Eyes flicking down the street, O’Donnell straightened. “Speaking of the devil, that’s Morgan’s signal that Percival’s curtains have been opened.”
“Excellent.” Tucking his watch back into his pocket, Stokes looked down the street. He couldn’t immediately spot the younger man. “Where is Morgan?”
“Area steps opposite and two doors further down. We realized the house there’s closed up, and so the area down the steps leading to the servant’s door is the perfect spot to keep an eye on Percival’s house. The staff of the surrounding houses just think as we’re beggars looking for a place to kip.”
“I think,” Stokes said, “that I’ll go and join Morgan. Where’s Philpott?”
O’Donnell tipped his head back along South Audley Street. “He’s keeping watch in the lane behind the houses in case Percival heads out that way.”
“Good. And the others?” Stokes had sent orders to the Yard for two more men, one another constable and the other a runner, to join them.
“Philpott dropped in at headquarters earlier, and he said the desk said as the pair you’d asked for would report to me here by eight-thirty.”
Stokes nodded. “Keep them with you for the moment. Whenever Percival leaves, however he leaves, we’ll follow, all of us, but we’ll need to keep well back.”
“Aye, sir.”
Leaving O’Donnell to mind his corner, Stokes crossed to the opposite side of Hertford Street and ambled along, apparently idly, but, in reality, scanning the houses opposite. Eventually reaching Morgan’s refuge, reasonably sure no one was watching, Stokes smoothly stepped onto the area steps and descended to where Morgan was perched, the top of his head barely clearing the pavement as he kept his gaze trained on Percival’s house.
“Sir.” Morgan flashed Stokes an expectant grin. “Looks like we might see some action soon.”
“Here’s hoping.” Stokes hunkered down, remembering why surveillance was one of his least favorite aspects of his job.
Morgan’s position gave them a clear view of Percival’s bedroom window. Within a short space of time, it was apparent that there was considerable movement inside the room, with people rapidly moving back and forth, interfering with the play of light on the pane.
“Well, well,” Stokes muttered. “Looks like our note has, indeed, spurred him to action.” He paused, then added, “Now we wait to see which way he heads.” Down the path of an innocent man to the Yard, or along the road of a murderer toward the Thames.
Percival surprised him by doing neither. When, just after nine o’clock, the front door opened and Percival, in breeches and boots, jacket, and a loosely tied scarf in place of a cravat, his dark hair looking as if he’d run his hands through it, grim-faced and sober, strode down the steps, he turned right, his deliberate strides carrying him rapidly along the pavement to the intersection with South Audley Street.
Morgan frowned. “Bit early to be heading to the river, isn’t it, sir?”
“Indeed,” Stokes muttered. But it wasn’t too early to head for Scotland Yard.
Even as the thought formed in Stokes’s mind, Percival reached South Audley Street. Passing between the buildings and the group of three men gathered at the corner—O’Donnell and the two recent arrivals from the Yard—Percival turned north.
Away from Scotland Yard. Also away from the river.
“Where the devil is he going?” Stokes glanced at Morgan. “Come on.”
They reached the corner in time to see Percival, further along the pavement, hail a hackney. They weren’t close enough to hear what directions he gave the jarvey, but his wave indicated somewhere north and east.
Stokes immediately hailed a passing cab. “Morgan and Davies, with me.” Davies was the young runner, already eager and straining at some metaphorical bit to race off with a message. “O’Donnell—get Philpott, find another cab, and follow as fast as you can.”
Morgan had already swung up to share the jarvey’s bench, was already directing the driver’s notice to the cab carrying Percival north. Stokes hopped into the carriage; immediately Davies scrambled in, slamming the door behind him, the hackney started rolling.
Trusting Morgan to keep Percival in sight, to keep their hackney unobtrusively following, Stokes sat back and watched the streets slip by, plotting their route in his head.
When the hackney turned right into Oxford Street and continued at a steady clip east, Davies, leaning forward to peer at the façades sliding past, asked, “Where do you think he’s going, sir?”
Stokes was wondering that himself. “It could be that he has an accomplice. We hadn’t considered that, but it’s certainly a possibility.”
When, fifteen minutes later, the carriage had continued through St. Giles Circus and onto High Holborn, then had rattled past Chancery Lane and Gray’s Inn Road, Stokes suddenly realized, “He’s going to Curtis’s office.” Leaning forward, he peered through the window, looking ahead. “It’s just ahead, this side of Holborn Circus.”
Sure enough, the hackney slowed, then pulled into the curb. Stokes and Davies got out; after paying the jarvey, Morgan joined them on the pavement.
Facing Stokes, Morgan tipped his head back and to his right. “Saw him go into that building along there.”
“That’s Curtis’s office.” Stokes scanned the area, picking out several likely spots from where his men could watch the building. To Morgan he said, “Take Davies and scout around the back—see if there’s a way out on that side. I’ll wait here for the others, then we’ll deploy to cover all entrances. Report back to me here.”
Morgan nodded, jerked his head, summoning Davies to follow, then melted into the stream of passersby.
After a moment, Stokes drew out his watch. It was a little after half past nine. Tucking the watch away, he glanced along the street to where Curtis’s office lay; if Percival had arrived in search of support for his meeting at the river, then it would be a little while yet before he moved again. Stokes and his men would have time to get into decent positions.
Another hackney pulled up, disgorging the rest of his small force; they hadn’t been that far back, had been able to follow purely by sight, but the traffic had slowed them.
Morgan and Davies reappeared. Morgan shook his head. “No way out that way, sir. The building backs onto another, and that one’s a warehouse and we checked. There’s no way through.”
If it hadn’t been Morgan, Stokes would have been skeptical—he found it hard to believe Curtis wouldn’t have another way out—but it was Percival they were after, and the man had no reason to imagine he was under surveillance. “Right, then.” Stokes looked down the street. “We’ll cover the front only, but we need to make sure we raise no hackles. Curtis is no fool, and his men aren’t, either, so we need to ensure they get not even a whiff of us. Understood?”
There were nods all around. Stokes had handpicked this crew from the most experienced and talented men the Yard had on roster for surveillance work; Davies was new and too eager to be left alone, but all the rest Stokes knew he could rely on.
He let them pick their own places of concealment, then watched as they drifted and ambled into position.
Stepping back under the overhang of a tobacconist shop’s canopy, Stokes leaned his shoulders against the rough brickwork and slouched as if waiting for a friend. Davies all but quivered alongside.
After several minutes of silence, Davies whispered, “The boy who just left Curtis’s office—he’s a runner.”
Even as Stokes glanced briefly along the street, another young lad came barreling out of Curtis’s door and raced toward them; he passed Stokes and Davies, flying along at a good clip. “So,” Stokes murmured, “Percival arrives, and ten minutes later, Curtis sends messengers out.”
The boy’s headlong dash past them seemed to have infected Davies with a similar urge. He shifted back and forth on his feet. After a moment more, he offered, “I could duck down and tell those at the river our mark’s up here—I’d be back before anything
happened.”
“No.” Stokes softened the prohibition with, “We don’t know what might happen. We need to know Percival is definitely on his way to the river, and whether he has anyone with him, before you hare down.”
He also planned to order Davies, once he’d warned those at the Salisbury Stairs, to hie on to the Yard and let those there know that their scheme had borne fruit, so they could prepare . . . Stokes ducked his head as a large, thickset man, along with his slightly smaller crony, walked briskly past.
Glancing sideways, without lifting his head Stokes watched as the pair reached the entrance to Curtis’s office and disappeared inside.
Davies, who, to give the lad due credit, had had the sense to look vacant, murmured, “Were they Curtis’s men—inquiry agents?”
Stokes nodded. Like Thomas, he could recognize the type on sight. Something about their elevated alertness instantly triggered his inner alarms.
Not that inquiry agents who worked for men like Curtis were dangerous . . . or, at least, not generally. Not in Stokes’s previous experience.
As he watched more agents, doubtless summoned by the boys who’d been sent out, walk through Curtis’s door, Stokes wondered if, today, previous experience would hold true. All told, six men had responded to Curtis’s summonses.
Stokes pulled out his watch; it was twenty minutes past ten o’clock. He glanced at Curtis’s offices; if Percival wanted to make the rendezvous at the Salisbury Stairs at eleven o’clock, he would have to move soon.
Ten minutes later, the door to Curtis’s office opened and Percival strode out. He paused on the pavement, and Curtis joined him. After glancing over his shoulder, Percival stepped out. Checking the traffic, he crossed the street, Curtis following.
The six inquiry agents who had answered Curtis’s call streamed out of the building, fanning out in three pairs, then following in staggered formation in Percival and Curtis’s wake.
Davies bounced on his toes. “Should I go now?”
“No.” Stokes pushed away from the wall. “We need to be sure before you take off.” Hands in his pockets, head down, Stokes strode easily along, following the last of the inquiry agents.
He hung back, letting the considerable number of pedestrians in the area provide cover, just in case any of Curtis’s men had hyperaware instincts.
Stokes’s men gradually drifted closer, following several paces behind him, a loose net set to catch anyone among the party they were pursuing who might fall back. None did, and as they trailed down streets leading south and slightly west, it was soon apparent that Percival and Curtis were heading toward the Salisbury Stairs.
Their quarry reached Fleet Street, just east of The Temple, and turned west; Stokes continued ambling in their wake. The men ahead of him strode along easily enough, yet there was an air of purpose in their steps, a sense of focus. Percival, in particular, moved with single-minded determination; he barely seemed to see the people around him—he was always looking ahead.
Keeping pace at Percival’s shoulder, Curtis seemed rather more laconic, or perhaps more taciturn. Or perhaps he was simply harder to read.
Finally, approaching the Strand, with Davies all but straining at an invisible leash, when their quarry reached the point where the road split into two around the Church of St. Clements and Percival led his party onto the south arm, Stokes nodded to the north arm. “Go that way, and you’ll pass them without them noticing you. To Adair first—tell him and Sergeant Wilkes that it’s on, then straight on to the Yard and report to Ferguson on the desk—he’ll be waiting to hear.”
“Aye, sir!” With that, Davies was off. Fleet of foot, he flew down the street, dodging and weaving; within seconds, he was out of sight.
Suppressing a grim, rather feral smile, Stokes continued in Richard Percival’s wake.
The Salisbury Stairs were the first set of waterman’s steps west of those under Waterloo Bridge. The stairs lay at the end of Salisbury Street, a middling-sized street of old houses. The stones of the quay where the street met the river’s edge were dark gray, their upper surfaces above the waterline etched with lichens. Below the tideline, the stones were coated in slime.
Sitting in a rowboat, holding it in position just off the stairs with an occasional wielding of the oars, Thomas had plenty of opportunity to observe the sights and the smells. He’d forgotten that particular delight of the capital.
He was dressed like a waterman, his normal clothes entirely covered by an oilskin cape, his features shadowed by the peaked hood he’d pulled low over his head. The cape spread all around him, concealing his awkwardly placed left leg and his cane.
In front of him in the body of the rowboat lay a trussed bundle of cushions designed to realistically represent William; Penelope and Rose had, quite literally, matched the bundle to William’s height and girth.
The children were safely stowed under constant guard, while both Penelope and Rose were waiting—no doubt impatiently—with Montague at Scotland Yard, ready to assist with the subsequent interrogation, assuming Percival took their bait.
Violet was manning Montague’s office in case any further information came to hand. Griselda, much to her dismay, had had to remain home with her and Stokes’s young daughter, who had apparently woken with a cold.
A sudden patter of flying feet on cobbles, and a young man came pelting out of the shadows of Salisbury Street. He raced directly up to Barnaby, who was playing the part of the man in the plaid cap; in an ancient frieze coat over rough workman’s trousers, Barnaby was loitering, clearly waiting for someone at the head of the stairs.
The young man came to a skidding halt and breathlessly gasped, “They’re on their way. Guv’nor said as it was on.” He glanced around. “Where’s Sergeant Wilkes?”
“Here, lad.”
The young man glanced up a narrow alley behind Barnaby, spotted the grizzled sergeant, dressed like a drunk, crouching there, then nodded, gave a weak thumbs-up, and spun on his heel. “I’ve to warn the Yard.” He flung the words at Barnaby and took off again, long legs extending as he raced along the river’s edge, then dodged into the alleyways to the west.
Barnaby glanced at the sergeant, who raised a hand in salute and drew back into the shadows.
Turning, Barnaby looked at Thomas. “Ready?”
Thomas merely nodded. There weren’t that many watermen plying their trade at that time of day; glancing to right and left along the water, then out over the river, Thomas confirmed that there were no other craft approaching the stairs. Leaning on one oar, he steered the rowboat closer until its prow grazed the side of the narrow stone platform at the bottom of the stairs.
In the distance, drawing nearer, he heard the tramp of booted feet. Not the stride of one man but of several.
Eyes narrowing, Thomas glanced at Barnaby—who was standing still and silent, looking into the maw of Salisbury Street. A moment passed, then Barnaby glanced Thomas’s way and flashed his fingers. Five, plus another three. Eight men, then.
They hadn’t expected that many.
Thomas felt a sudden surge of emotions. The excitement, the thrill, was something he recognized from his far-distant past, the anticipation of impending satisfaction when he’d closed a difficult deal, or made an unprecedented financial strike, but this time, other feelings—surprisingly potent and strong—were laced into the roiling mix. The strongest, most powerful, was a form of anger—a latent fury blazing up like touch-paper at the lick of a flame at the prospect of finally coming face-to-face with the man behind the cold-blooded murders of Rose’s and the children’s mother, of William and little Alice’s father, who had stolen so much from the three. The man who had forced Rose to forfeit the life she should have had to keep her half siblings safe and alive.
To survive herself; Thomas harbored no illusions over what Percival would have done to Rose had he ever caught her.
That righteous fury flared and Thomas welcomed it, embraced it—surprised to realize he’d felt its like once before, ove
r Charlie Morwellan’s refusal to accept the freely offered love of his wife and openly admit to her that he returned it.
But that time righteous fury had been fueled largely by frustration. This time . . . it was that other emotion, the one Rose, and, in a somewhat different version, the children, too, evoked.
That was what made today’s fury burn so much hotter than in the past.
The city’s bells started tolling the hour, and Thomas had a blinding flash of insight. He felt so strongly—because he truly cared.
Because those three were so important to him now.
Because he loved.
A gentleman came striding out of Salisbury Street. Behind him, the tramp of boots slowed. From where he bobbed on the water, Thomas saw six men—inquiry agents all—fan out to block the end of the street.
Richard Percival—it could only be he—strode boldly forward, eyes narrowing as he scanned Barnaby, noting his plaid cap. Then Percival’s gaze moved on to the boat and Thomas, and finally came to rest on the bundled cushions at Thomas’s feet.
Percival halted an arm’s length from Barnaby; his gaze remained locked on the bundle representing William.
To Thomas’s eyes, Percival’s gaze looked hungry, drawn.
Close behind Percival, a heavyset man with a close-cropped head and the build of a brawler, garbed in a plain but good-quality suit, ambled with deceptive gentleness to a solid halt.
Curtis. Thomas kept his head angled so the cape’s hood shaded his features. He’d dealt with Curtis several times in his previous life; there was a reasonable chance the highly observant man would remember his face if he saw it, scars notwithstanding.
Curtis noted him assessingly, measuring also the distance to the boat, but then looked at Barnaby.
Thomas transferred his gaze to Percival; the blackguard looked . . .
The word that leapt to mind was tortured, but there was no sympathy in Thomas’s soul; his fury welled, pure and hot, and he had to fight to suppress a snarl.
Percival had been sizing up Barnaby, who Thomas now wouldn’t have recognized. The man was a chameleon; he appeared shorter, more hunched, definitely seedier.
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 27