Page 46 of Thief Taker

“There are plenty of Englishmen who lost a great deal in the war,” Hutch said. “And God knows they’ve got little help from the government. Can’t blame a man for taking what he needs.”

Elias didn’t bother to argue. He’d had that conversation with Hal Foxe more times than he could remember. Besides, this meeting with Hutch had been useful. “An absentee planter might be such a man,” he mused.

Hutch’s head jerked up. “You don’t mean MacLeod?”

John MacLeod, otherwise known as Lord Marlborough. “I ain’t saying he’s Wessex…”

“He’s not,” Hutch said. “If he was, I’d march the bastard to Bow Street myself.”

Elias acknowledged the point with a nod; Marlborough had done Hutch wrong. He’d accused him of a murder he himself had committed. So said Hutch, and Elias had no reason to doubt him. Marlborough would have seen Hutch hang if Tanner hadn’t arranged his escape.

“Like I said, I don’t think Marlborough is Wessex,” Elias went on. “But he might be involved—what do you know of Viscount Rowsley? A friend of his, by all accounts.”

After a pause, Tanner said, “I know the name—we saw him at MacLeod’s estate last year. Young, handsome. Very drunk. Playing deep, I think.”

“Without a doubt,” Elias agreed. “Would you recognise him again? Say, beneath a scarf and a cocked hat?”

Hutch sat back in his chair. “Don’t you know there’s honour amongst thieves, Cole?”

But Tanner set a hand on his friend’s arm, and they exchanged a speaking look. Then, to Elias, Tanner said, “Nevertheless, if you can bring MacLeod—Lord Marlborough—to any kind of justice, we will be in your debt. More so than we already are.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Elias said, and not for the first time. “It’s a murky business, right enough, but I intend to get to the bottom of it. I’ll do what I can to see justice done.”

“Then I wish you luck,” said Hutch, “though I’ve lost my faith in the law. It’s too easily set aside.”

Tanner said, quietly, “Justice and the law aren’t always the same thing, Sam.”

That much Elias owned. Some laws weren’t just, and some justice was never delivered. Didn’t mean he would stop trying. Hutch nodded ruefully, though, and Elias was reminded that he bore wounds from the recent war that could not be healed by a lover’s touch.

Getting to his feet, Elias said, “Thank you, gents, it’s been an instructive conversation.”

“Won’t you stay for another drink?” Tanner said quickly. “It’s early.”

But the light outside the Bowl’s grimy windows was already failing and it was high time Elias returned to Curzon Street. “I’ve somewhere to be,” he said, “so I’ll bid you a good evening.”

Tanner bit his lip anxiously but didn’t press him further.

Pulling on his coat, Elias nodded farewell and wove his way through the tables to the door. Outside, the temperature had fallen, and he tugged his hat down over his ears. Even at midday, St. Giles was a place of shadows—the streets were so narrow you could touch both sides at the same time, their top floors leaning towards each other so closely there was little room for daylight in between. In the February twilight, it was already dark.

Elias knew the streets well, though, and wasn’t afraid. Nevertheless, he dropped the knife from his sleeve into his hand because it never hurt to be ready.

He walked quickly, paying no heed to the men asleep in doorways, insensible with gin. Or to the women selling the vile stuff by the cup from their windows. Or to the swarms of children, running barefoot across the broken cobbles and filth, both animal and human. The stench and the familiar racket of hawkers, barking dogs, howling children, and shouted arguments washed over him as he walked. Dressed as he was, in the good coat and round hat of a respectable working man, he was an outsider here. And watchful looks followed him as he passed. He looked back, eyes roving as he made his way to the edge of the rookery.

Not a hundred yards from St. Giles High Street he became aware of the man following him. Elias cursed quietly. He reckoned he had two choices: make a run for the High Street, or duck into the next yard and lose the cull in the rabbit warren he knew as well as his own hand.

He chose the second. Darting into the dark alley on his left, he turned immediately into the nearest yard, then doubled back on himself along another alley. He moved quickly but didn’t run—he didn’t want to be short of breath.

Laundry hung between the windows, and the narrow space was ripe with the sweet-rotten stench of gin and unwashed bodies. He hung back in an empty doorway and watched the entrance to the yard. A short time later, a figure appeared, but it was not what Elias had been expecting—no bully, or beggar, or cut-purse. The man was tall and broad, though little more than a silhouette against the scant light in the yard. He wore a heavy coat and cocked hat, a dull glint of silver revealing a pistol held in his left hand.

Elias stared.

Carefully, Wessex entered the alley. He appeared oblivious to the dozen pairs of eyes watching him from the dark. Or perhaps not oblivious. Perhaps he was simply unconcerned. Confident in his own skill. Elias’s pulse quickened.

A knife against a pistol, but in close quarters and with the element of surprise he could do it—disarm Wessex, drag him to the nearest magistrate, and claim his reward.

The game would be over.

And he’d have no reason to see Duvall again. He pushed that distracting thought aside. This was no game; it was his profession.