“Where’s your ’at?”
“Lost it. Again.” He scooted the chair in closer to the table.
Timmons pushed a second tankard in Anthony’s direction.
He gripped the worn tankard handle, eager for his friend’s update. “And what of you? How did you find Bretton?”
Timmons scoffed and propped his elbow on the rough tableand held up his disfigured left hand, displaying the misshapen thumb and only remaining finger. “Constable Bretton said ’e admired my selfless service t’ our country, but unfortunately my injuries render me unable to administer t’ necessary duties of a constable. As such, they do not require my services.”
Anthony’s gaze drifted to the scarred purple skin where Timmons’s other fingers once had been. Anthony had seen the injury so often he barely noticed it anymore, but as he refocused on the wound, the memory of the battle that caused it—not to mention the battle that inflicted Anthony’s own injuries—blazed brightly.
Timmons grunted. “Looks like I’m destined to remain a Walstead’s Watchmen, eh?”
“It’s not so dire, is it?” Anthony grinned in an uncomfortable attempt to cheer his friend. “Steady work. Excellent colleagues. Never a shortage of excitement. Ideal employment, I reckon.”
Timmons snorted. “You’re one t’ talk. You’ll jump ship as soon as you’re able.”
The statement, and the truth in it, sobered him.
Yes, Anthony did have a sharp eye to the future. A man, especially a man who’d endured injuries such as his own, could not chase after criminals his whole life. But at the moment, the goals Anthony had for his future seemed as far off and unattainable as Timmons’s did.
The vision of his deceased uncle’s dilapidated, charred mill flashed in his mind. Anthony had visited the site in the days after returning from the United States, and the devastating tragedy that met him there had heaped burning coals atop the traumas he’dexperienced at war. One day he’d return to the site, repair the fire damage, and see that the gristmill was once again functional, but many things had to occur for him to do so.
“Aye, that might be true, but the mill’s in a grim state. No roof. No waterwheel. Mill’s not much use without them. ’Twill take capital, and that I don’t have. Not yet, anyway. No sense in dwelling on that now—not when there is naught to be done for it except to keep working and earning money.”
Anthony swigged the last of his ale. “Come on. Finish that up. Mulligan told me there’s a transport convoy taking a load to Scarborough that requires an escort. With any luck we’ll be assigned to it. Good money in that.”
“I suppose.” Timmons indulged in a drink and wiped his wool sleeve across his mouth. “Did ye hear ’bout the thefts on Lowburn Street? Bricks through t’ windows of three houses. Probably more. Rumor is t’ residents intend to ’ire Walstead to set things right.”
Yes, there was no shortage of crimes for men like Anthony to investigate, and the assignments were far from predictable. The wealthy would pay for all sorts of tasks they could not—or would not—do for themselves. The adventure and challenge of never knowing what obstacle he’d face next was a beacon to Anthony. He craved it. Needed it to feel alive. He was a thief-taker, after all. Victims of all sorts hired him or, rather, William Walstead, to bring about justice or for protection.
After emptying their tankards, Anthony and Timmons stood and exited the dark pub into the budding, misty morning. In the short amount of time he’d been inside, the busy street had flaredeven more to life with more people, more carts, more noise. Anthony took several steps, when a man clipped his shoulder.
“Have a care,” Anthony mumbled, continuing forward.
Then a second man, directly behind the first, clipped his shoulder too.
Once was an accident. Two times was not.
Anthony muttered in annoyance and turned to the two men, who were both as dirty and shabby as one would expect a worker from this corner of Leeds to be. There was a hardness, a directness, in the workmen’s stares that set Anthony on his defenses.
“Walstead’s Watchmen, are ye?” The taller one motioned toward Anthony’s armband and spat on the ground next to the toe of Timmons’s boots.
Anthony gave no reaction for several moments as he continued to assess the men. “Something you’d like to say?”
The first man’s dingy hair clung in greasy strings to his weathered skin, and he inched closer, slow and determined, in the midst of the street’s bustling commotion. “Yea, I do. Ye tell ol’ Walstead I got a message for ’im. Tell ’im that ol’ Rodden remembers. Tell ’im the only thing that’ll make me forget what ’appened at Swendel Bay is t’ money ’e owes me, and t’ longer ’e keeps me waitin’, t’ looser me tongue’s gonna get.”
It was a common occurrence—one that used to be unsettling until Anthony had been on enough jobs to see that many men apprehended by one of Walstead’s men held grudges.
“If the message is so important, tell him yourself.” Anthony continued walking.
“Listen to you, takin’ a tone just like ’im,” called the man afterhim. “Sooner or later, someone’ll take ye all down a notch or two and put ye in t’ gallows where ye belong.”
Anthony slowed his steps, pausing only a moment for Timmons to join him in walking. It was one thing to stand his ground. It was another thing entirely to engage with a man intent on a fight. But as Anthony strode away, the truth of what had been said smacked.
As respected as Walstead was, his methods were, at times, questionable. He was just as comfortable dealing with criminals as with magistrates and judges, but if he got results, no one questioned him.
And neither should Anthony.
