Once we were in the enclosed stairwell, Brewster asked, “Why did ye tell him ye’d play chess with him? You come here again, I doubt you’ll leave alive.”
“If you recall my words, I said I would consider it.” I grimaced as my hand landed on a slimy substance, completing the ruin of my gloves.
“But you’re a man of your word,” Brewster said. “If you decide to play, you’ll come back. And it’s me what has to follow you and make sure you stay alive, even ifIdon’t. I have a wife, you know, what depends on me.”
“I’d not put you into danger from this man, Brewster,” I assured him.
“You already have. He’ll not forget me face. Ah well.” He heaved an aggrieved sigh. “I knew what hell it would be when I agreed to work for ye.”
Eden said not a word until we were on the ground floor, making for the outer door and freedom. The fogged-in lane outside would be a pleasant garden compared to the chill menace of this warehouse.
“What did he mean about a message?” Eden pulled back the bolt on the door, which thankfully opened easily. “He seemed to believe you’d understand.”
“I do not.” I caught the door and followed him out, Brewster behind us. “I am as mystified as you are. Brewster?”
Brewster stepped into the lane and let the door slam behind him. “No idea, guv.”
He wouldn’t look at me as he said the words, and I could not decide if he knew what the queen meant or not. Brewster rarely lied deliberately to me, but he could be frugal with the truth.
Eden accepted Brewster’s answer without question, and we strode at a quick pace back to Lower Thames Street.
The road, with its carts and shouting men, the masts of ships rising above the wharves, was soothingly normal. The lane with its strange warehouse faded into the mists behind us.
“Major Miles Eden.”
A voice I knew boomed through the fog. Behind it came a large man with thick blond hair, his blue eyes twinkling as he bore down on us. The man wore a black suit that barely fit his bulk, but it did nothing to hamper his boisterous pace.
“Pomeroy?” I greeted him in surprise. Milton Pomeroy had been my sergeant in the Thirty-Fifth Light and had become an elite Bow Street Runner once he’d returned to civilian life. “What brings you to the Custom House?”
“He does.” Pomeroy pointed to Eden, whose color had risen until he was scarlet. “Major Miles Eden, I am arresting you in the King’s name for the murder of Mr. George Warrilow. Will you come along like a good fellow, or will I have to wrestle you down? Hate to embarrass such a fine officer, so I suggest you walk quietly beside me, and nothing of the sort has to happen.”
CHAPTER 3
Pomeroy tried to dissuade me from accompanying Eden to Bow Street. “Not your business, Captain,” he said in his cheerful manner.
He had a point—I hadn’t seen Eden in years, and while I believed him to be an honorable fellow, which of us hadn’t changed since the Peninsula? He’d gone to Antigua, with its heat, blood-sucking insects, and slavery. Who could say what he’d done there?
But Eden had gallantly walked with me into the dark lane and the warehouse of Mr. Creasey, when it was clear I headed into potential danger, and I could not now abandon him when he was in trouble.
I waved to Hagen, who’d waited down by the wharf, and the carriage moved slowly toward us.
“Are you certain of this, Pomeroy?” I asked. “You know Captain—I mean, Major—Eden.”
“I do indeed. Never saw a braver man on the battlefield, sir, except for you. But you’re a wanted man, Major. Only doing me duty.”
Pomeroy opened a paper and held it up with a dramatic flair. It was a handbill of a sort the Runners printed when they hunted a suspect. The person’s description would be put into theHue and Crynewspaper sent to constabularies all over Britain, and flyers like this one posted.
Major Miles Eden, late of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons, wanted in connection with the murder of a passenger from the shipDusty Roseout of Antigua. Major Eden is a tall man with light-brown hair and brown eyes, a thin scar on his right cheek. Will likely be armed. Consider him dangerous.
“Very flattering,” Eden said faintly.
“I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation,” I argued.
“Could be, sir. Could be. He can tell it to the magistrate.” Pomeroy gestured to the carriage that halted beside us. “Are you lending us your coach, Captain? Kind of you.”
“No need to come with me, Lacey,” Eden said as Pomeroy jerked open the door. “Or give me the use of your coach. I’ve weathered worse.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “We’ll visit the magistrate together and clear this up in a trice. Please.”
