Page 5 of Thief Taker

Hartwell shrugged. “It’s always risky, but you’re not the only one in need of money.” He nodded towards the closed door. “There are men out there close to destitution, and others already on the streets. God knows they’ll get no help from anyone else.”

Kit acknowledged it with a nod. He might be fighting to retain his family’s honour and fortune, but there were men in the other room who had already lost both in service to their King. And much more besides.

“I’ll send word when I hear Osborne’s on the road,” Hartwell said. “We’ll stop him in Hyde Park.”

Kit stared at his friend. “Are you mad? That’s not five minutes from Curzon Street.”

“What could be better? You’ll be home before the alarm is raised.” Hartwell’s expression grew sly. “It’s the perfect way to account for your whereabouts. Besides, Bow Street will be looking for ‘Wessex’ on Hounslow Heath and it’s our duty to keep the sneaky bastards guessing.”

Kit smiled, but it was a thin affair. He wasn’t sure what troubled him more—the prospect of Bow Street hard after him, or the prospect of returning to Curzon Street and the society from which he’d long ago fled.

Chapter 3

Elias stalked out of the magistrate’s court and along Bow Street, his hat pulled low and a foul mood rising.

He’d been so close. He’d grappled with Wessex—his wrist still smarted from the sharp blow that had cost him his favourite knife—and still the man had escaped. So much for the unsullied reputation of Elias Cole, thief taker.

He muttered a curse that misted in the air before him.

Dawn was scarcely noticeable today, a meagre paling of the fog. But all around him the city was coming to life anyway, the early calls of ‘Milk below!’ shouted over the clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels, while in the far distance the lowing of cattle at Smithfield rose with the smoke of a million fireplaces.

For Elias, this was the loneliest time of day. His neat little room above the milliner’s shop on Courtney Street held no appeal after the thrill of the chase, but then it never did hold much appeal. Elias wasn’t made for solitude, which was a great shame given the crooked hand life had dealt him. And the loneliness bit hard at times like this, when he was tired and hungry and defeated.

So, instead of heading back to Clerkenwell, he bent his steps in the direction of The Brown Bear.

Frequented by London’s thief takers and the runners of Bow Street, the Bear was part office, part social club, and part home to Elias. It was noisy and rowdy, stank of ale and the great unwashed, and was far more welcoming than the silence of his room. The sight of its sign emerging from the mist, yellow light spilling from its windows, lifted his sagging spirits. Breakfast, he decided, would do the rest.

Inside, the alehouse was in a state of familiar uproar. The backroom, set aside for the overflow from the magistrate’s court, was filled with the denizens of The Red Lion. And at the tables out front the Principal Officers of Bow Street went about their business, negotiating terms with crooks and victims alike. Much of it was far from above board; most of the officers weren’t as upstanding as Josiah Groves.

Pulling off his hat and unbuttoning his coat, Elias made his way towards his usual table near the fire. Groves was already there, with a half-finished breakfast pushed to one side and his head in his hands as he studied papers on the table. A second plate of eggs and toast sat opposite him and Elias grinned at the sight. He was famished.

Groves glanced up. “You took your time. Where’ve you been, anyway?”

“Having a word with Radcliffe.” Elias reached for the jug of small beer and poured himself a cup. “My thanks for breakfast, Josiah. What’s the occasion?”

“In appreciation of your help last night, is all.”

“Not much help, was I? The bugger got away.” And it still bloody rankled. Six months, he’d been after Wessex. Six bloody months.

Groves shrugged. “What did Radcliffe have to say? I ain’t had time to talk to him yet.”

“Nothing useful.” Elias jabbed his fork into the eggs and started eating; warm and buttery, it was delicious. “He said Wessex kept his face covered when they met. Radcliffe didn’t see nothing but dark hair.”

Another grunt from Groves. “Didn’t see any more of him m’self. Did you?”

“No. The bugger put the candle out too fast.” He didn’t mention their tangle in the dark of the tunnel, the feel of the man’s gloved hand at his throat, the low whisper of his voice. What would be the point? It didn’t tell him anything. He took an angry bite of toast.

“Here’s the thing, though,” he said after a moment. “He spoke like a gent.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Hardly a conversation—more like an exchange of threats.”

Groves began the business of mopping his plate with his toast. “And he sounded like a gent. A real one, or someone playing at it?”

“Real, I’d say. Funny accent, though. West country, maybe, or something like it.” He considered it again, remembering the shadowy figure of Wessex on the other side of the Fleet Ditch. And their closer encounter beneath The Red Lion. “Tall, too, and well built—he had meat on his bones, all right.”

“So he ain’t going hungry.”