Frost Fair

by Edith Layton

  “I understand,” Lucian said curtly. “I won’t interfere.”

  The runner shook his head and sighed. “I’ve met head colds that were less persistent. So anxious to come down to the dregs of London town with me? And you an aristocrat? You surprise me, my lord, you honestly do.”

  “Tenacity is in my blood. How do you think my family held on to their property all these years?” Lucian said with a tight smile that quickly slid away. “I want to find who killed my uncle, and why.”

  “So do I. But half the time my inquiries are only that,” Spanish Will said patiently. “There’s much walking, some talking and few answers. I can report to you. Come, my lord—why not go home now? This is my job. You must have other things to do.”

  “I’ve sent word to my brother,” Lucian said tersely. “He’ll tell the family, and as he was my uncle’s favorite, he can arrange the funeral to suit his memory. What else should I do in any case? This is a terrible crime, Mr. Corby. A wrong against my family that must be righted. That’s my job too. I wish to go with you. Now.”

  “Very well, on your head it is then,” Will said resignedly as he hauled on his greatcoat.

  Lucian nodded, and began to walk to the door with him.

  “Hold!” Will said, turning to stare at him, astonished. “You’re never going like that, are you?”

  Lucian cocked his head to the side. “And why not?”

  “Well, look at you,” Will said, “dressed like a nob, and no mistake. Your shirt cost more than most people I’ll be chatting up earn in a month! The villains I have to talk to will clam up like mice at the cat’s picnic if I walk into a room with you by my side.”

  “But you’re dressed similarly,” Lucian said.

  “Indeed, and I thank you for noticing it,” Will said, “but all know who I am. You’re a stranger. A richly dressed one. If you don’t draw every rogue in Whitechapel to your shadow, I’ll be blest. Even those that don’t wish to treat you as your uncle was treated will never breathe a word of interest to me with you looking like that. They’ll nose on their friends, even their mothers, for the right price. But not in front of some strange gentry cove.”

  “I won’t take off my coat,” Lucian said through gritted teeth.

  “What difference does that make?” Will asked, amazed, “You’re wearing a driving coat any flat can recognize from five paces. What would I be doing waltzing about with a member of the Four in Hand Club, I ask you? Be sure, they’ll ask themselves that.”

  “I suppose you suggest I go home to change clothes? Into something less distinctive, perhaps?” Lucian asked.

  “Why, that would be a prime idea,” Will said enthusiastically.

  “And when I was ready, why, I suppose you’d already be gone on your rounds, wouldn’t you?” Lucian said just as pleasantly.

  Will shrugged and grinned. “It is a possibility.”

  “Then suppose I borrow a suitable coat from someone here?” Lucian said with some force.

  The runner’s dark eyes gleamed, as he glanced around the room. “Well, if you insist. Mr. Reardon’s coat’s about your size. Hey there—John! Your ear for a minute, eh?”

  A rat-faced wizened man came sidling across the room to them, his prominent ears fairly wagging with interest as he stared at Lucian. “Aye, Will, what’s to do?”

  “I was wondering if my friend, the viscount here, could have the loan of your coat for a few hours,” Will said.

  “Surely it wouldn’t fit,” Lucian said.

  “Nah, t’would,” the rat-faced runner said, as his eyes roved up and down the viscount’s long frame. “I likes my clothing roomy-like. Lots of places to keep things, if you know what I mean.”

  The viscount’s blank face showed clearly he didn’t.

  “I mean to say, a runner’s coat be his office, sometimes, when he’s on a case,” Mr. Reardon said, “and handy for storing evidence, or dinner, and weapons or things a body be better off concealing.” He looked at Spanish Will worriedly, “but what sort of surety, Will? I mean, against the return of my coat?”

  “My word, Mr. Reardon,” Will said, with affront.

  “Good enough,” the other runner said quickly.

  “And my coat,” Lucian said. “If I don’t bring back yours, you may keep mine.”

  “Well then!” Mr. Reardon said more happily. “Hang on a tick, I’ll get it for you.”

  “And now we may have Mr. Reardon wishful of doing you in too,” Will told Lucian, on a long-suffering sigh, as Lucian began removing his fine driving coat. “Men have been killed for less.”

  “Ha, as if I ain’t giving him as good or better,” Mr. Reardon scoffed, hurrying back to hand Lucian his coat. He nevertheless tenderly folded Lucian’s greatcoat over his arm before quickly carrying it off with him.

  The runner’s coat fit Lucian, with room to spare. It was old, long, and lumpy, and had obviously often housed far more than Mr. Reardon’s scrawny body, and it smelled like it looked. “You can always cry off,” Will suggested, when Lucian’s nose came up.

  “I can always get flea powders,” Lucian said icily.

  “No, John isn’t lousy,” Will commmented as Lucian drew the collar of the ancient coat up and tipped his hat to shade his face against the unlikelihood of encountering anyone he knew. “He bathes enough to prevent it—but only just. Sir Nathaniel Conant, our new Chief Magistrate, insists on his runners bathing every now and then. He’s trying to improve us in the eyes of the gentry. But there’s washing by the book, and bathing for one’s own pleasure. And John goes by the rules. You’ll grow accustomed, my lord.”

  “Doubtless,” Lucian said, though he doubted it, and hoped he would not. “Here’s my carriage,” he said with satisfaction when they went out the door. “There should be room for us both.”

  “There should not be,” Will said, amused. “We walk, my lord.”

  “But it’s freezing, and we can travel swiftly and safely in my curricle. I know it looks flimsy, but I’ve never had an accident in it, nor will I, not even on the ice.”

  “Oh, doubtless,” Spanish Will said mockingly, winding his scarf against his neck, “and congratulations to you, my lord. But a runner walks. At least, this one does, even if it’s a long way, as it is today. He don’t take a currricle, or a hack, or a sedan chair, even in a blizzard. Because what will the villains who’ll be watching be thinking of a runner who worries about his boots or his health, eh? No, I walk. And it’s a ways from here. I’m going places you’ve never imagined, my lord, much less been to.”

  “I visited such places in my salad days,” Lucian said.

  “Nah, they don’t make such salads for the aristocracy,” Will laughed. “These aren’t colorful playgrounds for young gentry, quaint low taverns where you can laugh at the antics of the lower classes, and maybe pick out a cheap whore or two to cap the night. No. This is where real people live and work, my lord. Real people without much money. I also insist that you say nothing no matter where we go, unless I ask it of you. No doubt you’ll have questions, but you’ll have to ask them of me—later. For one word from you and they’ll scatter like pigeons with a hawk in the sky. Agreed?”

  Lucian bit back sarcasm. The man was only right. “Done,” he agreed tersely. “My purpose walks before my vanity in this case, Mr. Corby. I’m wise enough to leave the Captain of the boat to the fishing grounds he knows best…for now.”

  “Good. And I remind you it’s a long walk. Still coming?”

  “Still,” Lucian said tightly. He told his tiger to drive the curricle home, and began walking with the runner. “We’re going to see the widow?” he remarked after they’d gone a few streets, heading east.

  “No, best to let her simmer in her own fears for a spell, so she’ll be nice and tender by the time I talk to her again,” Will said. “I’m going to talk to those who know her, and of her, so I’ll have more to ask when I do see her again.”

  There was no further conversation between them; a freshening, cold and cutting
wind literally took their breath away and they needed it for walking. The snow began to fall more steadily, slanting in from off the river with a taste of cruel damp in it. Lucian noticed carriage traffic dwindling because of it, and as the streets grew meaner, he saw fewer people on foot. But he trudged on beside the runner. Spanish Will might enjoy a joke at a nobleman’s expense, but he didn’t look like a man who exerted himself for nothing. As for himself, rage against whomever had killed his uncle kept him warm enough. And the mystery of it kept churning in his mind, making him ignore mere bodily discomforts.

  Spanish Will picked up his pace, and saw the viscount match it. Well, if the nob wanted to come along, no harm in it, if he kept his mouth shut. It would be pleasant reprimanding him if he didn’t. He strode on, noticing how the snow filled the streets and emptied them of people. It even banished the ever-present wandering tribe of gleaners, pickers and grubbers who eked out their livelihoods by finding cast-off horseshoe nails, unused bits of coal, and other gutter treasures to clean and resell. The usual contingent of beggars had limped or staggered off the streets as well, leaving only the heartiest or unluckiest of their number to wait for something besides snow to fill their tin cups. They’d dine on snow soup and naught else tonight, he thought. Only a fool would be out on such a day. He didn’t count himself as such.

  He smelled money, and his nose seldom failed him. The man at his side was high in the instep but rich as Croesus. He’d ante up a treat for his uncle’s murderer. Will hummed under his breath. It was a long walk on a freezing day, but it was Sunday, so he’d nothing else to do. He could start snooping for an easy answer and a rich purse. Any rate, he told himself as he kept plodding against the wind, heading towards the river, he was nicely numbed now and if there was any day to nose around Billingsgate, this was the one. Sunday silenced the clamor for a few hours, and the snow could cleanse even Billingsgate of its stink. Some of it, he thought, inhaling ice, letting his nose tell him what the sheets of falling snow still hid from his eyes.

  Fish, brine, salt and spray, a brackish iodine sting filled his nostrils although the Thames, only a street away, was sweet water here—or what passed for sweet. The main arcades lay dead ahead, the rows of shops and stalls where most of London’s fish were brought and sold daily. Will could just make out the profiles of the masts of those ships that lay at anchor near the wharf where most Billingsgate traffic was—most days. But never at this hour, and not today. Today the fishermen were home, if they were lucky. And as for the fishwives…he hoped to find some. They might know things he needed to know. They’d surely say things that might convice the bony nobleman at his side to go home and let a man who knew what he was about do his job in peace. And get paid more for the difficulty of it.

  Will passed the first gin shop he saw, and paused at the second. The viscount stopped too, standing grim, cold and silent as Death at his side, waiting for him to enter. Will shook his head, and went on. He went into the third tavern he saw, because it was his lucky number. He ducked his head and stepped inside.

  Lucian followed. His head came up and his nose stung at the stink. Thick fumes from many glowing pipes and a smoking peat fire made the air heavy, and the heat from both fires brought up the stench of fish, fish blood and guts and gills. He didn’t want to think what the other smells might be, but as he eyed the ragged patrons of THE DOG AND DOLPHIN, he thought he could guess what they were.

  The place was small, dark with age and aged dirt, like all the many taverns in the district. Its smell was remarkable, even so, though it didn’t seem to have discouraged the dozen or more customers Lucian could barely make out in the haze. At least the air was warm enough, if you could stand to breath it. He followed Spanish Will to the tap.

  “Yours?” the barkeep asked, as they approached.

  “Something to keep off the cold—and some advice,” Will said, peeling off his gloves. He laid some coins down on the scarred wood between them.

  “Take more’n that to keep off this cold,” the man said, eyeing the men with more interest than the coins.

  Will sighed. He slowly squeezed a larger coin from his waistcoat and put it with the others. “Maybe,” he agreed, “but we’ve places to go today. Two pints of never fear and some advice will do us fine.”

  Lucian’s face stayed blank. He’d no idea of what the runner had ordered, or if he was actually supposed to drink it. He supposed that if the runner could, then he would as well.

  “Aye. Well?” the man asked, scooping up all the coins, and then turning to draw two tankards of beer.

  “We need some kindly folk to chat with,” Will said, “folk who know them that do business in the market. The sort that don’t mind talking to some interested strangers.”

  “There’s many o’ that sort,” the barkeep said sourly, slapping two tankards down. “Too many, for my money. But ain’t my money is it? Still—I dunno ’ow many’d be ’appy talking wi’ redbreasts, y’see.”

  “Oho,” said Will.

  “Well, but I knowed ye fer a runner right off,” the barkeep said with a thin smile. “Don’t know yer friend, but yer face ain’t easily forgot. I were there when y’ nabbed ol’ Snab Morgan—’e that done poor Rob Reese in…wi’ a knife, in the night, last spring,” he added to prod Will’s memory.

  “Morgan? Oh, aye. Him that was turned off at Tyburn in July. And good riddance. Hempen ripe, he was,” Will said, nodding, remembering, “and so said all, did they not?”

  “All,” the barkeep agreed.

  “Or were you a friend of his, maybe?” Will asked gently.

  The man hastily dropped his gaze. “Me? Not ’ardly! Just I remembered. I don’t doubt most round ’ere do. But it’s only talk yer after?”

  “Just talk,” Will nodded.

  “Buy any o’ them a glass o’ blue ruin and they’ll talk yer ear off,” he said, indicating all his patrons, “be ye runners or rogues. But I won’t swear to what you’ll ’ear. Talk rubbish, most of ’em. But let’s see… Aye. See them two there, in the corner? Aye, them what’s already giving you the eye. Buy ’em a gin, give ’em a smile, and there ye be. No ’arm in ’em, though.”

  Will guessed not. Nor much indiscretion either. Whomever the barkeep recommended would be sharp as a knife and careful of what to say. But he was good at hearing what wasn’t said. And besides, he wanted them to know he was asking. That kind of news got out, and it always got back to those he asked after. Sometimes that did him more good than the gossip he heard.

  “Thanks,” Will said. He took his pint and made his way through the fog to a corner where two enormous figures sat hunched over a small table, watching him approach. Lucian followed, silently, as amazed as appalled at what he saw.

  The light was bad, smoky red and dim. But it was enough for Lucian to see the two women sitting there. They were hard to miss. They were covered by many layers of clothing, but none of the layers seemed clean, and not surprisingly, none seemed to fit. Few clothes would. The pair of women seated there were middle-aged, or old, it was hard to tell under the grime. And huge. Big-breasted, wide-shouldered, with ample bellies and bums, great mounds of womenflesh, capable of swinging heavy baskets of fish up on their heads and holding them there as they pushed their barrows, cursing all that got in their way. He’d seen such females, but only from afar before. Shrewd eyes assessed him from under tangles of hair not covered by their woolen caps. Fish market women, observing their Sabbath—and the strangers in their midst.

  One seemed shorter, one seemed grayer, but there wasn’t much to choose between them.

  “Ladies,” Will said, bowing, “may we join you?”

  Raucous laughter greeted this. When one of the women subsided, she ran a hand across her eyes and toed an empty chair toward him with one rag-wrapped and booted foot. She patted the seat with a plump mittened hand and sighed. “Gawd love ya!” she chortled. “Ladies, is it? Is it me purse or me person yer after, after a fine greeting like that?”

  “Take ’er purse! Don’t be
daft, take ’er purse!” the other woman shouted, and the pair of them started roaring again.

  “Gawd!” the first woman breathed, “you are a one, Mrs. Gow! What can we do fer ye and yer friend, redbreast?” she asked Will.

  “You made me then,” Will said with a show of surprised chagrin, seating himself as Lucian silently took another chair, trying to be invisible, wishing his nose was.

  “Made ye? O’course! In a trice, and well ye know it,” Mrs. Gow said on another laugh.

  “As well as we know ye,” her friend agreed, grinning over the pipe she held clenched in her surprisingly white teeth. “Spanish Will, hisownself. Come to see us, and bringing an ’andsome friend so nobody got to dance alone. We’re that honored. Ain’t that many gents with such pretty faces dressed so fine ’round here that we’d forget one, would we, Mrs. Gow? Beside which, ain’t no real gents going to swill their rag water at this place, is there? It’s about that cully what got topped front of Pushkin’s establishment, ain’t it?”

  Will smiled. “It is. Not much escapes you, does it?”

  “Oh flattery will do,” the woman said, “but a bottle of Strip Me Naked would do better. You’ll do the honors, lad?”

  “With pleasure,” Will said. He turned to signal the barkeep, only to see he’d already started to cross the room, bearing a bottle of gin. Mrs. Gow’s hand snaked out and she poured herself and her friend both a full glass. The glasses were downed in a gulp and sighed over before the first woman spoke again.

  “We’ll tell you everything we knows,” she said. “But we diddled you fair, ’cause it ain’t worth so much as a glass of this cat’s water. We don’t know the gent, nor the one what scragged him.”

  “No, how should you?” Will asked. “When even I don’t.”

  “’E is a one, Mrs. Gudge,” Mrs. Gow said, laughing with relief before she poured herself another glass.

  “Naked as well as stone dead, weren’t he?” Mrs. Gudge commented. “Considerate of him, saves the undertaker a bit of work…or the resurrection man, eh?” she added, with a dig of her elbow into Mrs. Gow’s ample side.