Thief Taker

West Smithfield, London – 20th 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.

The inn exploded into chaos—so much for stealth. Elias pressed in after Groves as two men leapt up from a table in the centre of the small room. He got a brief glimpse of Wessex, registered height and dark hair, before the man dashed the candle from the table and plunged the room into darkness.

“Get me a light!” Groves yelled over the din of panic and running feet. Like a sinking ship, The Red Lion was emptying of its rats. “Someone get me a bloody light!”

Both men stood stock still, mere shadows in the dark. Elias held his breath, his carefully laid plans as fragile as spring ice beneath Groves’s bloody clodhoppers.

Then Wessex ducked under the table.

Groves snorted. “You’re no safer down there!”

But Elias surged forward, shoving Groves aside and overturning the table. “Bloody hell!”

He was already too late.

A hole gaped in the floor, the first rungs of a ladder glinting in the light as someone finally brought a lamp into the room. Elias didn’t hesitate. “Grab Radcliffe!” he barked and threw himself down the ladder.

“God’s mercy, Elias,” Groves shouted after him. “At least take a lamp!”

“So he’s got something to shoot at? Not bloody likely.” He was gone before Groves could stop him.

The ladder ran down the inside of an outer wall. He could feel the rasp of brick against his knuckles and the dank chill of rising water below. The cellar, then. He jumped the last few rungs—a calculated risk in the dark—and landed in a low crouch, fingers digging into a cold dirt floor. He stilled, listening. Thin strips of light sliced through the floorboards overhead, casting moving shadows into the cellar. Above, he could hear men shouting, the heavy sounds of violence. To his left—north—a cold stream of air brushed his face from a patch of darkness. A tunnel, heading towards the Fleet. If Wessex crossed that stinking excuse for a stream he’d vanish into the warren of streets beyond.

Keeping low, Elias firmed his grip on his blade and crept forward. The tunnel was too low for him to stand upright, braced here and there with makeshift struts. It was black as pitch. Which was why he missed the moving shadow until a fist shot out of the dark to connect with his cheek, sending him reeling. He lost his hold on his knife, lunged for it, but too late.

Strong hands grabbed his coat and shoved him back against the wall, gloved fingers curling around his neck and holding him still. A clench of those fingers and his throat would be crushed, but the touch was light, the leather soft. All Elias could see of the man was the glitter of eyes above the black neckerchief that covered his mouth and nose, but he could hear his rapid breaths and feel the warmth of his body pressed so close that Elias was uncomfortably aware of its muscularity.

“My apologies, sir,” Wessex murmured, “but I can’t let you take me in.” His voice had a gentleman’s depth and polish, though oddly accented. It was scarcely more than a whisper in the dark.

“Will you kill me, then?” Elias expected nothing more from the likes of Wessex.

A dry laugh—a puff of breath against his lips—and then the glint of a blade. Elias flinched as air brushed his neck and the knife slammed into the wood.

There was no pain.

Wessex drew back slowly, a shadow sinking into shadow. For a heartbeat, Elias found himself transfixed. Then he lurched forward and ended up half-strangling himself. The bloody knife was pinning his damned coat to the wall.

“Shit!” He tried to pull free, but the sodding thing was stuck fast. Yanking at the buttons of his greatcoat, he managed to squirm out of it, but by then a trapdoor in the ceiling stood open and Wessex was gone.

Elias cursed loudly, jumped, and caught the lip of the opening, hauling himself out. He was close to the Fleet; he could taste its stench in the icy fog and see the mist curling up from its foetid sludge. His cheek throbbed, his eye starting to swell shut. Damn it.

Shaking his head, trying to clear his vision, he glimpsed a man disappearing into the mist straight ahead. Stumbling after him along the muddy bank, Elias found the end of a narrow plank laid across the Fleet. It disappeared into the fog, and he just caught the sweep of a man’s coat as Wessex leaped to the other bank.

Where the bloody hell was Groves when he could actually make himself useful?

Elias took a couple of steps onto the makeshift bridge. It wobbled under his weight and he swallowed hard. Those who fell into the Fleet didn’t live long, no matter whether they could swim. And he couldn’t.

“Stay where you are.” The fog deadened Wessex’s voice. “I don’t want to hurt you, sir, but I can’t let you take me.” The plank moved under Elias’s feet, and he flung out his arms for balance. The bastard was moving it, making to pitch him into the putrid ditch.

All Elias could see of him was a shape in the dark. Then the plank moved again and he took a step back onto the safety of the bank. Damn the man to hell. “I’ve got your scent,” he shouted as Wessex kicked the plank into the Fleet. “I won’t stop hunting you!”

No answer came. The figure in the mist stepped back, disappearing into the night, and was gone.