Page 37 of A Scandal at Stonecliffe

“I imagine you do know Sir Philip Dobbs, of the Board of Customs.” Nathan paused, pleased with the wary look in Parker’s eyes now. “As it happens, so do I. A word in his ear about your business practices—”

“Here, now!” Parker protested, turning to Sloane. “We have an agreement.”

“You and Mr. Rutherford have an agreement,” Nathan told him. “You and I, however, have none. Of course, should you help me find whoever attacked my companion last night...”

Parker let out a long-suffering sigh, then said, “The tall one with the scarred hand will be Hill, and the short one’s Shoemaker. They always work together, hire out to whoever pays them. They work out of the Blue Swan, up in Cheapside. That’s all I know. You’ll have to go there to find out anything else.”

As they left Parker’s office, Sloane murmured, his eyes glinting in amusement, “Nathan, I am impressed. Coercing Parker. You have unexpected depths.”

“That would be the thing that impressed you,” Nathan retorted.

*

THE BLUE SWAN turned out to be exactly the sort of tavern where one would expect ruffians to gather—a small, seedy, dim place that stank of ale and other unsavory things that it was probably better not to think about. Every eye turned to them the moment they walked in, no doubt sizing up their potential as marks to be robbed.

Sloane sent a long, assessing look around the place and nodded to one of the men. “Bellmont. I’d heard you were in Newgate.”

The fellow let out a bark of laughter. “Not me, guv, it were me cousin.”

They chatted for a moment in jargon that Nathan found largely unintelligible. After a farewell nod to the man, Sloane and Nathan wound their way through the tables to the bar.

“Rather impolite of you not to introduce me to your friend,” Nathan commented. “Now that you’re a respectable citizen and all.”

“Yes, but he hasn’t received his latest boots from Hoby’s and I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed when confronted by a dandy of your prominence.”

The barkeep loudly disclaimed all knowledge of the men they sought and even shoved their coins back across the bar. Sloane shrugged and took Nathan’s elbow, steering him out of the tavern.

“Damn it, Sloane, I need to find out where they are,” Nathan protested, jerking his arm out of Sloane’s grasp. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Negotiating.” Sloane nodded his head to the left. “Come on.” Once around the corner, they walked partway down the street and stopped at a narrow alleyway. “The barkeep can’t be seen giving out information about his regulars.”

After a few minutes the barkeep appeared, looking cautiously around him, and stretched out his hand. Sloane held up a gold coin, raising an eyebrow, and the man gave him the directions to a house.

“Third passageway off St. Mary Hill to the left. Before the Workhouse. Number’s 8 but...” He shrugged, indicating how little one could rely on the flats showing numbers.

“Has Lord Arden ever hired them?” Nathan asked.

“Dunno. I’ve never heard of him hiring them. They’re not the best, but he could have taken them in a pinch.”

“But he does hire men of that sort?”

“’Course. Are you daft? A gent like him don’t do his own dirty work.”

“What sort of dirty work?”

“Here now...that’s not enough coin for all this,” the man whined.

“Just answer, Cartwright,” Sloane growled.

He sighed. “He gets bruisers, you know, to make sure the marks pay.”

“The people he blackmails?”

“Aye. And that’s all I know.” He plucked the coin from Sloane’s hand and started to turn away.

“What about a man named Douglas?” Nathan asked, taking a step after him. “Scottish fellow, with an accent.”

“No.” The man pivoted back to face him and said in an aggravated tone, “No Scots. Now. Are you through?”