Dignity of a homeowning gentleman bedamned, Lewrie went down the stairs to the ground floor and entry hall in a clatter.
“Yes?” he intoned warily when he got there. If this person was part of the dog buffer gang, he wished to strangle him on the spot, soon as the information about the ransom was passed.
The caller was a younger version of a “beau-nasty,” dressed in a dark green broadcloth coat that was missing buttons, a buff waist-coat atop a grimy linen shirt with a scarf round his neck, and grey breeches but no stockings, and a cracked pair of buckle shoes. He snatched off a low-crowned, narrow brimmed brown hat that had seen too many rains, and nodded his head in greeting.
“G’day to ya, sir,” the lad, who could not have been much older than thirteen or so, cheerily said, “an’ blessin’s t’this house. My name is Haddock. Someone said you’re in need o’ some help from th’ Irregulars?”
“James Peel sent you?” Lewrie exclaimed, stunned.
“That he did, sir,” Haddock said, beaming. “Well, Mister Peel spoke with my director, an’ he, sent me. Us.”
“Us?” Lewrie had to ask.
“First thing in th’ mornin’, sir,” Haddock went on cheekily, “round first sparrer fart time, I’ll be settin’ up by yer servant’s entrance, belowstairs, sharpenin’ all yer knives, an’ there’s to be two girls in th’ street, sellin’ posies, an’ t’other beggin’ t’keep watch. When th’ messenger comes t’yer door, we’re t’trail him, an’ tell ya where t’find yer criminals.”
“My word!” Pettus exclaimed, not sure of what he was seeing or hearing. “Children?”
Lewrie took a second to glance at Pettus, and saw Dasher and Turnbow standing wide-eyed and mouths agape as if they had run into a ghost in the pantry.
“Best at it, sir,” Haddock told Pettus. “Nobody suspects kids, even spies lookin’ over their shoulders, an’ wary of ev’rything.”
“You’ve followed spies?” Dasher exclaimed, his eyes alight with sudden excitement.
“A time’r two, yeah,” Haddock proudly revealed. “Don’t ya be worryin’, sir, we know what we’re doin’, an’ me an’ the girls can get so close t’our quarry we could snatch silk handkerchiefs, pick their pockets, or read their palms an’ tell their fortunes. First thing o’ th’ mornin’, mind, an’ now I’ll be goin’.”
With that, he lifted his hat to doff, performed a sketchy bow, and spun about to open the door for himself and trot out in the street where he had left a small hand-cart with the tools of his supposed trade.
“Th’ tea’s ready t’serve, sir,” Agnes said as she came up the stairs from the kitchens with a tray.
“Before supper, Pettus,” Lewrie ordered. “Let’s get all the lads together in the kitchen t’get ready for whatever happens tomorrow. Dasher? Turnbow? You’ll need to carry notes to the manse at Saint Anselm’s to Mister Chenery, and my father’s place to alert my son, Hugh, as to what they’ll need to do.”
“Aye, sir,” the lads chorused,
“We gonna be goin’ along, sir?” Turnbow asked, looking eager.
“Not this time, Turnbow,” Lewrie told him. “There might be one Hell of a scrape when we corner those rats, and get our dogs back.”
With that said, Lewrie went back upstairs to the drawing room to sit on the settee, pour himself a cup of tea and stir in the cream and sugar, then split a scone in half to butter it and smear it with some strawberry jam.
I hope those children are as good as they claim, Lewrie thought as he chewed, and sluiced the bite of scone down with some tea; Come t’think on it, I hope this plan works. There’s many a slip, ’twixt the crouch and the leap. Ha! As many times as my perfect plans’ve turned t’shite, I ought t’know!
* * *
“But I don’t need someone to sharpen my knives!” Hazelwood, the testy cook, complained as loudly as he dared when Haddock turned up just after sunrise. “I sharpen my own knives! And I certainly would not trust them to a dirty hobbledehoy, a Gypsy! That boy looks like a Gypsy thief! He’ll run off with my knives, after I’ve spent good money on them, and sell them for a tenth of what they’re worth!”
“Do stop your gob, Mister Hazelwood,” Lewrie testily snarled at him. “There’s things afoot that require Haddock t’be seen sharpenin’ knives in the street. We’ve guests for breakfast, so concern yourself with that.”
“But, Sir Alan, sir!” Hazelwood tried to argue. “What things are afoot?”
“Gettin’ the dogs back is all I’ll say of it,” Lewrie growled. “You worry about breakfast,” he insisted as he went back up the stairs to the entry hall, just in time for his son to arrive. Hugh came in with an overcoat atop a civilian suit, with his dirk at his side and a pistol in the overcoat pocket.
“Brr,” Hugh said, headed for the fireplace in the front parlour which was lit. “It’s getting on for frost, father. Damned early in the morning, too.”
“We’ll lay in more coal and wood,” Lewrie said. “With luck, our dogs’ll have warm hearths t’sleep in front of, once they’re back.”
“In front of which to sleep,” Hugh cheekily corrected him.
“Pedant,” Lewrie shot back, grinning.
“Captain Chalmers was a stickler,” Hugh shrugged off.
The door knocker thumped, and Lewrie went to open the door, himself. Charles Chenery had arrived.
“Morning, Charlie,” Lewrie greeted him.
“Good morning, sir,” Chenery replied.
“What the Devil’s that?” Lewrie asked as Charles shrugged off his overcoat.
“I brought my dirk, a small pocket pistol, and a criquet bat,” he said. “Well, it’s hard wood, and somebody might find it a useful club.”
“Right,” Lewrie drawled, dubious. “Come on in and warm yourself. “Our cook’s got coffee or tea coming. Anyone in the street?”
“Oh, there’s some slip of a girl flogging posies,” Charles said, “God only knows who she plans to sell them to this early, a coach or two, and there’s some boy at your basement door whetting knives.”
“As it should be, then,” Lewrie cryptically decided. “There’s no telling when the messenger shows up, but there’s a good breakfast coming. Even if Hazelwood’s in a snit. Why don’t you two go into the dining room, out of sight, just in case.”
“There’s coffee ready did you say?” Hugh perked up after a good yawn. “That’s for me. Come on, Charles. Bring your bat,” he added with a snigger.
Lewrie went belowstairs once again to check on his men, all of whom were gathered round the servants’ dining table, sipping coffee or tea, a rare treat for sailors aboard ship, As best they could, they’d dressed in civilian garb with their coats and hats laid by, but with weapons jammed into their waistbands, and their personal clasp knives in sheaths at their sides, to the consternation of the female servants and the younger lads. Seeing Yeovill armed seemed to put Hazelwood into a nervous, hand shaking clumsiness, and Yeovill was making the most of it, grinning evilly at Hazelwood now and then, and honing his knife on a stone from the back garden.
He returned to the dining room above, just in time for the food to arrive and be displayed on the sideboard; tatty hash, bacon, wee sausages, and at least a dozen eggs all scrambled in a serving bowl.
“If nothing comes of this morning, at least we’ll eat well, hah hah,” Charles Chenery chortled as he loaded his plate.
* * *
It was about an hour later that Lewrie went up to greet his wife and see how she was faring. The knot on her temple still throbbed, the sutures Dr. Stansfield had taken seemed to be drawing tauter, or so she said, and though her wrist didn’t seem so painful, it was hard to move, was still swollen, and required more of that ice to be bound round it.
“I may be getting better at feeding myself,” Jessica jested, in better sprits, “I can pinch off bites of muffins, clumsily stir tea with my left hand, and manage to not make too much of a mess.” She was propped up against the headboard with four thick feather pillows behind her, wit
h a tray cross her lap, and a large napkin covering her breast and lap. “And do you see, Alan? A large serving spoon is the perfect thing for my eggs and potato hash. For the bacon, however,” she demonstrated, picking up a rasher and taking a bite, “fingers are the very thing. Did I hear Hugh and my brother downstairs?”
“I invited them over to breakfast,” Lewrie told her, hoping she didn’t ask why. “Boys’ day. Some cards, some backgammon,” he lied. “I don’t suppose you’re up for a game?”
“Oh, after some light ablutions, I will drink some more willow bark tea, ghastly as it is … perhaps with some honey in it … and nap and read. Enjoy your games, dear.”
“Enjoy your rest, my love,” Lewrie said, blowing her a kiss.
He was halfway down the stairs to the ground floor when someone rapped on the door. Pettus, who was just coming up from the kitchen, froze in mid-stride and shared a look with him before going to unlock the door.
“Yes? What is your business?” he asked the wee urchin waif on the stoop, a raggedly dressed girl of about nine or ten, wrapped in a huge shawl that looked as if it would double for a horse blanket.
“Got a letter fer th’ master o’ th’ ’ouse,” she piped, glaring and darting her gaze into the entry hall as if gawking at the finery, then cutty-eyed to left and right as if fearing something out in the street. “Well, take h’it!” she insisted, then whirled about and got out into the street to make her escape.
“What’s it say, Pettus?” Lewrie asked once the door was shut.
“Hard to tell, sir,” Pettus said, frowning as he unfolded it and tried to puzzle it out. “Here, sir.”
Genulmun
Yew want the dogs bak, put word note in the Xaminer paper. Watt kine dogs and watt yew col em. Ten pound eech, koin no paper, or yew never see em agin. Be reddi to pay first wen gerll cum bak.
“Word note,” Lewrie tried to de-code. “I suppose he means reward notice. The Examiner? Not a Tory, is he? Though I doubt the fellow knows how to read any paper.”
“Criminal gutter scum, sir,” Pettus said with a sniff. “What are we to expect of people in such a low trade.”
Lewrie went to front parlour windows, knelt on the cushions on the deep sill, and looked out. He couldn’t see the urchin who had delivered the note, but, sure enough, a little girl with a tray of posies was making her way down to Piccadilly Street, and another wee beggar girl was rising and wrapping her blanket round herself, headed in the same direction. Below, in the basement servant and delivery entrance, Haddock was wrapping his whets and tools in a leather bundle. He looked up and tipped his hat, winking, before he set off, too.
* * *
Lewrie had told Jessica that it would be an idle day of cards and backgammon, and that was the way that he and the others passed the time, after all, waiting to hear back from the Irregulars. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, there was a rapping of the door knocker. Everyone froze, dice cups and hands of cards held still in mid-air for a second, ears cocked to hear what Pettus was saying belowstairs.
“It’s that Haddock fellow, sir!” Pettus shouted up the stairs. “He’s back!”
Everyone in the drawing room bolted to the entry hall, weapons stuffed into pockets, and Desmond, Deavers, and Yeovill came up from the kitchens, armed as well.
“Lo, sir,” Haddock cheerfully said, doffing his hat to one and all, “We found ’em, an’ they didn’t go all that far away. They’re in Ormond Yard, off Duke o’ York Street, in an old barrel-maker’s shop. Noisy as anything, with all th’ barkin’. Ya can almost find it by the smells, ya can.”
“Good Christ,” Lewrie exclaimed. “I remember that place, when my father owned a house in Saint James’s Square! Let’s get our overcoats on, hide away our weapons, and get going. Pettus, could you go flag down a couple of hackneys for us?”
“Yes, sir,” Pettus replied, though pausing for a second before doing so. “I still wish I could join you, sir. I’d give anything to face the brute who hurt Dame Lewrie, and my Lucy.”
“We’ll settle with him, no worry, Pettus,” Lewrie vowed. “You will come along to show us the way, Haddock?”
“Yessir,” the lad heartily agreed.
Out in the street, they found that the late morning had gone grey, with a low overcast and an unseasonable chill to the air, making their overcoats welcome. Pettus had managed to flag down a pair of hackneys, old and slightly shabby two-horse coaches that had seen better days when owned by private families. And what was this, the coachees wondered; three obvious gentlemen clambering into the first one, accompanied by a gutter urchin? A pack of men who could only be sailors getting into the second, and all going the same place?
* * *
“We oughta be gettin’ out shy o’ th’ yard, sir,” Haddock instructed, leaning far out the open sash window in the right-hand door as the hackney made its turn into Duke of York St. “Their hidey-hole is at th’ far end.”
“Pull up here, coachee,” Lewrie called out, thumping his fist on the roof of the coach. “Let’s go.”
They spilled out of the coach, paid the fare, and waited for the sailors to join them.
“Ain’t got th’ fare, sor,” Liam Desmond told Lewrie.
“Ah, shite,” Lewrie spat, trotting back to the second coach to hand the coachee some coins before he could rejoin the others and take a peek from the corner of the entrance to the yard. Since all of them were curious, everyone had to lean out to scout the yard at the same time, forcing Lewrie to hiss covertly and wave them back, so only he and the boy, Haddock, could lean round the corner.
Ormond Yard had seen better days in Lewrie’s boyhood, and gone down since. There were still a few houses that appeared to be occupied, a couple with broken windows that obviously weren’t, a tailor’s shop, a hatter’s, what looked to be a salvaged brick and stone scrap-yard, a stable and storage lot with a few broken down hackney coaches, and a pile of waggon wheels, and a row of smaller shops with hanging signs advertising a penny-ordinary, a dram shop, a tobacconist, and a poulterer’s where wood cages held live chickens, chicks, pigeons, and turkeys. As a commercial yard, it looked to be a failure going slowly downhill. There were a few workmen, stable boys, and poor folk about, and even the dram shop and the ordinary seemed abandoned.
“There’s big double doors, sir, where they keep their cart,” Haddock said in a whisper. “I took a peek through gaps in the boards. The stable’s most-like where they rent a horse when needed. Listen t’all that yappin’ an’ barkin’. It’s a wonder the few folk who still live here haven’t complained t’th’ police already. All day an’ all night, I reckon. They must have dozens o’ dogs in there!”
Lewrie gave it a long look, weighing his options. To just march down the middle of the street like a threatening mob might alert the dog buffers to their presence and give them time to arm themselves. Could they saunter down to the building at the far end, as if they were shopping?
“Everyone, have a look for yourselves,” Lewrie ordered, “taking turns. It’s the old wood building at the far end. Used to be a shop where barrels were made. The one with the big double doors.”
That took some time before each man was satisfied. When Desmond leaned round the corner, then stood out a foot or so from the wall he leaned upon, Lewrie spotted something long pushing out his mid-thigh overcoat.
“What’s that under your coat, Desmond?” Lewrie asked, “You bring along your uillean pipes?”
“Mister Chenery’s criquet bat, sor,” Desmond said with a wicked grin. “He says it makes a fine cudgel.”
“Right, then,” Lewrie said. “Here’s how we’ll do it. Pair off into twos, then we’ll stroll down either side of the yard like we’re shoppers, or merely curious, ’til we get to the end. If it looks as if the double doors are barred, we’ll try the single door, off to the right of them. Barge in, take ’em by surprise, and keep quiet ’til we do. They get warnin’, they might fight t’keep their dogs. Right?”
Everyone nodded their agreement.
“Hugh, you go with me,” he ordered his son, and, after a deep breath, Lewrie stepped out into the street and began to stroll up the yard with his hands in his overcoat pockets. He and Hugh stayed to the right side of Ormond Yard, past the houses, the ordinary, and the dram shop. Hugh un-buttoned his overcoat and checked that his dirk was in the right place, and Lewrie followed suit, putting his left hand back in a pocket, where he had secreted one of his Manton pistols.
“This is amazing, really,” Hugh commented, peering about. “This close to Saint James’s Square, and the Palace, one’d think that some developers would have bought the whole yard out and run up some fashionable new row or terrace houses.”
“By the looks of the place, that may be comin’ soon,” Lewrie said in agreement. He began to take deeper breaths out of nerves and impending violence.
The man who hit Jessica, Lewrie fantasised; I hope he’s here. If he is, I mean t’hurt him. He had something on his hand. A big ring? If only I can spot him ’mongst the others.
He looked back to see Charlie Chenery and Yeovill sauntering on the other side of the street, and Desmond and Deavers were behind him, clucking at the birds at the poulterer’s, as innocent as anything.
He and Hugh reached the end of the street near the single door entrance whilst Chenery and Yeovill idled on the other side for a few seconds before walking past the double doors, to take a peek through the weathered gaps in the boards, and to see if there was a lock or a bar behind it. Chenery looked at Lewrie and shook his head “no.”
No? What the Devil does that mean? Lewrie puzzled; No lock or bar on the doors? No entrance? He waved Charlie closer.
“No what?” he hissed.
“No way in there, sir,” Chenery said. “The doors are barred. I could see a big baulk of timber mid-way up.”
“Right, we’ll bash our way in here, then,” Lewrie decided as he drew his old dirk. “Good shoulders, here, lads.”
Desmond pulled out the criquet bat, Deavers produced his clasp knife, and they put their shoulders to the door, making it move a bit.
Much Ado About Lewrie Page 23