'Til Death Do Us Part (19 page)

A
NDREW
GOT
HIS
gun back from one of the large bodyguards and followed Trent out of Pell's office. They made their way through the crowded, smoky music hall. The tables were filled with well-dressed, upper-class young men drinking shoulder-to-shoulder with members of the working classes.

On stage a singer dressed in a low-cut red gown sang a bawdy ballad laced with sexual innuendo. The audience joined in at the chorus. One had to look twice to realize that the chanteuse was a man dressed as a woman.

Outside on the street the fog had grown thicker. Trent pulled up the collar of his greatcoat. Andrew did the same. They walked toward the line of waiting cabs.

“Do you get that sort of thing a lot?” Andrew asked.

Trent selected the first hansom and stepped up into the cab. “What sort of thing?”

Andrew bounded up into the vehicle and sat down on the narrow
bench seat. “Readers like Mr. Pell who feel obliged to tell you how to write your books.”

“Everyone's a critic,” Trent said.

“It must be rather annoying.”

“One grows accustomed to it.” Trent thought for a moment. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say one learns to endure it without resorting to outright violence except on rare occasions. On another subject, it occurs to me that it might be interesting to see what Kettering does at night. Do you know the address of his club?”

“Beacon Lane. Why?”

Trent used his walking stick to rap on the trapdoor in the roof of the hansom cab. The driver opened the door and looked down.

“Aye, sir?”

“We've changed our mind,” Trent said. “We wish to go to Beacon Lane.”

“Aye, sir.”

The trapdoor closed and the cab rolled forward into the fog.

Andrew contemplated his observations in Jonathan Pell's office.

“I noticed that you did not tell Mr. Pell to take his critique and go to the devil,” Andrew said.

“I'm not an idiot. The man is a crime lord, Andrew. He employs very large men who carry guns and knives. He's entitled to his opinions.”

“Good point. Do you think he will be able to help us?”

“If the man who attacked Calista and me last night happens to work for any of Pell's associates, we will have a name by morning.”

“And if he isn't employed by any of Pell's associates?”

“Trust me, Pell will want to identify him almost as badly as we do. His associates will be equally determined to find the villain.”

“Why?”

“The most successful lords of the criminal underworld are, at heart,
excellent businessmen,” Trent said. “And as is the case with businessmen at every level of society, they are always eager to stamp out freelance competition.”

“I understand.” Andrew watched the passing carriages materialize out of the fog only to disappear back into the mist. “As Clive Stone says, the criminal world is a dark mirror of the respectable world.”

“There are certainly predators in both spheres. What was your impression of Pell?”

Andrew thought for a moment. “He is a very dangerous man.”

“Do you say that because of his guards?”

“They certainly make an impression. But I would consider Mr. Pell dangerous with or without the guards.”

“Why?”

“To be honest, he puts me in mind of you, sir.”

Trent gave him a sharp look but he did not seem to know how to respond to the remark.

“On the surface he appears to be a wealthy, respectable gentleman,” Andrew continued. “But if you look deeper there is something hard and determined underneath.”

“He had to be hard and determined to survive and prosper in his world.”

“Do you mind if I ask how you became acquainted with him?”

“I once had occasion to seek his advice and assistance,” Trent said. “He agreed to help me. We made a bargain.”

Andrew was fascinated. “You did a deal with the devil?”

“There are devils in the world and they exist at every level of society. I do not consider Pell one of them.”

“Did you take the risk of approaching him because you wanted insights and details about the criminal world for your novels?”

“No,” Trent said. “At the time I was looking for a man who had disappeared into the streets of London. When I began to make
inquiries I was told that Pell might be able to assist me. I was also warned that if I sought Pell's help I must be prepared to someday repay the favor.”

“Did you find the man you were looking for?”

“With Pell's assistance, yes, I did.”

“Did Pell ever call in the favor that you owed him?”

“Let's just say that Pell considers that the scales are even.”

In the shadows it was impossible to be certain, but Andrew got the impression that Trent was amused.

“What could a man from our world do for a crime lord?” Andrew asked.

He did not expect an answer but he was surprised.

“Mr. Pell makes a great deal of money,” Trent said. “He happens to have two young daughters and a baby son. His fondest wish is that his three children will not follow in his footsteps.”

“Ah,” Andrew said. “He wants them to move in respectable circles.”

“Of course. He does not want them to be tainted by the scandal of being known as the offspring of a crime lord.”

“I understand. But how can you assist him in reaching his goal? You're an author.”

“Pell has been pursuing a clever plan for the past several years. The first step was to convert the sources of his income into legal investments such as the music hall. That move has been accomplished.”

“Music halls are legal but not entirely respectable.”

“True, but that was only the initial step. Eventually he plans to retire altogether, disappear, and reinvent himself as a member of the very respectable country gentry. If all goes according to his scheme, he will soon quietly vanish from the criminal underworld and from London. He and his family will make their home in some picturesque countryside village.”

Andrew chuckled. “He intends to hide in plain sight in respectable
Society where no one will ever think to look for him. It is quite brilliant. But how are you involved in his scheme?”

“As it happens, I'm rather good when it comes to making speculative investments in properties.”

“Bloody hell.” Andrew grinned. “You invest his money for him.”

“I have the connections in the respectable world that are required to gain access to potentially profitable investments. It is the bargain I made with Pell back at the start of our association. It has worked well for both of us.”

“Perhaps, but you are not simply repaying a favor. I could tell that the two of you are friends.”

“Pell is an intelligent, well-read man who hungers for conversation with others who share his many and varied interests. Such companions are scarce in his world.”

“I saw his bookshelves,” Andrew said. “Not the sort of titles that one expects to find in a crime lord's study.”

“He is a self-taught man as well as a self-made man. I settled my account with Pell, and now he and I meet on occasion to share a bottle of brandy and talk about the latest books and politics and other matters.”

Andrew mulled that over for a moment. “Why did Pell agree to help you find that man when you first sought him out?”

“I have asked myself that same question on several occasions. I cannot be certain, but in hindsight, I think the answer is that he had some sympathy for me.”

“
Sympathy?
Mr. Pell?”

“I realize most people would not expect that particular emotion from him,” Trent said. “But he understood my reasons for wanting to find the man I was hunting.”

“Will you owe him another favor after tonight?”

“Not in the way you mean. We are friends now. Friends do each other favors without keeping a close accounting.”

“Trust is a rare jewel,” Andrew said.

“In any world,” Trent agreed.

“Who was this man you were searching for?” Andrew asked after a moment.

“His name was Bristow.”

“Do you mind if I ask why you were so determined to find him?”

“He murdered my mother.”

Andrew went very still. “Is he—?”

“Dead? Yes.”

The next logical question whispered through Andrew's head.
Did you kill him?
But he could not bring himself to ask it. Some secrets were meant to be kept.

B
EACON
L
ANE
WAS
shrouded in a wispy fog. Several hansoms were lined up on one side of the street, waiting for business. The horses dozed. The drivers took nips of gin to ward off the damp. It was a familiar scene outside a gentlemen's club, Andrew thought.

A pair of gas lamps burned at the entrance to the club. A sprinkling of mostly inebriated gentlemen—their laughter too loud, their gaits unsteady—went up the steps and disappeared through the doorway into a warmly lit front hall.

“We don't even know if Kettering is inside,” Andrew pointed out.

“That should be easy enough to discover.”

“How?”

Trent's mouth kicked up a little at one corner. “Sometimes the simple approach works best. I'll try asking.”

He waited until the door opened again. A well-dressed man came down the steps and started across the street. He was not so drunk that he staggered but Andrew could tell from his weaving stride that he'd imbibed a fair amount.

Trent got down and steered a course across the street. He managed to neatly intercept the intoxicated man, making it look like an accident. Andrew could not hear what was said but it appeared that Trent was apologizing. He then engaged the other man in brief conversation, clapped him on the shoulder as though they were old pals, and started toward the front steps of the club.

The man who had been intercepted climbed into a hansom. The cab clattered off into the fog.

Trent stopped at the foot of the steps and returned to the hansom.

“Kettering is inside,” he said, stepping up into the cab.

“So we wait?”

“We wait.”

They did not have to sit and wait for long. Some twenty minutes later two men emerged from the club. When they passed through the light from the streetlamps, Andrew got a look at their faces.

“The one on the right is Kettering,” he said. “I don't know the other man.”

“Neither do I, but that is hardly surprising. As Eudora insists on reminding me, I don't get out much.”

Kettering and his companion climbed into a hansom and set off into the night.

“Now we follow them,” Trent said.

Andrew felt his blood quicken. He leaned forward slightly, very conscious of the weight of the revolver in his pocket.

“Be careful,” Trent advised. “It's addictive.”

Andrew glanced at him. “What is?”

“This business of uncovering secrets.”

“Huh. Hadn't thought of it as a business.”

Trent gave him an unreadable look but he did not speak.

The hansom carrying Kettering and the second man left the crowded streets behind and entered a fashionable neighborhood of elegant town
houses. It stopped in front of one of the residences. Both men got out and went up the front steps.

Kettering's acquaintance opened the door. The pair disappeared into a dimly lit front hall.

“This is not Kettering's address,” Andrew said. “It must be his companion's residence.”

“Do you know the name of his associate?” Trent asked.

“No. I never had a reason to investigate his acquaintances.”

“We need to learn the name of this one.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Andrew asked, genuinely curious.

“The cab is waiting, probably for Kettering. Perhaps the driver can answer a few questions. I'll see what he can tell us.”

“I'll come with you.”

Trent got out of the hansom and Andrew followed him. They started toward the waiting cab.

Somewhere in the fog a whip cracked with the force of lightning. A startled horse whinnied in alarm and lunged forward, breaking into a frantic gallop. Its hooves thundered on the pavement. Andrew heard the clatter of carriage wheels.

In the next instant a dark vehicle loomed in the softly glowing fog. It slammed forward at a reckless speed.

Andrew had just enough time to realize that the runaway carriage was barreling toward them before Trent gave him a powerful shove.

“Move,” Trent shouted.

Jolted out of his state of frozen disbelief, Andrew bolted toward the side of the street. He stumbled against the bottom step of a town house and grabbed the railing to steady himself. Trent made it to the opposite railing.

They both swung around just as the carriage, swaying wildly, rumbled furiously down the street before vanishing into the fog.

Andrew listened to the vehicle racing away into the night. A strange,
dazed sensation gripped him. He could hear Trent speaking to him in harsh, urgent tones but it took him a moment to process the meaning of the words.

“Did you get a look at the driver?” Trent said.

“What?” Andrew pulled himself together with an effort, trying to remember what he had seen. “No. I just saw the carriage bearing down on us.”

“We know one thing. That wasn't Kettering or his friend, either. They're both inside the town house.”

Andrew tried to catch his breath. “The man who attacked you and Calista?”

“Possibly. If so, it's clear that I did not do nearly enough damage with the floral display stand.”