foremen from the sprawling headquarters of the East India Company down near the river.
Wrexford approached the barkeeper and requested two tankards of ale, for which he paid double the price asked.
“I’m looking for Henry Sykes,” he added, assuming his well-tailored clothing would dampen any suspicions of trouble.
“I simply have a few technical questions about coinage, and I’ve been told he may be able to help. ”
“’Arry seems to be a popular fellow these days,” murmured the barkeeper as he tucked the coins into his apron pocket.
A brusque wave indicated a grey-haired fellow dressed in sober shades of brown and charcoal sitting in a corner alcove, chatting with another fellow who was smoking a meerschaum pipe.
The earl approached them with the two drinks in hand. “Forgive me for interrupting, but might I have a private word with you, Mr. Sykes?”
On seeing Sykes nod, his companion rose. “I think I’ll go finish blowing a cloud over by the dartboard. The competition sounds as if it’s getting rather interesting.”
“Thank you,” said Wrexford. After introducing himself, he took the vacated seat and slid one of the tankards across the table.
“I’ve heard of you, milord.” Sykes’s gaze betrayed a glimmer of curiosity. “A gentleman of many talents.”
“Not as many as your late employer, Matthew Boulton.”
Sykes allowed a small smile and waited for the earl to continue.
A careful and observant fellow, decided Wrexford. That was all to the good.
“A current situation in which I have an interest may have some connection to Mr. Bouton and his Soho Mint—to be specific, around ten years ago.” A pause. “I’m wondering if you recall whether Boulton had any dealings with Lord Langdon at that time.”
Sykes took a slow sip of his ale. “The newspapers hint that you sometimes assist the government on matters that require great discretion. I—I am assuming that this is the case here.” He frowned.
“However, I can’t think of anything that I left out of my answer to the gentleman who interrogated me last week. ”
Wrexford took care to mask his surprise. “I simply want to confirm that no tiny detail was forgotten,” he said, choosing his words with great care
“Very well.” The former manager relaxed slightly. “As I told the fellow, Lord Langdon did come to inquire whether Mr. Boulton had ever heard of any Scottish gang being involved in counterfeiting coins.”
“Had he?” asked Wrexford.
“No.” Sykes pursed his mouth in thought. “But there were rumors …” His voice trailed off for a moment. “That is, rumors about banknotes, not coins.”
A shrug. “Lord Langdon thanked him, and to my knowledge that was all that passed between them.”
“You’ve been very helpful.” Wrexford slid back his chair. “Just one last question—could you describe to me what the gentleman who interrogated you looked like?”
“I-Is there a problem, milord?”
“Again, I’m simply being thorough.”
Sykes took his time in answering. “Medium height … neither slender nor stout … brown hair … a pleasant-looking face …” A cough. “And ferret-like eyes. My sense was that despite his genial demeanor, he would be a dangerous gentleman to cross.”
The earl murmured a thanks.
“Wait a tick—there was one thing about him,” added Sykes. “He wore a pewter signet ring on his pinkie finger. I noticed because it seemed an odd choice of metal. It also had an unusual design—a heart with crossed daggers.”
“Right or left hand?”
“Left,” replied Sykes without hesitation. “You see, I recalled from my schoolboy days that sinister comes from the Latin word for left. And I have to say, your government colleague struck me as sinister.”
“Wait!”
Crouched on the sill of the open window, Raven turned to look back at Hawk and Peregrine. “You need not feel compelled to come with me. Scratch and Muffin will keep watch while I have a look around.” He tugged at the straps of his rucksack. “So I’m not breaking m’lady’s dictate.”
“Of course we’re coming with you,” said Hawk, as he reached under his bed and pulled out the sack with his foul-smelling clothing. “Why on earth would you think otherwise?”
“B-Because you think she’s right and I’m wrong.”
“That isn’t what’s important,” replied his brother. “At the moment, none of us can say who is right and who is wrong. What matters is that we don’t let our differences in opinion affect the bonds of our trust and loyalty.”
“Oiy,” agreed Peregrine. “The point is, we need to learn the truth, and so it stands to reason that we should investigate the warehouse.” A pause. “Eddy agrees with us.”
“Even though she thinks I’m totally wrong?”
“Oiy, even though she thinks you’re totally wrong,” confirmed Hawk. “Blood oaths aren’t washed away by the first rain squall.”
Peregrine tied the laces of his boots and hurriedly grabbed up his empty rucksack. “If we need to enter a locked warehouse, we may require more than the usual knife blade and lockpicks.” He quickly filled it with tools and a length of rope from his workbox, then headed to the window.
“Good thinking,” said Raven. “I packed some things, but best to be prepared for any challenge.” Without further ado, he crawled out to the ledge and signaled for the others to follow.
On leaving the tavern, Wrexford started walking along the side street in the direction of a busier thoroughfare where he might find a hackney for the trip home. But after several strides, he paused, taking a moment of thought to parse through what he had just heard.
Damnation. He couldn’t help but feel a knot forming in his gut as he put together Sykes’s information with the bits and pieces of evidence gleaned from Griffin and Henning.
Any way he added it up, it all seemed to indicate that his longtime friend was somehow entangled at the very heart of the mystery surrounding Campbell’s murder and how it connected to the past.
The Scots were a notoriously clannish people. Loyalty—to the death if need be—to the shared blood and the Auld Sod of Scotland seemed an elemental trait that bonded them together in the face of outsiders.
“What is it that you’re not telling me, Baz?” whispered the earl, the silvery puffs of his breath swallowed in an instant by the ink-black night.
Somewhere behind him, the wind set the closed wooden shutters of a shop window to shivering.
It was getting late, he mused, but Henning’s residence was not far away.
Granted, he wasn’t dressed to blend in to the surroundings, which might attract the attention of a predator prowling through the stews …
On impulse, Wrexford removed his curly-brimmed beaver hat and hung it on a lantern hook protruding from the doorway in which he was sheltering.
Locke & Sons, the well-known hatters on St. James’s Street, had his measurements and could make another one, he reflected as he untied his cravat and wound it loosely around his neck, then turned up the collar of his coat to hide any glimmer of the white linen.
He hadn’t bothered to carry a pistol, but he had brought along a stout walking stick, whose brass-gilded knob hid the fact that it was made of heavy lead. After testing its heft with a few swings, he turned and headed north.
The lanes narrowed to little more than alleyways, the unlit rookeries and tilted angles of the hodgepodge roofs making the night seem even darker.
The sooty bricks amplified the creaks and scrabbling sounds—the stews were always alive with little noises—and Wrexford kept his senses attuned to his surroundings as he considered how best to convince Henning to confide in him.
Confrontation would be a mistake. His friend would simply curl up like a hedgehog, all prickly spines sticking up in self-defense. He would have to be more circumspect, treading a fine line …
It was more a gut feeling than any audible warning that alerted him of danger lurking nearby. Lightening his steps, the earl continued walking, and sure enough a moment later he heard the faint footfalls behind him.
Left or right at the next opportunity? He wasn’t overly familiar with this section of the slums. He would simply have to guess. The next twisting turn brought him to a fork in the path. Lengthening his stride, he darted off to the right, hoping his pursuer might decide to seek less wary prey.
But in the next moment, the attack came with a sudden rush.
Wrexford spun around—Bloody hell, there were two of them!
— and swung his stick just as the first man swung his upraised knife in a vicious stab.
The leaden knob caught the varlet flush on the temple, knocking him to the ground—but not before the thrust aimed at the earl’s heart cut a deep gash across his upper arm.
Damnation. The second attacker was on him in a flash. Pivoting, Wrexford managed to lash out a kick that smashed into the man’s knee and sent him careening into the splintered remains of an old crate.