Page 1 of Thief Taker

Chapter 1

West Smithfield, London – 20 th February 1784

It was a perfect night for skullduggery.

Fog prowled the Fleet Ditch, stretching dank fingers into the streets of Clerkenwell. Sodden clouds hid the moon and not even the stray dogs were barking. In the distance a wavering voice called the hour. “Past eleven o’clock and all’s well!”

That’s what he thought.

Sinking deeper into his greatcoat, Elias Cole eyed the tallow light bleeding from The Red Lion Inn. Six months of planning would culminate in the next few minutes, and he was taut with anticipation. Not that he minded the tension; it kept him sharp, keen as the knife in his coat. It kept him alive.

“Ready?” he said without turning around.

From behind him came an uneasy shuffling of feet—the Principal Officers of Bow Street were tense too. “You’re sure he’s in there?”

“Am I ever wrong?”

More foot shuffling. Then, “Maybe you should stay out here, Cole. Let the experts handle it.”

He allowed himself a smile. “Ain’t I an expert, Mr. Groves?”

“You know what I mean.”

Elias flexed his cold hands. It wouldn’t do for them to grow stiff. “There’s a three-hundred-pound reward on Wessex’s head. I don’t plan on losing my share to Bow Street.”

“I’d never—”

“Shh…” He held up his hand. “Look. There goes Kitty Fenwick. It’s almost time.”

Kitty Fenwick was one of Radcliffe’s whores. She worked out of Madam Linton’s, up on Saffron Hill. Pretty girl, sharp as a whip. In the grubby light it was impossible to make out her face, but Elias could see the way she dabbed the back of her hand to her mouth as she walked; it was well known that Radcliffe liked to play rough.

A nasty piece of work was Dick Radcliffe, the fence who held court at The Red Lion. Elias wouldn’t mind taking him down, just for the pleasure of hearing him squeal. But there’d be time enough for that later. Tonight, Radcliffe was only the lure. Tonight was all about the villain who called himself ‘Wessex’.

Elias controlled a swift surge of anger. Some painted highwaymen as heroes—dashing Gentlemen of the Road—but he knew different. They were nothing but thieving cutthroats who’d gut a boy for a handful of coin. Wessex was no better than any other highway robber who’d had his neck stretched at Tyburn. And Elias meant to watch him dangle with the rest of them.

Before she turned the corner, Kitty stopped as if to tie her bootlace. Elias threw a glance over his shoulder and Groves’s moon-white face peered back from the darkness. “That’s the signal,” Elias whispered. “When we go in, stay with me. I’ll lead you to him, but you’ll need to be quick, or he’ll be out the back and over the Fleet. There’re a dozen ways out of The Red Lion.”

Groves nodded, pulling a pistol from his pocket. “After you then, Mr. Cole.”

It was time.

Leaving the shadows, Elias stepped into the street. Rain had turned it into a filthy stream, foul even by the vile standards of London’s rookeries. Glad of his heavy boots, Elias walked at a steady pace towards the inn, not too fast and not too slow. Nothing to draw attention. Behind him, appearing out of the darkness, came Groves and two other officers from Bow Street. Tonight would be the night Wessex was finally brought to book.

Three steps up and Elias was through the door, into the stench of stale gin and sin. After the dark night, the candlelight dazzled, and Elias had to blink several times before his eyes adjusted. A couple of fat-necked bullies were keeping watch by the door, but they were three sheets to the wind and struggled to get to their feet. “Clear out, lad,” one of them growled. “This ain’t no place for—”

Elias had a knife under the man’s chin before he could draw breath. “Not a word, if you please. Silent as the grave.”

Leaving the Bow Street boys to deal with them, Elias touched Groves’s arm. “Bring a man and follow me. Walk softly.”

Knife in hand, he led them up the shadowed stairs, as rickety as the rest of the building. At the farthest end of the hall was Radcliffe’s room. Kitty Fenwick had sold the secret for half a crown. It would have been cheap at twice the price. The door was closed but a strip of candlelight shone from beneath and the low murmur of voices came with it; Radcliffe would be working now, cutting a deal with Wessex for his pilfered goods. Elias reached for the door, burning with anticipation. At last, he’d put a face to the name, unmask this so-called Wessex, and bring him to justice for his crimes. But Groves’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Now this really is professional work,” he whispered. “Stand aside, lad.”

Elias bit back his irritation and didn’t argue. As much as he’d have preferred to handle this himself, a dispute would risk forewarning Wessex. Stepping aside he let Groves and his man put their shoulders to the door.

One, two, three—with a crash loud enough to wake the dead, they were in.

“Don’t move, if you value your life!” Groves yelled, brandishing his pistol.