The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (34 page)

Soon, carriage traffic thinned. They were coming into the dismal Westminster slums; a shameful blot on this part of the city that was so steeped in history. The daylight was fading, the foggy air and low-hanging grey clouds combining to make the hour seem more like six than four o'clock.

A few roughly dressed men sauntered along the narrow streets or gathered about the doors of corner alehouses. An occasional rider peered at Adair curiously; a shabby individual pushing a reeking barrow howled an offer for a “pint o' winkles” that was greeted by a shrill cackle from a woman carrying a bottle and obviously the worse for drink. “I'll lay your pint 'gainst mine as that there nob don't even know what a winkle is,” she screeched, and they both laughed uproariously.

Adair failed to notice the mirth of the winkle vendor and the lushy lady; he also failed to notice the rider who—although keeping some distance behind—had turned each corner he'd turned, and followed with stealthy persistence. He was thinking that for members of the
haut ton
to enter this district was risky business, and that Droitwich and his gamester friends must come well-armed. Searching about for such individuals or for unmarked coaches, he was haunted by one of Uncle Willoughby's remarks: “Perhaps Mr. Harrington has loftier goals in mind…” What “loftier goals”? A powerful position in the Cabinet that might perhaps lead to knighthood? He'd achieved that. The opportunity to amass a fortune by way of bribes and corruption? It appeared that also was within his grasp. What more? To reach a higher office? Perhaps—Lord forbid!—to become Britain's Prime Minister?

Telling himself sternly that he mustn't let imagination run away with him, Adair hailed an urchin who was trotting along in the littered kennel and watching him hopefully.

“Yus!” The lad “knowed where there was parties fer flash coves on dark nights. It were a proper nice house; the only brick house on that pertic'ler street, but there wasn't no party there terday, nor hadn't been for nigh on a month.” Bribed with a promise of sixpence to lead the way to the “proper nice house,” he set off eagerly.

They soon arrived at an unlovely thoroughfare optimistically named Appletree Place. The urchin halted and indicated a dirty two-storey brick house several doors from the corner. It was undoubtedly the finest residence on this alley of tumbledown houses that should long ago have been condemned. Scanning it, Adair detected a faint glow emanating from behind stained window curtains and his pulse quickened. It would be asking too much of Lady Luck to hope that Harrington was inside, but someone was there. And even if Talbot Droitwich was the only occupant he might be persuaded—after being slightly throttled—to volunteer some information about his Cabinet Minister friend.

Adair had to fight his need for immediate and violent action. If Harrington really was behind this whole ugly business and Droitwich in league with him, then they were very dangerous men who did not draw the line at murder. That dirty house could well contain armed ruffians hired to guard them. There were few people about and those few were not likely to come to his aid if he burst into the house and was overpowered. To attempt such an attack alone would be folly, but to send for Bow Street or the Watch would be as useless.

Wisdom dictated that he withdraw and gather reinforcements. He gritted his teeth against “wisdom.” No doubt he was “rushing off half-cocked” but, by heaven, he meant at least to take a closer look at that wretched little house! He dismounted, therefore, to confer with his small guide, who waited and watched him patiently.

Relying on the probability that Paige and Toby had returned to Town by this time, and very sure they would be willing to help, Adair tore a page from his tablet and wrote a quick note to York. “Find Mr. Broderick and Mr. Manderville at once, and send them here with their pistols. I promised this lad a shilling if he would guide them to me. Hurry!” He signed his name and gave the folded paper to the urchin, with strict instructions on how to reach his flat.

“Yus!” Billy New could run good and carry a message; and “Yus!” he knowed where Fleet Street were. His eyes lit up when the silver sixpence was placed in his grubby palm, and he whispered breathlessly that for the shilling reward he'd do whatever the “Guv'nor” wanted. “Murder 'n' all!”

Adair watched the small ragged figure scamper off, then he mounted up again. Between the fog and the rapidly deteriorating daylight he might be able to approach the front of the house unseen, but this was not the neighbourhood in which a well-dressed gentleman and a fine horse could linger unmolested. He turned Toreador into the adjoining lane, therefore, and came around to an alley from which he could look over a sagging fence into the area behind the red brick house.

No attempt had been made to plant a garden. The only growing things were a few dandelions and a thriving patch of nettles. Discarded objects were strewn about: a broken chair, a wheel, some empty bottles, rusted pails and similar debris. But to one side was a respectable shed that probably sheltered the mount of anyone not conveyed there by coach or hackney carriage. It was too providential to be ignored. Adair dismounted and, a quick glance up and down the alley revealing no sign of life, opened the back gate and led Toreador inside. The shed was unoccupied but there was an empty water trough, and several nose-bags were hung on nails.

“You'll be out of sight here, while I have a look round,” he murmured, loosening the saddle-girths and patting the dapple-grey's smooth neck. “I won't be long.”

Leaving the shed, he heard a horse whinny. It wasn't Toreador; the sound had come from the next yard. He looked over the fence. The house was dark and appeared abandoned, but there was a lean-to large enough to house several hacks. It was unlikely that their owners were inside the crumbling ruin; far more probably, they were in the brick house. Caution was indicated.

There came a sudden brightness above him. He turned swiftly. A hand had drawn aside a curtain of the first-floor window. Very briefly, someone looked out. A lady, with a pale sad face and a drooping mouth.

Adair stood rigid, his breath momentarily snatched away.

It was Alice Prior!

*   *   *

Billy New jumped over a pile of rotting rubbish. The tattered sandals he'd prigged slipped on the wet street, but he picked himself up, undismayed. “New” was not his real name; he'd never known who had fathered him. He'd been born under a hedge and the prostitute who'd taken him from the arms of his dying mother had named him for the alley in which he had entered this world. His life had not been joyous. With little of kindness, the prostitute had reared him until he was old enough to be sold to a chimney-sweep. Escaping the living death of a “climbing boy,” he'd fallen prey to a thief who had taught him how to steal, but had not been as cruel as the sweep. Despite life's hard knocks, bitterness had not touched him and he looked at the world with unfailing optimism—a trait that had once caused the prostitute to say grudgingly that the brat must have good blood in him. For the last year, Billy had made shift for himself, and though he often went hungry and was always cold in wintertime, it had been the happiest year he'd known. Today was the best. Today, with a silver sixpence in the one pocket without a hole, and a shilling promised, he was rich! He'd be able to buy a pasty from the baker's shop and—

His rosy dreams were cut off as a rough hand seized his collar. “'Ere! Wotcha doin'?” he screeched, struggling madly.

A cultured voice said, “Quiet, nipper! What mischief are you about?”

Wise in the ways of men, Billy summed up the cove who'd grabbed him. A nob; a young nob what had a handsome phiz in spite of a bitter mouth. He said in an ingratiating whine, “I ain't done nuthink, Guv. Don't bash me! Don't you never!”

Nigel Adair held this scrawny wisp of unwashed humanity away from him but did not relax his grip. “I saw that gentleman hand you a paper. Give it to me.”

“It ain't yourn!” shrilled Billy, all righteous indignation. “I'm ter take it to a cove what's gonna gimme a borde fer it. You got no right ter take away me liveli'ood. 'Ighway robbery is wot it is! I'll cry rope on yer, so I will!”

“Nonsense,” said Nigel, who had a brushing acquaintance with thieves' cant. “If you managed to summon a Watchman in this neighbourhood, which I doubt, he'd likely haul
you
away—not me. And if you were promised a shilling—or, as you say, a borde—you shall have it without the need to run all over the City to earn it. Now will you give me the paper, or shall I take it?”

“I were paid ter take it to a gent,” said Billy steadfastly. “An' you ain't that gent.”

“Yes, I am. In fact, the man who gave you the paper is my brother.”

Billy searched the proud young face narrowly. This cove did look a bit like the nice gent. But … “It ain't right,” he muttered uneasily.

Nigel took a shilling from his purse and offered it, only to withdraw his hand quickly as the boy snatched for the coin. “The paper first,” he said.

There wasn't no gettin' round it. A borde was a borde. And if he didn't hand over the paper the gent would likely take it anyway, and there'd be no borde to show for it.

Shilling and note changed hands, and Billy darted away, to vanish almost immediately into the misty darkness.

*   *   *

A blind fury sent Adair charging up the step to crash full-tilt against the back door of the red brick house. He was mildly surprised when the door burst open at his onslaught. He entered the house at speed and tore along a dimly lit but richly carpeted passage.

A startled yell rang out.

Ahead now, a light glowed, illumining the golden curls of Mr. Talbot Droitwich, who held a lamp high. Momentarily stunned by the sight of a dark figure racing at him with boots stamping and cloak flying out, he gawked stupidly, then howled, “It's
Adair!
Stop him!”

“You filthy bastard!” In the red heat of his rage Adair forgot his duelling pistol. Only his bare hands would suffice for this. Leaping forward, he seized Droitwich by the throat.

The lamp crashed down and flames started to creep along the floor.

Droitwich fought madly, but was no match for Adair who, strengthened by fury, tightened the steely grip about his throat and growled, “You slimy, scheming—”

“A moi!”
squeaked Droitwich chokingly.
“A moi!”

A corner of Adair's mind registered a startled,
‘French?'

Running boots, and another voice cried authoritatively, “Put that fire out! Move!”

The voice was all too familiar.

Adair hurled Droitwich aside and turned, crouching, the pistol whipping into his hand.

Julius Harrington was hurrying down the stairs, holding up a branch of candles, their light revealing fine paintings and beautifully carven banister rails. From somewhere at the front of the house, three men ran along the passage. Two threw a rug over the shattered lamp and stamped the flames out. The third started for Adair, a long knife glittering in his hand.

Aiming his dueling pistol steadily at the man he'd thought his friend, Adair said icily, “Come one step closer, ruffian, and I'll shoot your master for the murdering traitor he is! Stay back, Julius!”

Harrington checked and stood rigidly still. Briefly, his eyes glared anger, then his easy smile dawned. “Now, now, Adair—Hasty as ever! You're well-named, dear boy. Of what do I stand accused? To come to an admittedly unfashionable area for a little game of chance? Hardly enough to warrant—”

His back against a corner of the wall, Adair said. “Have done! I know what you are, and now I've proof of your treachery.” He raised his voice. “Miss Prior. You can come down now.”

“But you are mistaken,” purred Harrington. “There is no Miss Prior in this house.”

“Liar! I saw her at the upstairs window!”

Even as he spoke, the hem of a lady's gown came into view and Alice Prior crept down the stairs, pale and trembling, to pause behind Harrington.

“Stand aside, traitor,” snapped Adair. “I need no excuse to put a bullet through your rotten heart!”

“Well, I will do as you say, of course, my poor fellow. But I don't want you to labour under a misapprehension. I am no traitor. You and I merely serve on opposite sides.”

Trying not to reveal the depth of his astonishment, Adair said, “I guessed as much when your chubby cohort called to you in French. Admire the Little Corporal, do you? If that's not being a traitor—”

“Droitwich is half French, but he worships at the shrine of the great god Mammon,” said Harrington. “As for me—yes, I admire Napoleon Bonaparte. I more than admire him—I would proudly die for him! I have been his man these ten years and more. Doing whatever I may for la belle France.”

“So that's why you schemed and stole and murdered to get the Cabinet post that should have gone to my brother! By God, my uncle was right about you!”

“
Dear
Uncle Willoughby,” said Harrington softly. “I really should have dealt with him less charitably. I knew he had agents snooping about. I thought if I pursued his dumpy niece I could make sure of his Lists, but the old curmudgeon guards them like a dragon. I believe whenever I was in the house he took the blasted things to bed with him. I suppose it would take quite some time to persuade you to reveal what he has writ about me, Hasty. And time I cannot waste, so I must adopt more stringent measures.”

Hastings said through gritted teeth, “Minerva Chatteris is a gentle and trusting lady you aren't fit to touch, you miserable turncoat.”

“Yes, I know.” Harrington sighed. “And she loves me, poor girl. One thing, though, she'll have too much to think about, if she survives this night, to worry about me, especially when she learns I have wed another lady.”