Den of Thieves

by William Holden

  Den of Thieves

  By William Holden

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 William Holden

  ISBN 9781634866514

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For my mom.

  * * * *

  Den of Thieves

  By William Holden

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 1

  The death cart rocked and rattled down the dry rutted path of Newgate Street. With little rain during the spring months to wash away the dirt of daily life, soot and grime from the factories coated everything. Getting a good breath in the heat of the summer was next to impossible. The midsummer afternoon sun broke through the coal-laced sky and stung my face as we rode down High Holborn Street. Even more blistering than the sun was the rage and hate in Mr. Green’s expression. His eyes never left me as the horse-drawn wagon carried us on our journey through the city toward Tyburn. It was there, amid the growing and frenzied crowds, that Mr. Green would meet his fate at the hands of the executioner.

  As I sat with my eyes focused on the man who had caused so much grief in my life, I could not help but smile; an impertinent act, to say the least, knowing his impending death. The thought that I would soon be free of him was a truth I had desired for most of my life, but during those violent and unforgiving years, I believed those fanciful thoughts were more dangerous to me than Lord Green’s vindictiveness. For the first time in my life, I would no longer have to look over my shoulder or be fearful for my life, or those around me.

  Six months had passed since I had found Lord Green beating and torturing Pierre and Christopher in the cellar of a rented building in Jacob’s Island south of the Thames. For most of that time, Lord Green remained in a solitary cell in Newgate Prison.

  Despite the unwavering testimonies and the paper evidence exhibited, Lord Green remained determined to claim his innocence. During the first day’s session, and what one can only describe as absolute desperation, he announced to the court, that I, Thomas Newton was impersonating his dead son Addison. He even went so far as to say I was desecrating the memory of his beloved son for no other purpose than to inherit the family fortune. Even early on, the judge knew what kind of man Lord Green was, and dismissed his claims as childish and spiteful. Lord Green tried on several occasions to obtain some form of legal representation, but with his reputation dwindling, and his enemies growing, no one was willing to come forth to assist him. He failed miserably at defending himself. The jury unanimously brought back a verdict of guilty on all eleven counts, including the high offense of treason. It was the one offense, which under the laws of England, demanded the criminal to be drawn and quartered.

  Once the verdict was announced the House of Lords stripped Lord Green of his title, power, and authority. He was once again alone, a pauper and simply, Mr. Green.

  * * * *

  It was the night before the judge was to hand down Mr. Green’s fate when I asked Pierre if there was something he could do to lessen the severity of Mr. Green’s sentence.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Pierre and Christopher replied in unison.

  “I am not.” I took a drink of my gin and fanned myself against the hot, arid air of the evening. We were sitting in the private lounge of Clapton’s. Crowe was busy working behind the bar for the few regulars we had established since reopening.

  Christopher stood and poured himself another drink. You know, I am not a man of violence, but what your father—“ he paused and took a breath “—I am sorry, what Mr. Green has done deserves nothing less.”

  “But are you not the one who believes ultimate judgment comes after death when a man’s soul is sent to either Heaven or Hell?” I looked at Pierre for assistance.

  “Do not look at me to get you out of this one,” Pierre replied to my stare. “All this talk of Heaven and Hell does not sit well with me. I believe it is wrong to discuss what goes on after death. We should not be interfering in God’s affairs.”

  “Pierre, I had no idea you were superstitious.” I laughed. Pierre did not. “It is endearing.” I leaned over and kissed him.

  “Do not patronize me.” He pulled away from my kiss then smiled. “Why can I not stay mad at you for longer than a second?”

  “The same reason I was so popular at Mother Claps, I am adorable.” I pursed my lips in an exaggerated kiss. “So, will you, do it?”

  “Give me one good reason why I should go to the judge and ask him to reduce Mr. Green’s sentence to hanging.”

  “I do not trust the fuck.” I looked at the two men I had grown to love. “Look, I know you cannot go to the judge without reason. It is not because I feel sorry for the bastard. There are a lot more places for things to go wrong if he is drawn and quartered. He can more easily escape, especially while he is drawn down the street. He could simply disappear into the crowd.”

  “He has a point.” Christopher spoke from behind the bar.

  “Not you as well,” Pierre sighed.

  “I am not asking the judge to give the man a reprieve from death, just a different way to the same end. If he goes to Tyburn, he will be shackled to the wagon the entire time, and I shall be in the wagon with him—”

  “Wait a minute. I am not letting you anywhere near that man.”

  “It is the only way I can be sure he gets to the noose.”

  “Aren’t you being a little paranoid?” Pierre placed his hand on my leg.

  “I would like to think of it as being cautious. We know what that man is capable of. All I want to do is to ensure his arrival in Tyburn.”

  “Pierre, you know it is no use.” Christopher placed a bottle of gin on the table.

  “What?” Pierre refilled our glasses.

  “Arguing with Thomas. No matter what we say, we always give into him at the end. Why not admit defeat early on? It will save us all the time and effort.” Christopher looked over at me from across the table and winked.

  “The judge is not going to like me intruding on his evening.” Pierre said before finishing his drink. “Do you think Crowe can get the carriage ready?”

  “
I shall drive you.” I said a bit too enthusiastic as I finished my gin and stood to prepare for our trip.

  “Thomas and I shall go relieve Crowe from his duties.” Christopher put his arm around my waist. “Right, Thomas?”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied. “That is what I meant to say.” I knew if I pushed the issue, Pierre would have relented and let me come along. Getting my way was how I made my life work when I was on my own, but since my time in Paris and almost losing the two men I loved, I became more aware of how my decisions affected those around me.

  I loved watching Pierre in action. It thrilled me. It was a side of him I did not get to see often, but when I did, I took full advantage of the learning opportunities it offered. A master at working both sides of an issue, he could talk his way out of almost any situation. His charm and well-spoken words worked magic on victims and criminals alike. I hoped, even though I knew they were fanciful thoughts on my part, to one day have the tact and discretionary tongue Pierre exhibited. My tongue wagged too often, and most times without any discipline.

  We hit an especially large rut, which shook me from my thoughts. My arse hurt from the assault of the wagon’s violent ride through the city. I adjusted myself to ease the blooming ache rising in my back and happened to catch Mr. Green looking over at the gaoler, who had been appointed by Newgate to escort criminals to their death. I eyed the two with suspicion.

  “A good day for a hanging.” A group of women shouted from their second-floor windows. They waved and cheered as the wagon rode by. I shook my head from the fog of memories, astonished to see the crowds filling every possible space in the city streets to watch the once famous Lord Green head toward his death. People jumped and hung from all sides of the wagon hoping to touch the treasonous man, or better yet to tear a piece of his clothing, which would fetch a decent price on the black market.

  “Off to the triple tree.” A man shouted as he rode a horse alongside the wagon. “It will not be long until you are hanging in the wind. A final drink for you, sir.” He threw a glass of spirits at Mr. Green. The mug missed Mr. Green’s head by inches, but the large quantity of spirits sprayed over his face and dripped down his shirt. The man on horseback laughed and rode off into the distance.

  “Thank you for arranging this.” I leaned toward Pierre.

  “Though I think you are being paranoid, you are welcome.” He smiled then turned his attention to the gaoler.

  “You never told me how you convinced the judge to agree to all of this.” I spoke louder than I was comfortable with to make sure Pierre could hear me over the shouts of the citizens as the wagon weaved its way through the congested streets.

  “I told him your concerns, and how you thought Mr. Green was a risk for escape. At first, he did not take much stock in what I said. Then I asked him what would happen if Mr. Green did somehow manage to escape and avoid the noose. How would it look to the citizens of London when they read in the papers that the judge was warned of the possibility, but never took any action?”

  “You threatened him with his reputation.”

  “I did no such thing. I merely helped him see what the alternatives might be if your fears came true. He saw the error in his thinking, and immediately signed the necessary paperwork for the hanging, and for us to accompany Mr. Green. It was nothing more than a polite conversation between gentlemen. Besides as you can see, there is nothing to worry about.”

  “If my worries carry no weight, then why are you keeping such a close watch on the two of them?”

  “I never said I did not share your concerns. I just thought it was unlikely Mr. Green would be able to pull it off. After all, he has been locked up in Newgate the entire time with no allotment for visitors. His only connection to the outside world was through the gaolers.”

  “Yes, and we both know how easy they are to pay off.”

  “Driver,” The gaoler shouted. “The crowds are getting too thick we shall never make it to Tyburn at this rate. Veer off course and try to skirt around.” The stout man nodded at Mr. Green.

  “Absolutely not.” Pierre stood. “You are required under the laws of England to remain on this route.”

  “We are no longer following those rules, Mr. Baptiste.” The gaoler raised his pistol and aimed it at Pierre. The wagon took a sharp, unexpected turn. Pierre lost his balance and fell against the short wall of the wagon.

  “Pierre.” I reached out and took his arm to keep him from falling backward off the wagon and into the street. The crowd went wild when they realized the death cart was taken off course. The narrow street filled with the shouts and screams of the angered crowd as they began giving chase to the seized wagon.

  I looked around with growing panic as I tried to make sense of what was happening. The gaoler had taken advantage of our diverted attention and was down on one knee fumbling with the locks on Mr. Green’s shackles.

  I stood and charged him. There was not much room on the wagon. He saw me coming and stood. I ducked my head and ran into his belly, knocking him and myself to the floor. He swung his fist and connected with the side of my head. Black dots clouded my vision. In the moment of lightheadedness, I was thrown off balance. The gaoler rebounded and straddled my body with the pistol aimed at my forehead.

  Something flooded me with unimaginable energy and strength. I felt it surge through my body. I grabbed the gaoler’s wrist to keep the aim of the gun away from my person. We struggled against each other. The gun discharged. I felt the impact of the bullet inches from my head as it splintered the dry, weathered wood.

  “Pierre, get the driver.” I shouted as I shoved my knee into the gaoler’s privates. His grip loosened on the pistol and from around my neck. I balled my fist and struck his jaw. I hit him again, and a third time. I felt the strength in his arm waver, and still, he clutched the pistol. Desperation kicked in. I leaned forward and clamped my teeth into his wrist. It worked. The gun fell from his grip and skidded across the wagon.

  His fist struck my jaw. The impact crunched my teeth together and forced me to bite my tongue. The pain was instant and sharp. He reached inside his overcoat and retrieved another pistol. It was enough time for me to bend my knees and slip my legs between us. The gaoler did not have time to react before I kicked out and shoved him off me. He flipped over my head. The forward motion of the death cart caused him to miss the back end of the wagon. He landed in the street. His pistol at my feet. I righted myself and looked behind us as a mob of people descended upon him. He had no chance of escaping the crowd’s outrage. I grabbed the pistol then turned my attention and the weapon toward Mr. Green.

  I had no idea how successful the gaoler was in unlocking Mr. Green’s shackles and kept a safe distance. I maintained the pistol, poised and ready to fire. I glanced toward the front of the wagon as Pierre knocked the driver out of his seat and onto the crowded street. Pierre took the reins and once seated, looked over his shoulder at me. I raised my hand and nodded, letting him know I had things under control. He nodded in return then slowed the wagon to a stop.

  “Fucking wanker.” Mr. Green said as he glared at me.

  “What, are you surprised your broken son can fend for himself?” I walked up to him. “You shouldn’t be, without a father in my life, I have had no choice but to learn how to survive.” I turned the gun around in my hand and struck him with the butt. Spit and blood dripped from his split lip.

  “Thomas, are you all right?” Pierre called out.

  “I am fine.” I knelt down beside Mr. Green and checked his shackles. They were still secured. “We are good back here. Let us get this bastard to the noose.” I sat across from Mr. Green, never once taking my eyes or pistol off him. Within a few moments, Pierre had the wagon turned around and back onto High Holborn Street.

  The last half of the ride was done without incident or word. Even after the failed attempt at escape, Mr. Green’s expression never changed. It was cold, brutal, and lacked remorse for his crimes. The closer we got to Tyburn, the more dense and boister
ous the crowds became. By the time we reached the edge of the square the crowds had forced the wagon to stop. Up ahead we could see the magistrate and his crew of twelve men breaking through the mass of people toward us. We waited for them to part the rambunctious onlookers and reach us. Mr. Wilcox rode up to the wagon while his men, each of them armed with bayonets and pistols controlled the raucous crowd.

  “What happened to the gaoler and driver?” Mr. Wilcox questioned with an air of conceited authority.

  “There was an attempt to free Mr. Green, but Thomas and I took control of the situation,” Pierre replied.

  “You have not answered my question, Mr. Baptiste. I demand to know—”

  “Consumed by the crowds,” I shouted. “Somewhere back near Bow Street. I doubt they have much chance of survival. If you desire to know more, you will have to wait until after the hanging. Shall we continue?”

  Mr. Wilcox glared at me then Pierre. He nodded, turned his horse around, and headed toward the square with his men in tow. People threw heads of lettuce, tomatoes, along with other fruits and vegetables in our direction, and despite the crowd’s best efforts, their aim was poorly executed. I continued to shake the assortment of produce from my clothes as we made the final ride into Tyburn.

  It was during those last few minutes of the long, dusty ride that I noticed a shift in Mr. Green’s demeanor. It was by no means a reversal of character, more a glimmer of fear as the structure, affectionately called the hanging tree, came into view. The three-legged wooden frame sat in the center of the square and allowed for the wagon to be positioned underneath the noose, a convenience for everyone, even the condemned.

  The men on horseback pushed back against the frenzied citizens. As we approached the structure, I could not help but catch my breath at the unsettled feeling coming off the noose as it swayed with a lazy motion in the breeze as if beckoning us toward it. Thinking back over the last several years, I realized, perhaps for the first time, how close I came to having the heavy rope secured around my own neck, a spectacle of debauchery for all to witness.