Page 115 of Thief Taker

Elias said nothing.

“Or rather, their absence. Marlborough’s solicitor tells us that the Earl of Ashbourne, while lacking the understanding to consent, was pressured to sign a disentailment document. That is also missing.” Groves set down his cup. “There will be some difficulty for Ashbourne Abbey there, I think. The legal position is not straightforward.”

“The estate deeds are now with the family,” Elias said. “I believe.”

Groves considered him for a long moment. “Do you.”

“So I heard.”

“Heard from whom?”

“I have my sources.”

Another silence, longer than the first. Groves straightened his papers with great deliberateness. “The magistrate,” he said at last, “is inclined to take a dim view of the whole business. A West Indian planter using debt and coercion to acquire parliamentary seats, implicated in a solicitor’s murder, and found dead in an inn on the Bath Road with a highwayman’s pistol beside him.” He paused. “Speaking of which.”

Elias held himself still.

“The pistol has been identified by the gunsmith, Mr. Oatis Jones, as the weapon associated with Wessex. It concludes the case rather neatly. The victims were all connected to Marlborough’s circle. He had means, opportunity, and from what we now know of him, a more than sufficiently criminal character.” A pause. “Except we both know that Marlborough’s coach was held up by Wessex on the Bath Road that night.”

Elias nodded; the moment had arrived. He sat up straight and took a breath. “Josiah, I need to exp—”

“Wait.” Groves lifted a hand to stop him, his expression suddenly pained. “Wait,” he said again. “Think carefully, lad. If you say it, I must act.”

Elias stopped, pressing his lips together. If he didn’t confess, what kind of man would that make him? A thief, a killer. No better than Marlborough. Or Hal. Or Kit…

Groves was quiet for a time. Outside, the street was beginning to come alive, the first of the morning traffic rumbling past, a hawker’s cry floating in from the direction of the Strand. The fire shifted in the grate, sending a flurry of sparks dancing. “You look,” Groves said, in a different tone, “like a man who’s lost a reward not gained one.”

“I don’t want no reward,” Elias said. How could he touch it, stained as it was by his lies and Marlborough’s blood? “Send it to Hal Foxe, he’ll put it to good use in St. Giles.”

“As you wish,” Groves said mildly. He gathered his papers and returned them to the satchel with his usual care. “The Wessex case,” he said, snapping the satchel shut, “will be closed as resolved—the magistrate will be satisfied. Marlborough’s solicitor will face the consequences of his actions, and the parliamentary business will go to people considerably above my station. I wish them joy of it.” He rose, reaching for his coat. “And you will go home and sleep, because you’re no use to me in this condition and I have a great deal of work ahead.”

He was already turning away when Elias said, “Groves.”

He paused.

“I won’t be doing this no more.”

Groves stopped in the act of putting on his hat. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know who I am no more, or what I am. I…I don’t even know which side I’m on.”

With a sigh, Groves settled his hat on his head. “I know what you are, lad. Mortal, like the rest of us, and liable to error. As for sides, I reckon you’re on the same side you always were—the side of justice.” He picked up the satchel and slung it over his shoulder. “I hope to see you soon, Elias. Good morning.”

After he’d left, Elias sat for a while longer, listening to The Brown Bear fill up around him, and thinking on Groves’s words.

Justice.

Eventually he rose and headed out into the bright morning. Groves was right, he needed to sleep, but there was someone else he wanted to visit before he began the long walk back to his lodgings.

Chapter 44

Hal paid for the woollen shroud, the stranger’s fees, and the fine Portland stone that marked the grave. He’d counted out the money without a word, before Elias had even asked for his help. Without it, Will would have been resting among the multitudes in the poor ground of St. Giles-in-the-Fields. Instead, he lay at peace in the pretty churchyard of St. John-at-Hampstead.

Just one of the things Elias owed Hal.

He’d chosen Hampstead because Will had always loved it. They’d often talk of the times their father had brought them there with the old tin tray; sledding down the hill with him remained one of their sweetest memories. It seemed fitting that Will should rest here, always.

Hampstead Heath felt different today. Cold, but without any snow to brighten the day. Just the bleak colourless landscape of winter. There were no flowers to be had in February, either, but Elias brushed down the headstone and pulled up a couple of weeds. He’d not visited Will for a while, too busy with the hunt for Wessex.