Page 42 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“But he—” Mickey flushed, unkeen to demonstrate exactly how far he’d fallen for Valentin, yet, after a sleepless night and with the relentless, strength-sapping pain in his ankle, struggling to hide it. You have so thoroughly plundered my heart that my appetite for thieving has been quite ruined by it. “But he…I rather believed the man to be telling the truth. That’s all. He’s slippery and charming and every one of those untrustworthy things he’s purported to be. Yet I…”

“Sadly, my darling, one’s fellow men rarely fit into any single box.” Rossingley patted Mickey’s leg fondly. “As much as we’d like to neatly categorise them. His fondness for you might well be heartfelt and sincere, yet he’s still capable of lying through his teeth when it suits. Many a happy marriage is formed on such foundations, though it’s a truth that comes with a certain sting, I’m afraid, because it means one’s world is never as simple as good and bad.”

A sting developing into quiet torment. Mickey attempted to shift his ankle to a more comfortable position. “But it still doesn’t explain how he knew the parure belonged to Ashington.”

“No,” conceded Rossingley slowly. “I’ll grant that aspect of the thing is a puzzle we need to get to the bottom of. But—”

A heavy rap at the door interrupted him. Sidney lumbered in, accompanied by a nondescript, benign-looking fellow, who reminded Mickey of a plump parson.

“Apologies for the interruption, Mr Squire. But this gentleman insisted.”

His companion nodded at Tommy, giving his guests a cursory glance. “Mr Harold Pearson. Principal Officer of Bow Street. How do you do.”

Pearson hitched his eyeglasses up his nose. If the runner was overawed by the grandeur of the gentlemen’s club or of the four well-dressed men occupying the four wing-backed chairs, he was careful not to show it. “I’m urgently seeking a young gentleman I believe to be in your employ, Mr Squire. A Mr Michael Maurice.”

A cold flood of panic filled Mickey’s chest. “I’m Maurice,” he managed, his mouth dry. Though the eyeglasses were thick and smeared, he had the horrifying impression that Mr Pearson had already absorbed Mickey’s ankle injury, his scuffed hands, and his general air of heartsore misery, put two and two together, and nailed the correct answer. All in the time it took Sidney to take up an intimidating stance blocking the door.

“Hmm.” Pearson nudged his glasses again. “A robbery was reported yesterday evening at the Marquess of Talybridge’s residence on Cumberland Place. During a society ball held in honour of his future nuptials. Extremely valuable items of jewellery were taken.”

“We know,” said Tommy drily. “As does half of London, seeing as half of London was there.”

Ignoring him, Pearson addressed Mickey. “A foreign gentleman was apprehended at the scene.”

“Excellent news,” Rossingley responded cheerfully, which was just as well as a trapdoor appeared to have opened below Mickey. He was closer to casting up his accounts than formulating a suitable response. “So, the crime has been solved?”

“Not quite yet, sir.” Pearson inclined his head. “Although we have apprehended a suspect, the location of the jewellery in question remains unknown.”

Rossingley’s expression changed to one of cool, mild interest. “And you are bothering our dear Mr Maurice with this because…”

“The suspect swears he was acting alone, yet several witnesses at the property report observing a second man running from the scene, leading us to deduce that his accomplice remains at large.”

Mickey tucked his clammy hands underneath his thighs to hide the trembling. He swallowed thickly. Even that felt like a struggle; he felt as if he was being pulled downwards in a spiralling descent.

“Forgive me,” responded Rossingley, employing his iciest tones. “I’m not entirely sure that answered my question.”

Very few men were impervious to Rossingley’s haughty disdain. Harold Pearson, once again studying Mickey as if he could see all the way through him and out the other side, was one of a rare breed. “You appear to have sustained an injury, Mr Maurice,” he observed. “May I enquire as to the nature of it?”

“A boxing injury,” said Tommy dismissively. “Mr Maurice still hasn’t quite mastered his bob and weave, especially when tackling larger adversaries.” He gave a hollow laugh. “And I’m afraid Sidney here doesn’t take the smaller stature of his opponents into account.”

“Yet no blackened eyes or bloodied nose.” Pearson nudged his eye glasses. “A peculiar sort of boxing injury.”

“Mr Maurice tripped,” Tommy shot back.

“And lost his tongue in the process,” countered Pearson, dry as ash.

His stomach churning, Mickey squared his shoulders, trying to look like a man hardy enough, or foolish enough, to step into the ring with Sidney. He was unravelling, the whole thing was unravelling. Valentin was behind bars, and at this rate, Mickey would soon be sharing a cell alongside him. He stole a nervous glance at Rossingley and Ashington, both following the exchange intently.

“Your hands show recent wounds. I noticed them when I entered the room. You don’t wrap them when you box?” Pearson pointedly looked to where Mickey’s knuckles, scratched and reddened from charging through the undergrowth, were guiltily concealed under his thighs. “I thought that was the fashion amongst gentlemen these days.”

“Strictly speaking, he’s not a gentleman,” Tommy pointed out. “Neither am I, and neither is Sidney.”

A menacing note crept into Tommy’s tone, not that the man from Bow Street seemed to care. But then, in the face of a crime on such a scale as this, Pearson must have been chosen as one of their finest.

“You.” Pearson turned sharply to Sidney. “Show me your fingernails.”

Obediently, Sidney held out a hand, though he took his time about it. It was like a slab of stone, rough and unyielding, each scarred, knotted knobble a story of a fight survived, a bone broken, a door forced open. His nails, however, were clean and disappointingly blunt. “As luck would have it, I trimmed them only this morning.” With his other hand, Sidney delved into his pocket. “Using this knife. Getting ragged, they were.” He dangled the unsettling blade between his finger and thumb.

“Hmm.” Pearson took a cautious pace back, pushing his eyeglasses up his beaky nose.