by Mark J Rose
“Swallowed a hare,” the middle boy said, tilting his head lower to try to see Matt’s face.
Matt answered with a low snore. He could see their ragged shoes shifting as they argued their plans. Matt thought he had them pegged; at least two of the boys were not prepared for a physical altercation on a busy London street. Why do they want this bench so much?
“How ‘bout one of them other benches?” one boy asked, pointing. “We could still see.”
“Mr. Palmer said it gotta be this bench.”
Mr. Palmer?
“One a’them others?”
“He said this one.”
There was a long silence, and then the bench shifted as the three boys sat beside Matt. He felt a sharp elbow in his side.
“You awake, you old soaker?”
Matt jerked, snorted and then gave a loud snore.
“Shut him up,” the middle boy said.
Matt felt the elbow again. He snorted in response and then went quiet.
“He ain’t wakin,” one boy said. “Drunk as a skunk.” The boys shifted around again. Convinced now that Matt was sleeping, their attention went elsewhere. Matt watched the lower half of their torsos from under his hat.
“Ah don’t write much,” the middle boy said. The teen immediately next to Matt accepted a modern-looking pad of paper from the one who had just spoken.
“We’re supposed to write when he comes and goes,” the middle boy proclaimed. “Mr. Palmer ain’t gonna pay, less we fill it. Exact times he said. Kin you see the clock?”
“Ah can,” the boy farthest from Matt said. “It’s four.”
“Write that down.”
The boy next to Matt wrote the number four on his paper next to a dash. He was using a yellow number two pencil. “You know what Ben Franklin looks like?” the boy writing asked.
Old and fat,” the middle boy said. “Can’t miss him.”
“Miller is tall with dark hair. Normally don’t wear no wig.”
“What time is it now?”
“Still four.”
“How much we gettin paid?” asked the farthest boy.
“Two pounds.”
“Maybe I should walk down there and see if James is watchin.”
They were silent for a long while until Matt felt the bench shudder as the boy furthest from him got up and walked away.
“He should look in the window to see if anyone’s home.” the middle boy said. “We could write that down.”
“Thought Dr. Franklin was away.”
“Carriage took him and his wife,” the middle boy said.
“Somebody watching him?”
“Don’t matter. Mr. Palmer cares most ‘bout this Miller. Stole something.”
There was another long silence, and then one boy asked, “Whatcha gonna spend yer silver on?”
“Bread for me and my mummy,” the middle boy replied. “Some pudding too if there’s any left.”
“Sweatmeat,” the other boy said, “and jerky for my pocket.”
“Hope Mrs. Palmer gives it to me,” the middle boy replied. “Like an angel she is. Ain’t his wife, though. Been givin money to me and my brother fer a year. Goes by whatsoever suits her. Heard people call her Miss LaPorte. This Palmer shows up, and suddenly she’s his missus without any nuptials. She’s a first-rate though, puttin money in our palms whenever she comes from her house. The first time, ‘twas two shillings. We turned right ‘round and went inta McAllister’s for a fresh pigeon pie and that thick ale everyone speaks of. They weren’t gonna let us sit since they knowed us from begging.”
“Ain’t beggin now, though,” the other boy declared. “What time is it?”
“Half four,” the middle boy read off the tower clock. “Better write that down with the saying, all clear. Heard a watchman say that…down at the dock.”
“Why’d you wanna go down there?” the other boy said. “Smells like fish.”
“Chasing another fellow,” the Middle boy declared. “Damn easy to follow, and I didn’t hafta write nuthin. Drove one of them Ferguson carriages.”
“He Miller’s fellow?”
“Nah,” the middle boy replied. “I asked around at the dock hoping I could figure out where he lived. One boy talked about how this fellow was in the company of Sir Ferguson.”
“Sir Ferguson?”
“Never seen Ferguson,” the middle boy replied. “Name of Trench.”
“Odd name, that.”
“Fine carriage though.”
The third boy returned and sat back down on the bench with a thud. The bench shuddered, and Matt took the occasion to pretend that the movement woke him. He stood up with his bottle to walk down Strand until he was well out of sight of anyone who could be watching. He passed the two men who were still re-reading the Gazette and found a cab sitting at Carting Lane.
“Cabbie,” he called up to the man sitting on the carriage.
“What you want, you old scrub?”
“Ain’t no scrub,” Matt said. “Just an old sailor, down on his luck. Topping wife though. I got a question.”
“Topping wife?”
“Gives me silver not to come home.”
“How much?”
“Enough to pay you.”
“What’s your question, old man?”
“You ever heard of some place called McAllister’s. Um lookin fer fresh pigeon pie and thick ale. You know the place?”
“I know it…so?”
“How much you want to take me there?”
“Too much.”
“Three shillings.”
“Lemme see.”
Matt reached into his pocket for a handful of coins and showed them to the cabbie. “I can find another who will take my silver,” he said.
“Calm down, old man.” The driver waved Matt up into the buggy.
Matt climbed up into the cab and then looked to the sky. There was still plenty of light left to search for the Palmers.
Chapter 50
Wathing
Matt’s cab had just passed St. Paul’s Church Yard. The driver stopped the carriage as they crossed Bread Street. He turned his head, pointed and said, “This be McAllister’s.”
“Pigeon pie and thick ale?”
The driver nodded. “Three shillings.”
Matt handed the money over and then stepped to the cobblestone street. It was a busy area, crowded with horse-drawn carriages and people hurrying about on foot. Matt took a moment to review his plan as he watched the driver pull away. He then turned to face McAllister’s which was across the street. It looked like any other English pub, with ten or so tables out on a cobblestone patio, most filled with patron. Matt couldn’t tell whether they were drinking the ale, but even from this distance, he could see pigeon pie.
Row homes lined Matt’s side of the street, similar to Franklin’s house on Craven. Matt sat on one of the benches spaced along the thoroughfare to wait and watch, but the smell of pigeon pie and the thought of a thick ale made his stomach grumble. Matt smoothed the hair of his wig away from his face to try to look presentable, stood, and walked across the street to McAllister’s.
A man greeted Matt with a disgusted look as he entered the pub. “You can’t come in here,” he proclaimed.
“Why?”
“We don’t allow drunks,” he replied. He pointed at the bottle dangling from Matt’s hand. “Not with that, either.”
Matt reached into his pocket, gave the man a shilling, and then used his best King’s English. “I have a strong proclivity to sit outside, closest to the street.”
The man looked at him twice and then at the shilling.
“Rich wife,” Matt explained.
The host scrutinized his face again, looked him up and down, and snapped his fingers a couple of times. “Show me some silver.”
Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out his coins.
“Who’d you shake?” the host asked.
“She pays me to be gone for days.” Matt gave the man another
shilling, now enjoying his increasingly confused grin.
“Heard you have a thick ale,” Matt said. He smoothed the tattered wig away from his face, again. “I pledge to be on my best behavior.”
The man stood there, still unable to act.
“Dude,” Matt said in a modern American accent. “You want my money or not?”
Now thoroughly disoriented, the man motioned for Matt to follow him to an empty table that was close to the street, with an excellent view of all the rowhomes. Matt started scheming of ways to draw out dinner for an extended stakeout of Wathing Street. The man left and was replaced by a waitress. She had no trouble showing her disapproval with the fact that a homeless drunk was now sitting at one of her most valuable tables. “Who seated you?” she asked.
“I can pay,” Matt replied. “That’s all that should matter.” He used his modern American accent again. She looked twice at him, glanced across the street, and then it was evident she was contemplating something. Matt handed her a shilling. “I’m waiting for someone to pass by and I’d like to stay here for as long as I can,” Matt said. “Let’s negotiate a fair price for me to sit, maybe for most of the night.”
“Ten shillings,” she said immediately. Now it was Matt’s turn to be bewildered. He had expected her to either decline or try to negotiate.
“Five shillings up front, five when I go,” he replied, giving her the money. “You’re not to mention our arrangement to anyone, right?” He added another shilling to the five in her palm.
“Not a word.” She smiled.
“I want some of the pigeon pie,” Matt said, “and also a cup of the thick ale.” She stood there, seemingly puzzled, scrutinizing Matt, and then taking her time to scan rowhomes across the street. “Sometime soon,” Matt insisted.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. She left and returned with the cup of ale. “The pie will be here. Anything else?”
“My old fellow, Mr. Palmer, told me about this place,” Matt said. “I’m waiting to surprise him. His wife is a beautiful woman and charitable. Gives to the poor children out front.”
“The redhead?” the waitress asked. She put a satisfied look on her face as if she had made a connection.
Matt shrugged his shoulders
“She’s been paying the beggar boys. They never repair – like stray cats.” The waitress gave him a smile that was wicked at best. “No insult intended, of course.”
“Of course,” Matt repeated. Matt found himself fascinated by this waitress. I hadn’t taken her long to throw in with his game. Matt nodded to one of the rowhomes. “Red door?”
“I thought you knew this lady and her fellow?”
“Maybe not so well as all that.” Matt gave her two more shillings. He kept a calm expression on his face.
“She’s a fancy woman,” the waitress explained. “Always with topping fellows and wearing the finest cloth. Are you one of her men?” Matt saw her smirk. She searched his face as if trying to discern what relationship an old fake sailor could have had with the redhead that lived across the street.
“What’s she been doing lately? Matt asked.
The waitress put the coins that she had been collecting into a dress pocket and then pointed. “It’s the tan brick between the whites. You’ve missed her. She takes a cab around noon and comes back at all hours. Seems to be only one fellow now—” She went quiet and dropped her eyes to her empty palm. Matt put two more shillings there. She continued. “He came here, too, asking questions. Sat at almost the same table, but didn’t have any coins. Want to know how he paid?”
She opened her palm once more, and Matt dropped two more shillings. She unbuttoned the top of her blouse and pulled out a chain. A sparkling diamond hung at the bottom.
“He gave you a diamond for dinner?”
“For information.”
“You didn’t sell the diamond after all this time?”
“Me and my mum are leaving London once we have enough money.”
Matt nodded his understanding. “Tell me about this man.”
“Rubbed his head, like ‘twas aching,” she explained while she raised her fingertips to her temples. “There’s something else.” She held her hand out again.
Matt put two more shillings there.
“Same voice as you.”
“Voice?”
“Like an Englishman or an American, but like I never heard. I can usually tell where they come from, Cornwall, Suffolk, even Virginia or New England. Couldn’t place him though. Haven’t heard it again ‘til today.”
“If he comes by, will you tell him I was here?”
She shrugged. “He’d pay a fine price to know that some old sea crab was spying on his lady.”
Matt gave her a guinea and said. “Not a word for two weeks and there’s another one waiting for you.” Matt knew that whatever he paid, that he didn’t have long until she sold him out. She left for tables she had neglected while accepting his money. Matt looked across the street suddenly wishing he had brought the Walther. I may have to kill a man.
Chapter 51
Diamond Ring, My Friend
Map of Eighteenth-Century London
Matt woke in his bedroom in Franklin’s home at sunrise the next morning. He had tossed and turned all night as his mind alternated between rage and sadness, and so he had to drag himself out of bed. Matt had been unable to get the vision of Grace bleeding out of his mind. He looked like hell when he checked his face in the mirror, and so he allowed himself a sad smile; the bags under his eyes would help his disguise. Matt pulled the second set of clothing from the burlap bag along with another wig. Today, he was hoping to look old and disheveled, but presentable.
Matt trimmed the fake beard with a small pair of scissors trying to get it to fit properly on his face. The rawhide string went around his ears and tied back underneath the beard. When he was done, he looked into the glass again and saw a youngish version of Willie Nelson. Matt then walked softly down the steps trying with futility not to make them creak. He checked the second story hall and saw that Franklin had already shut himself in his writing room,
Matt tiptoed back up to the third story, made his way out the window, down a gutter pipe, into the garden, over a hill and then onto Villiers Street. He walked up to Charring Cross to decide on his direction. The road was already busy with activity. He checked for spies as he walked past Craven, but no one was watching the street. Maybe they’re not awake yet. He smiled as he questioned whether the average eighteenth-century mole had something that resembled a routine work schedule. Did they expect time off for lunch, weekends and vacation? Not much work-life balance in thuggery.
Matt walked down Whitehall almost until he had reached Westminster Bridge. He took the alley down to a business called Northcroft Carriage and Stables. Matt had been there with Franklin on two previous occasions when they had hired carriages for day trips to East London. Adam Northcroft was Franklin’s dear friend, and Matt knew he could trust him. Matt walked into their office and a teenager Matt had not met was waiting behind the desk. The teen smirked at Matt’s appearance.
“Good day, sir,” the boy said.
Matt stayed in character. “Is the proprietor here?”
“He’s out back. He’ll not want to be bothered.”
“I want to hire a carriage,” Matt said. “I know you got five or ten back there.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Been here.”
Without saying anything, the boy stepped away from the counter where he’d been sitting and left through a rear door. He returned followed by Adam Northcroft. Northcroft assessed Matt’s appearance for what seemed like forever. “We’ll take you where you want to go. We only hire carriages out to regulars.”
“Adam,” Matt said still in character. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“Why would I recognize you?”
Matt pulled the beard away from his face. “Matthew Miller, Dr. Franklin’s friend. Good day, sir.”
“Mr. Miller
,” Northcroft said. “What foolery is this?”
“Long story,” Matt explained. He pulled his beard up around his face. “Official government business and highly secret, so not a word.” Matt put his fingers to his lips. “I’m required to hire a Hackney and two horses.”
“Coachman?”
“Me,” Matt replied.
“You gotta have a license to drive in London.”
Matt gave him a puzzled look.
Northcroft rolled his eyes. “I have a carriage with an old plate,” he said. “A constable stops you; I’ll know nothing of it.”
Matt nodded. “Agreed.”
“Fine disguise, but you don’t look like no coachman,” Northcroft said. He motioned for Matt to follow him into a sizable stable room in the back of the building. “I got some clothes in here.” Northcroft showed him into a closet made of old grey weathered wood. It looked like the closet was the original structure, and the surrounding barn had been built up later. There were stacks of folded clothes. Northcroft turned to Matt trying to judge his size; then he picked breeches, a shirt and a coachman’s jacket from different stacks. “This should do you,” he said. “They’ll match your beard.” He handed folded garments to Matt. “Ain’t easy navigating London streets, despite what the papers say,” Northcroft warned.
“Official government business,” Matt repeated. Northcroft shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He closed the door behind him.
By the time Matt was dressed in his cabbie outfit, Northcroft had a carriage ready with two horses. The carriage had four wheels and was a faded red color. The back wheels were almost twice as big as the front. The front wheels had plenty of space underneath the carriage to swivel with the horses to navigate the narrow London street corners. The seat for the driver was out in front near the horses.
The carriage had one bench inside that could seat three people, though it would be tight. “It ain’t one of them fine Fergusons, to be sure,” Northcroft said, “but the inside is scoured and sharp. A government gentleman would have no issue.” He motioned for Matt to step up onto the carriage and then he explained the features. “I know you’re a horseman,” Northcroft said, “but take the corners slow, or you’ll tumble her. Careful of ruts and watch for citizens. Constables don’t take kindly to Hackneys running down their patrons.”