“A very hard one. I think you should tell His Nibs about this.”
“His Nibs made it very clear I was to stay out of his way,” I countered.
“But he didn’t know about this box then. He’s keen to keep his eye on valuable artwork what comes in and out of the country.”
“Why? So he can put his hands on it?”
Brewster shrugged. “Sometimes. And to make certain rivals aren’t poaching his customers.”
“Rivals such as Creasey?”
“Aye. Though Creasey might have nothing to do with Mr. Fitzgerald and his pretty box. But someone else might be using blokes like Fitzgerald to get pieces into England and on the market.”
Cutting out James Denis and his high price for his trouble. I understood why Denis would wish to hear about such competition. I wondered if he’d take over the other fellow’s business or eliminate it, and then decided I did not want to know.
“Seabrook found nothing wrong with the price,” I said. “Thought it rather high.”
“Begging your pardon, guv, but he’s talking out his arse. His sort are happy to retrieve the fees, collect their pay for doing it, and go home, after cheating honest importers out of half their profit.”
“He’s only doing a job, Brewster,” I said, amused. “Every man has to eat.”
“He could take a different one,” Brewster said stubbornly. “There’s a reason His Nibs does everything he can to go around the customs agents.”
More things I did not wish to know.
I wondered what Thompson had done with the carbine. I wanted to examine it again, as though it could give me a clue as to where it had come from. I thought of a man who might know. He was no longer in the King’s army, but he remained close friends and cronies with those who were. He might be on half-pay, but he’d never truly left the military behind.
Brewster and I fell silent after that as the carriage took us back across London and into Mayfair to Curzon Street.
CHAPTER 16
Gibbons informed us coldly, when he at last opened the door to Number 45 a crack, that Mr. Denis wasn’t seeing anyone. Only Brewster’s insistence gained us admittance.
“I will inquire,” Gibbons said in his chill tones. Several men hulked behind him, no trust in their eyes. “If he says he will not speak to you, you must depart. You no longer work for him, Mr. Brewster.”
“Mayhap, but he’ll not thank you if he finds out what we have to tell him some other way. So go on up, and be quick about it.”
Gibbons had no fear in him. He gave Brewster a scornful stare and ascended the stairs, taking his time. He’d not ushered us into the reception room which left us waiting in the austere downstairs hall.
“Lewis,” Brewster greeted another of Denis’s men as he joined the first guards. “How goes the battle?”
Lewis, a smaller man than most Denis employed, shook his head. “He can’t step out the door. We run off assassins every day. We’ve caught one or two.” He closed his mouth and glanced at me as though not wanting to confess what they’d done to those they’d caught.
“He ought to go straight to Creasey and pull off his head,” Brewster declared. “Enough of this.”
“Creasey’s well-guarded,” Lewis said. “And he has magistrates and Runners in his pocket. Mr. Denis goes nigh him, he’ll be arrested.”
“Runners?” I asked. I thought of Timothy Spendlove, who’d do anything to get his hands on Denis. Would Spendlove partner with another known criminal to achieve his aims? I wasn’t certain. As much as I did not see eye-to-eye with Spendlove, I knew he despised men like Creasey.
Lewis nodded at me. “You’d be astonished, Captain, at the goings on in high places.”
I wasn’t as astonished as all that. I’d lived in London long enough to understand that corruption was rampant.
“He’ll see you.” Gibbons’s voice floated down from above. “For five minutes. Then you are to leave.”
“Five minutes should suffice.” I started up the stairs, my now-tired knee twinging. I reflected I might use up my entire five minutes climbing to Denis’s study.
Gibbons showed us, however, not to the study, but to another room in the back of the house. Denis’s bedchamber, I realized as we entered. A large bedstead with sumptuous velvet hangings stood between windows that overlooked the back garden—or would if the draperies weren’t firmly closed. Candlelight from a single candelabra on a writing table lit the room, while a small blaze in the paneled fireplace lent the only warmth.
