Chapter 2 Kane #2
“Five shillings?” Kane repeated the words with mock incredulity but accepted the money. The little pouch was heavy, linen-smothered shillings rolling over his fingertips. Larkin opened his and peered inside, but Kane slipped the coins into his pocket without hesitation.
Fletcher arched a brow. “You’re not going to count it?”
“I trust you.”
Fletcher’s mouth twisted to hide his amusement. A few raindrops had begun to spatter their heads, and Larkin turned up the collar of his frock coat.
“We’re done here. Kane, go back to whatever hole you crawled up out of.”
“Until next time,” Fletcher agreed.
With a salute in Larkin’s direction, Kane slipped into the shadows, resigned to making the walk alone while Fletcher went to hand off the revolver.
His detour took him past the Romney Street pub, where he often found patrons passed out in the gutters.
This usually afforded Kane the opportunity to pluck their knives and what little money they had on their person.
Tonight, though, the only men outside were a too-sober pair who watched him pass with more suspicion than he felt was warranted.
If they knew who he was, perhaps they’d avert their gazes. Ward’s golden boy, they might murmur to each other once he’d passed. Touch him and you’ll lose your hand.
But Kane took care with his identity. After all, no matter how many names he donned, he couldn’t help the fact that he wore the same face. Best to be recognizable to as few as possible.
Patrons stumbled out of the pub, circumventing him with loud guffaws, and that was enough to convince Kane there was nothing here for him.
Not tonight. He wasn’t in the mood for alcohol accompanied by conversation or girls grasping at his sleeves and lapels.
He didn’t care to lose himself in a smoky haze surrounded by strangers.
Instead, he made his way toward the docks.
The streets of the slum gave way to factories, which in turn gave way to abandoned warehouses with smashed-in windows.
The air tasted like gravel dust and reeked of the tainted river.
It was a miserable place, especially when the overhead moon was shrouded by fog and factory fumes.
Which, Kane thought wryly, was much of the time.
That said, it was familiar in its misery.
The air rang with the distant hollers of the dockers and the accompanying thuds of crated cargo being heaved from ship to shore or vice versa.
The port was always busy, but it was positively packed with steamships as the Exhibition drew nearer, delivering people and exhibits and all manner of goods.
It seemed to Kane that London’s population doubled daily, especially with the new rail lines leading into the city.
It was driving him mad. Everywhere he turned he was reminded of his task, and how little time he had left before the necklace wound up in the Crystal Palace.
Kane made a concerted effort to avoid the riverbank, opting instead to duck down a narrow alley that widened a short time later at the entrance to an abandoned factory.
Painted white letters above the door declared it MOORE he opened them and saw Ward. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
“At least it’s small. I heard one of the main exhibits is some kind of telescope, and that it’s as long as three men lined up head to toe. Can you imagine trying to steal such a thing?”
Kane managed a wry smile. It hurt his face. “I wouldn’t put it past Ward to ask.”
“Relax.” Fletcher refilled both their glasses, easily interpreting Kane’s expression. “We’ll get that godforsaken necklace. There’s nothing Kane Durante and Fletcher Collins can’t steal.”
His stoic confidence was contagious as he used their real surnames, and Kane drained his drink in a single swallow.
“You’d better be right about that.”