Page 101 of Thief Taker

And then he was running, away from the court, away from Bow Street. Blind to where he was going he just ran, pushing past people, dodging the traffic on Long Acre and heading north. He ran until his heart pounded in his ears, until his lungs demanded air, his throat dry and raw. He ran until he had no energy to scream and could do nothing but collapse against the side of a building, coughing as he sucked in air.

When he came to his senses, he wasn’t surprised to find himself on the tattered fringes of St. Giles. Perhaps he’d known he would come here all along? Where else did a beaten dog go but home?

Despite the chill night, he was sweating and undid his greatcoat. To his left the ancient church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields rose up against the dark sky, and ahead ranged the rookery he’d once called home.

He should leave. Go home, back to his lodgings, if he couldn’t stomach Bow Street. But he didn’t. He found himself walking on. If there was one man in the world he could lay this mess before, it was the Upright Man of St. Giles. A man he’d once called friend. More than a friend. A brother? A father? A saviour?

Without Hal Foxe, he and Will would have died the same winter as their father. Hal taught them how to survive in St. Giles, and for that Elias owed him a debt of gratitude. But he’d never owed him his soul.

Years had passed since he’d left Hal and St. Giles to walk a different path. He’d been so certain of his righteousness then, and for years after too. Yet here he was, coming back.

Not so certain of what’s right now, are you, Elias? Not bloody sure at all.

He could almost hear Hal crowing. But where else could he go, who else could he ask for help? Nowhere and no one else in the world.

Taking a breath, Elias pulled out his cudgel and swung it as he walked, fast but not like a man afraid to have strayed into St. Giles. He could feel eyes watching him from the foul dark, sullen and hungry behind the rags that served as windows in this heaving, stifling tenement. Poverty and want were rife in London, but the despair of St. Giles sickened him. Places like this made animals of good people, and these gin-soaked streets were proof of it, with their feral children, vicious men, and slatternly women. St. Giles stripped a man’s life to the bone. He didn’t know how Hal Foxe could stand to remain.

The Brewery on Well’s Yard was just as he remembered. There were lights on in the sprawling rooms above, but the Brewery itself was in darkness. Elias wasn’t stupid enough to think that meant Hal didn’t know he was here; he had eyes everywhere. Giving his cudgel a casual swing, Elias used it to rap on the door. “Tell the boss Elias Cole wants to see him,” he said, loud enough to be heard across the yard. “Tell him I’m here on business.”

There was a scuffling in the shadows. Elias put his back to the door and let his eyes wander, his weapon thumping one-two into his hand. His name still held weight here if for no other reason than Hal Foxe insisted upon it.

Debts lay between them that could never be repaid; although they’d taken different paths, there were some things that had never been forgotten. Nor should they be.

The church bells chimed the quarter hour, and Elias shivered under his coat. A little doubt crept in with the cold. Was it madness, bringing this to Hal? Was it dangerous? A click from the door had him turning with a start, weapon raised as a bright eye peered out on him. “Elias Cole?”

“Aye.”

The door swung wider and the lad—no more than twelve—stepped back. He held a candle aloft. “Wait here, if you would.”

‘Here’ was the brewing room, dominated by a large empty mashing-tub. The air was thick with hops: a vast improvement on the stink of St. Giles. The boy took the candle and left Elias standing in the dark.

No accident, that. Hal Foxe was always cautious.

By the time the clock had struck the half hour, Elias was getting irritated. Cold, irritated and anxious. Perhaps it was a mistake to have come here. After so long, Hal wouldn’t care to—

“Well, well,” came a voice from the dark. “Look at you all got up like a lackey, Elias. Your fortunes take a turn for the worse, did they?”

From a doorway at the back of the room, a figure emerged. There was the glow of a spill and then a flare of light. Elias blinked, averted his eyes from the glare. “I was on a job,” he said, pulling his coat closed around his servant’s clothing. “Posing as a fart-catcher.”

“So I heard.” Hal stepped fully into the room, looking no different than when Elias had last seen him: tall, capable, and closed tight as a clam. “Running protection for nobs, I hear.”

Elias snorted at the idea. “Hardly.”

There was a table by the far wall and Hal set down the candle. “Viscount Rowsley owes me money. That why you’re here?” He sat, leaning back in the chair so his face was masked by dancing shadows. “John Bell said you’d warned him off.”

So much for small talk. Crossing the room, Elias pulled out his own chair and sat down opposite. “I did, but that ain’t why I’m here. I—” Damn, but this was a stupid idea. “I’m in trouble, Hal. I need your advice.”

“Advice? Gave you my advice eight years ago, when you decided to turn gamekeeper. But you preferred to listen to your friend at Bow Street.” There was hurt there, even after all these years. “Why would I waste my time with you now?”

“Because it ain’t that kind of advice,” Elias said. “And there ain’t no one but you I can ask.”

There was a long pause. “Ah, so it’s—” Hal shifted. In the light of the candle, Elias could see his clever face, the flame glinting in his dark eyes. “What happened, Elias?”

“You heard of a highpad out on the heath, by the name of Wessex?”

“We’ve done business with him. Don’t know who he is, if that’s what—”

“I know who he is,” Elias said. “That’s the problem.” He let out a breath and began to talk, laying out everything with his eyes fixed on the scarred table, on the base of the candlestick or the flickering flame. He didn’t look at Hal once, and the man kept his silence.