Of a certainty, for Mr. Hawkes, war hero and friend of the Earl of Brundage, they would.
Thusly Hawkes learned that the funds submitted to the Society for the Relief of English Prisoners of War had been collected by a purveyor of fine antiquities in Bond Street by the name of Roland Guthrie.
The same bloody place Pike the footman had mentioned.
“And then I presume the funds were submitted to Lloyd’s Patriotic Fund, sir,” Harrigan told him. “Likeall the other collections taken up in shops and coffee houses to help our prisoners. Because it’s no longer on the books after the war.”
When Hawkes departed (like a wraith, five minutes and a few seconds later), Harrigan & Sons were the proud keepers of all of Brundage’s account books... save two.
He’d feigned a coughing fit and tucked them into his coat when Mr. Harrigan went to fetch a glass of water. So he was, after a fashion, a thief—even if the ends justified the means.
Which he supposed gave him something more in common with Berwick, whose hand was creeping across the table toward the bottle of gin.
Hawkes’s arm shot out and swept it out of his reach. “I have a few questions.”
“And ’ere I thought we be celebratin’ our reunion,” Berwick said with great bitterness. “Not an ounce of sentiment in ye, Hawkes.”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
“Git yer own woman. That is not me line o’ work,” he said pompously.
“A very pretty, obviously well-bred woman,” Hawkes continued patiently. “She’s about your height. Would have departed in prime murder and robbery hours of the morning two days ago in a hack from somewhere near the docks, deposited by a mail coach. Perhaps spoke in a slight but noticeable French accent.”
Hawkes had told Brundage only that he’d learned Aurelie had likely gone to London, and that he’d be taking a room at the Stevens and questioning his sources in pubs frequented by hack drivers, a notion which made Brundage just barely suppress a shudder. Brundage said he would make the crossing to Dover a day or so after Hawkes; they fixed a date to meeta week hence at Brundage’s townhouse in St. James Square.
Time was on Hawkes’s side: bad weather had delayed Lady Aurelie’s Channel crossing from Calais to Dover for six days. Innkeepers and hack drivers and dock workers remembered a genteel young woman traveling unaccompanied. And from Dover she’d allegedly boarded a mail coach.
But his own crossing was uneventful, and took the usual six hours.
All of this meant she’d arrived in London only about two days ahead of him.
She’d been deposited by the mail coach near the docks in London and was allegedly promptly whisked away in a hack. Which is when her trail went cold.
Assuming she’d been unbothered or unrobbed until now, Hawkes knew enough about the world not to have faith in her luck holding. Urgency dogged his heels.
“Oh, pretty French piece? Aye, she indeed left in an ’ack,” Berwick said at once, nonchalantly. He maneuvered a bit of what was likely meat pie from between his teeth with a fingernail and then brushed his fingers on his waistcoat.
Hawkes didn’t blink. But he felt that familiar tingling along his scalp that presaged a truth. Berwick knew everybody in his current particular stratum of society—the drivers, the watchmen, the costermongers, the shop clerks—and heheardabout all the other strata—the lords and ladies, the prostitutes and thieves—and helovedto talk.
Hawkes made a rude scoffing noise. “Come now. Do you expect me to believe you? Who told you this?”
There was nothing like a little scorn to spur on a stubborn man.
“Davie Plunkett, that’s ’oo told me,” Berwick said indignantly. “’e said he picked up a fine piece what tipped himlarge. And by that I dinna mean she fucked ’im, I mean she gave him a nice little bit of extra jingle.”
“Thank youindeedfor the clarification,” Hawkes said dryly.
“DAVIE!” Berwick bellowed across the pub. He beckoned with great scoops of his hand.
A man swiveled his head around, then scraped his chair back from a table and maneuvered through the crowd. Davie proved to be a small man well insulated with fat, a practical sop to the chilly career of hack driving. His tiny eyes were bright and shrewd. A surprisingly dashing knitted scarf was wound around his neck.
“The girl what you saw in the wee hours,” Berwick commanded. “Tell our friend Hawkes ’ere about ’er.”
He brightened. “Oh, aye. Was a wee gift to a lonely man at that time o’ the mornin’.”
“What was she wearing?” Hawkes asked.
“Wore a hood up over her head at first, ye see. Her cloak was blue, I think. Like a queen would wear. Soft and flowing, like.” He traced the air eloquently with his hands. “She was no light skirt, and I knows me light skirts, if ye takes my meaning.” He winked. “Then a wind came up like it does, ye see, and her hood blew away from her face—what do I sees? I sees just a glimpse of a face like an angel, and I thinks to meself, what if sheisan angel and this is a test of me immortal soul?” he said earnestly.
