Den of Thieves

by William Holden

  “When the two men I love are keeping secrets from me, I do not think it is over reacting to ask a simple question. What is evident is the two of you are having difficulties explaining yourselves.”

  “I did not mean…with everything you have been through today…” Pierre sighed as he took a seat at the table.

  “Do not try to mollify me. What are you not telling me?” I waited for Christopher to sit. I looked over at Crowe, who was setting out the food. I could tell he felt uncomfortable being around us as if he was intruding on a private moment. I wanted to reassure him his presence was not in the way, but instead, I turned my attention to the contents of the envelope.

  Christopher reached out and held my hand. “We are sorry. Please believe me when I say we were not trying to hide anything from you.”

  “That is not how it appears from my perspective.” I replied with too much vigor.

  “Pierre and I thought it best not to tell you what we were doing until we knew if there was anything in those documents.”

  “What were you looking for?” I looked at the leather pouch and touched the rough surface as if I might be able to shed light on the discussion by mere touch. My belly quivered with an uneasy feeling. Taking a deep breath to settle my nerves, I returned my gaze to Christopher and Pierre. Pierre nodded at Christopher.

  “This may have been presumptuous of us, but we wanted to go through the documents to see if there was anything that might identify your birth father.”

  Christopher’s confession stole my breath. For once they had rendered me speechless. A warmth spread through my body, but instead of comforting me, the heat made me sick. My head became light and dizzy. If I had not already been sitting, I am sure my knees would have buckled, sending me on my arse. My hands and belly trembled, in fact, the whole of me shook where I sat. The phrase birth father drifted around in my head with no clear direction. The pit of my arms felt wet and sticky as I tried to take in the unexpected news. It was not the fact that Christopher and Pierre kept their activities from me, in some way I understood their discretion, the problem was I did not know how to feel about any of it.

  “Are you all right?” Pierre placed his arm on my shoulder. “We are sorry to have kept this from you. We agreed not to tell you until we knew if there—”

  “It is not that.” I paused trying to get my thoughts to work with my tongue, but it was no use. I could not express the frenzied emotions swelling in me.

  “Then what?” Pierre asked.

  “I am not sure how to feel.” I pulled away from Pierre’s touch and stood. “There is a part of me that wants to know, needs to know, but I am scared.” Hearing the words come from my mouth seemed to open a closed door inside me. As if speaking about something, or acknowledging it, made it more real. “I know it sounds irrational and childish—”

  “On the contrary. It is perfectly understandable,” Pierre said.

  “Is it?” I paused and took a deep breath to calm myself. “I am sorry. I did not mean to lash out with my tongue. If you can rationalize this for me, please do, because I cannot. It is…would not any child want to know who their parents are? Think of all the children in the orphanages. I cannot imagine any of them not dreaming every night about their parents, or what it would be like to have a family. Am I that damaged by what Mr. Green did to me that I cannot even begin to entertain the notion of having a father, or for that matter wanting to know the identity of my father?”

  Christopher stood and came to me. “I feel terrible about bringing this angst upon you, especially on this day.”

  “My emotions are not your fault.” I accepted his open arms and leaned into his body. Pierre joined us and snuggled up behind me. It was during those precious moments of feeling loved I allowed the tears to flow. “I feel like an idiot.” I broke the embrace and wiped the tears from my face.

  “To have feelings is not being an idiot.” Pierre rubbed my shoulder. “I or we thought you would want to know.”

  “I did, or I guess still do, but what if…” I could not finish the sentence. My mind, heart or both was not ready to consider the possible outcomes. I could tell Pierre and Christopher were confused by my unbalanced emotions. “I am sorry, I am not making much sense.” I pulled out my chair, thinking I needed to sit. Instead, I stood and gripped the back of it. “My mother loved this man. She was willing to risk everything to run away with him and start over. There is a part of me that wants to know who my father is, and whom my mother loved.”

  “Why is this causing you turmoil?”

  “What if he does not want to know me or have anything to do with me? What if the anger and resentment toward Mr. Green affected him as it has me? I am not sure I can go through any more rejection.” I hesitated to keep my emotions from getting the better of me then continued. “We know my mother was not the best judge of character, after all, she fell in love with Mr. Green.”

  “What does that have to do with it?” Christopher said. Crowe brought the food over to the table. Christopher nodded at him, and we all took a seat. “Go on, Thomas.”

  “What if my father is no better than Mr. Green? What if he was after my mother’s wealth as well? I cannot bring another person into my life…our lives, who might want nothing more than to get his hands on the money he feels he was denied.”

  Pierre took my hand and kissed it. “I am not going to pretend to understand what this is like for you, because I cannot. As you know, my father raised me, I know what kind of person he was and presumably still is, and while he was not a loving and nurturing man, as I believe a child deserves, he was never cruel or malicious to me in any way. We shall stop looking if that is what you want—” he looked around the table “—but we are all here for you, so if you want to know, we shall support you regardless of the outcome.”

  “Let me put this out there then we can drop the topic and have some dinner.” Christopher chimed in. “Would it not be better to know the truth, no matter what that truth is, than to live the rest of your life with questions and uncertainty? No need to answer that now, let the thought sit while we eat.”

  Crowe, still acting as our servant, began serving the food. Before long the only noise around the table was the clattering of cutlery against the plates. I, as usual, broke the long silence as I took the last bite of my meat pie. “Perhaps you are right.”

  “In what aspect?” Pierre wiped his mouth.

  “The truth is better than unanswered questions.” I finished my gin.

  “Are you sure about this?” Christopher stood to clear the dishes from the table. “Please, Crowe, let me.”

  “Thank you.” Crowe nodded and took the last of his gin.

  “No, I am not sure about any of it, but let us see what we can find out.”

  “I should go. The horses need to be put away for the night, and I still need to ready Clapton’s to open.” Crowe stood. “We have had such sporadic hours of late, I would like to try to make them more regular, so people can come to rely on us.” He turned to leave then paused and looked back across the table. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

  “You are always welcome,” I said. “Do you need any help?”

  “Thank you. Despite the revelry of today’s events, I expect it to be a quiet evening.” He bowed then left.

  “Very well, we shall be around if you need us.” I stood and gathered the last of the plates and placed them in the tub to wash later. I took the bottle of gin and our three glasses over to the sitting area. I added gin to each of our glasses as Christopher and Pierre joined me. Christopher placed the documents on the table. “So, was there anything identifying my father?” I asked as I opened the envelope and thumbed through the papers.

  “Nothing I could see. Perhaps there is something in there that might mean something to you,” Christopher said.

  “What do we do now? We have nothing to go on.”

  “I wish I could be of more help,” Christopher replied. “Your mother’s death was well before my time as the but
ler. As you remember the staff was terrified of Mr. Green. I do not remember anyone ever speaking of earlier times.”

  “Do you know what happened to the staff after his arrest?” Pierre said.

  “No, I am afraid not. After I was removed from service, I never spoke to anyone. I am confident the staff was instructed to never speak to me.”

  “Pierre, how difficult would it be to locate the former staff?” I took a sip of my drink.

  “It would take some time. Chances are, if anyone else knew that Mr. Green murdered your mother then paid off her physician, they would have been silenced like Mr. Johnson,” Pierre said. “I believe we would be finding a lot of dead ends.”

  “Mr. Pierre.” Crowe entered the sitting room from the small door connecting the public house to our living quarters. “I am sorry to bother you, but a gentleman has arrived and said it is urgent that he speaks to you.”

  “Thank you, Crowe. Send him through.” Pierre stood and straightened his overcoat as a man came rushing into the room.

  “Mr. Baptiste, thank the Lord you are here. Since your office and home was burned down in Spitalfields, I was not sure where to locate you.” The man was out of breath and obviously rattled.

  “Mr. Alden, is it not?”

  “Yes, Jasper Alden. You have a good memory, Mr. Baptiste. It has been years since we were introduced.” He paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “I am sorry for this intrusion, but you must come quick, Mr. and Mrs. Reid—”

  “Has something happened to them?”

  “Mrs. Reid asked me to fetch you. She is in a horrible state, Mr. Baptiste.”

  “What has happened?” I asked in my own state of worry.

  “Franklin, Mr. Reid is dead. He has been murdered.”

  “Good Lord.” Pierre crossed himself.

  “Pierre, we must go at once. If it were not for Mrs. Reid, I am not sure what we would have done after the fire.”

  “I shall get the carriage ready and bring it around front.” Christopher stood and grabbed his overcoat off the dining room chair on his way out.

  “By all means. Has Mr. Wilcox, the magistrate been summoned?”

  “No, Mrs. Reid, does not trust the man.”

  “That is not surprising, not many people trust the magistrate, and for good reason,” I said.

  “Mr. Baptiste, she told me you were the only one who could help her.”

  “We should go before the winds blow rumors in the direction of the magistrate.” Pierre opened the door for us.

  “Who would tell him if not Mrs. Reid?” I asked as I climbed into the carriage.

  “The magistrate has his men planted all over the city. Someone is bound to know something and report back to him.” Pierre knocked on the carriage roof. Christopher guided the horses onto Shoe Lane.

  “Do you know what happened, Mr. Alden?” Pierre questioned as we rode through the streets of London toward Spitalfields.

  “I would rather not speculate or try to articulate what she told me. She was in such a state she was not making much sense. I would rather you hear it for yourself.”

  We rode the rest of the way in silence while the setting sun cast a brilliant glow through the windows. Being pulled into another murder inquiry, I could not help but wonder if Mr. Green was somehow controlling my life from beyond the grave. I knew the thoughts to be preposterous. Still, old lessons learned are hard to break. The carriage pulled up in front of the Reid’s home as the last of the day’s light faded.

  “I shall stay here with the carriage,” Christopher said as he opened the door.

  “Will you need me, Mr. Baptiste?” Mr. Alden helped me out of the carriage. “My wife is upset at this dreadful turn. I would like to attend to her if that is all right.”

  “Please, you should be with her right now. We shall be fine. Thank you, Mr. Alden.” Pierre shook his hand. “And please, do not mention this to anyone else. The fewer people who know, the better.”

  “As you wish.” He nodded.

  “Mr. Alden, you did not mention the theft before, just that Mr. Reid was murdered.”

  “I assumed it was a robbery gone wrong. No one would have any reason to murder, Mr. Reid.”

  “If I may ask, Mr. Alden, where do you live?”

  “My wife and I live three doors down.” He pointed in the general direction. “Why do you ask?”

  “I am curious as to why Mrs. Reid went to your home instead of one of her closer neighbors.”

  “My wife and I were returning from dinner. We were walking by when we heard Mrs. Reid call out. We went to see if we could help.”

  “Thank you. Please tend to your wife’s needs. If we need anything else, we shall let you know.”

  “Very well, give my condolences to Mrs. Reid once again.” He bowed then turned and hurried down the street.

  “We should go inside before we draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves.” Pierre touched my elbow. The front door stood ajar. The cries of Mrs. Reid bled through the doorway and wrapped her chilling sorrow around us. Pierre knocked then called out. “Mrs. Reid? It is Pierre and Thomas.” Pierre pushed the door open and stepped into the small parlor with me right on his heels.

  “Mrs. Reid?” I called out unsure if she heard Pierre. We looked at each other then proceeded to follow her cries. Walking into the living room, we saw Mrs. Reid bent over her husband’s corpse. Her small body shook with grief.

  “Perhaps she could use a drink, Thomas.” He nodded toward the serving cart across the room. He smiled at me then knelt down beside Mrs. Reid. “Come on. There is nothing more you can do for him.”

  I turned around and watched Pierre pick her up off the floor with a tender hand, and guided her to the sofa. A warm blush of love filled me as I watched his tenderness at how he handled the frail woman. He nodded at me. I came over and sat next to her. “Perhaps this will help.” I handed her the glass, making sure her trembling hands could get a firm grip.

  “Thank you, Mr. Newton.” Her voice was a mere whisper of her usual tone.

  “Please, call me Thomas.”

  She nodded at me then continued. “Thank you, both for coming.” She took a sip of the gin. “There is no one else.”

  “Pardon me?” I rubbed her back.

  “To call upon. I have lived for more than fifty years, and the only person I ever had to rely on was Franklin. I have no one now.”

  “Thomas and I are here to tend to your needs.” He patted her hand. “I know this might sound ill-mannered of me, but can you tell us what happened?”

  “Yes—” she took a sip of her drink “—of course, it is why I called for you.” She looked at Pierre. A weak, shivering smile creased her face then fell away. “I spent the day with our daughter and her family. Franklin was not feeling well, so he decided to stay at home. He said he was not in the mood for all the crowds and frenzied excitement of the hanging.” She pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and blotted her eyes. “When I got home I found Franklin right there on the floor. I went to him, but he was not breathing.”

  Pierre walked toward the body and knelt beside it. I watched with a morbid curiosity as he unbuttoned the man’s waistcoat and shirt and inspected the body. “There is no indication of him being shot or stabbed.”

  “Blood.” Mrs. Reid choked on the word. “On his head. There is blood on it.”

  Pierre lifted Mr. Reid’s head. His hands came away coated in blood. “His head feels flat back here, almost as if the blow crushed his skull. My apologies, Mrs. Reid, I did not mean to upset you any further,” he said.

  She waved her handkerchief to dismiss his apology.

  “Mr. Alden commented about the possibility of it being a robbery gone wrong, but Mr. Reid’s pocket watch is still in his waistcoat. Have you noticed anything missing?” Pierre walked to the side table and dipped his hands in the bowl of water to clean the blood from them, then wiped his hands on the cloth hanging off the side of the table.

  “The house appears to be in order with no
signs of a struggle.” I looked around the room as if it would either confirm or deny my comment.

  “My Lord.” She pointed toward the opposite wall. “I had not noticed it before now. The two-seater settee.”

  “The settee? What about it?”

  “It has been moved.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Our coffer is hidden beneath the floorboards under the settee.”

  “Thomas.” Pierre nodded toward the piece of furniture and waited until I got to the other end. We bent down and picked up the settee, moving it away from the wall. Pierre knelt and tapped the wooden beams of the floor. The first sections sounded firm against Pierre’s knock. He struck another, this time the board moved and gave a hollow thud. He tried the one next to it. It was loose as well. I pressed my foot against one edge, and the other side popped up. Pierre tossed the boards aside, exposing a large wooden box. The lid was open.

  “The coffer is empty, Mrs. Reid.”

  “It cannot be. I have the only key.”

  “Where is the key?” Pierre picked up the coffer and brought it to where Mrs. Reid sat.

  “Around my neck. I never take it off.” She pulled a leather strap over her head and handed the key to Pierre.

  “Thank you.” Pierre tried to work the key into the lock. “Priscilla, this key does not fit.”

  “It is not possible. I never take it off.”

  “And you are sure you have the only key?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then at some point someone removed the key from around your neck and replaced it with another one,” I said. Mrs. Reid gasped and held her neck as if she could feel the violation against her.

  “I also find it odd that the thief would have the time to put everything back including the settee,” Pierre said.

  “Why’s that?” I asked. “They probably hoped no one would notice.”

  “Not notice the body?” Pierre looked around the room. “It is as if they knew they had ample time. Most robberies are quick, in and out. Whoever did this, took their time to put the box back under the floor, replace the wood panels then reposition the settee. I am not sure robbery was the primary motive.”