‘He has no proof, Kitty. No witnesses.’
‘No. But he will dig and dig until he finds something.’ She set her shoulders, resolute. ‘I won’t let him take you from me, Tom. I’d rather die.’
Chapter Three
Sam was not on an errand. Kitty had lied to spare him Gonson’s interrogation. But where was the boy? He was not in his room at the top of the house, nor in the narrow storeroom where he sometimes lurked, tucking himself into impossibly cramped spaces to read uninterrupted. I wouldn’t mind, but the books weren’t even contraband. There was something disturbing about a boy his age choosing Newton’s Principia over Venus in a Smock.
I propped myself in the doorway to his room, gaze travelling across the charcoal portraits he’d sketched. There must have been twenty or more pinned to the wall, curling at the edges from damp. Pictures of his family, of neighbours and street traders. I recognised his father James – straight-backed as a soldier, with a piercing look in his eye. A handsome woman drawn in profile with a sweep of black hair about her face: Sam’s mother, I guessed. A baby sister, merry-eyed and chewing a tiny fist. I searched for affection in the drawings, but there was more precision than love in Sam’s pencil. A mirror that did not always catch the best angle. He had drawn me sitting at my desk, my hand resting on a book. I looked bored. Petulant.
‘Mr Hawkins?’ Jenny, our maidservant, emerged from her garret room across the landing. She’d learned to hide herself when Gonson appeared. She attended the same church and did not want him to discover where she worked. ‘Is it true? Will they arrest Sam?’
I smiled at her. ‘Heavens, no. There was no thief. Alice had a bad dream, no more.’ I thought she would be reassured by this, but if anything she grew more agitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
‘Your pardon, sir. Alice ain’t a foolish girl. She knows when she’s dreaming.’
I studied her for a moment, wondering how Sam might sketch her with that unflinching eye of his. She did not seem well – her complexion was almost grey, her eyes red-rimmed and sore. ‘What troubles you, Jenny?’
‘It’s Sam, sir, he’s the thief,’ she said in a rush. ‘He’s been… creeping about the house.’
‘Well – that is the way of him, Jenny. I am not sure he means anything by it.’
‘In the dark, sir. When we’re asleep. I woke the other night and he was stood over my bed.’
I flinched. It was not like Jenny to tell tales. Not like her to offer an opinion on the weather, she was so timid. ‘I didn’t hear-’
‘I made to scream but he clamped a hand over my mouth. And his eyes – I thought he meant to kill me! But then he was gone so fast and it was so dark I thought I’d dreamed it. But now Alice says she saw something…’ She tailed away, looking up at me with a hopeful, expectant expression, as if I might snap my fingers and make all well with the world.
‘This is strange indeed,’ I said, baffled. ‘I will speak with Sam-’
‘No, oh please, sir, no! Please don’t say nothing. I’m so afraid of him. The way he stares… He’ll murder me in my bed, I’m sure of it!’ She broke down, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand.
‘Jenny, come now. There is no need for this. Sam was here in the house all night. I saw him myself. He can’t be in two places at once.’
She sniffed, and shot me a frightened look. ‘The devil finds a way, sir.’
I promised Jenny that I would think further on the matter. I also promised to fix a bolt on her door. I was unsettled by her story, but what more could I do without confronting Sam, which she had begged me not to do? There was a chance she had indeed dreamed it all. I had my own reasons not to trust the boy, but I had seen him with my own eyes last night, while the thief was supposedly scurrying about next door. Shadows in the dark, that was all.
I headed downstairs, stomach rumbling. Dinner – that would help banish the gloom. I poked my head into the shop but Kitty had vanished, replaced by… ‘Ah, damn you. There you are.’
Sam was reading a book of anatomy, black curls falling across his face. His gaze slid briefly to mine, then dropped back down to an illustration of the heart, labelled in close detail.
I tapped the page. ‘So. You’re learning the mysteries of the human heart.’
‘Ventricles.’
A month ago I would have been perplexed by this response. But I had learned to form sentences around the odd word he deigned to expel into the air. In this case: ‘No, sir. I am not studying the mysteries of the human heart, but its mechanics. Including, for example, ventricles, a word I will now say out loud for my own unfathomable amusement.’
His lips curved into a faint smile.
‘Where’s Mistress Sparks?’
Nothing.
‘The magistrate paid us a visit. Mr Burden accused you of breaking into his house. He claimed Stephen saw you – though Stephen denied it. What do you say to that?’
Nothing.
‘I defended you. Miss Sparks lied for you. Sam,’ I prompted, exasperated. ‘When a gentleman defends you against an accusation of theft, it’s customary to express gratitude. Much obliged to you, sir, for example. Thank you, Mr Hawkins, for defending my character. I am in your debt.’
Sam closed his book. ‘Bliged.’
Just one vowel short of a word. A triumph. When Sam first arrived at the Cocked Pistol I’d thought he was shy with strangers, or missing his home and family. As the days had passed, I’d come to realise that this was his natural temperament. He was a strange boy, no doubt – but I had not considered him a danger to the house. Had I been too trusting of him?
I was about to venture out in search of a decent meal when a young lad entered the shop. His clothes were badly patched but clean, and he was well fed. One of James Fleet’s boys. I glanced at Sam and caught the slightest flicker of fear in his eyes. Afraid of his father? Well – he was not alone in that.
The boy handed me a slip of paper.
Hawkins. I have something for you. Come at once. Bring Sam.
I paid the boy and sent him on his way. I could feel Sam’s gaze upon the note from across the room.
‘Your father wishes to see you.’
His brows twitched. Ach, I knew that anxiety well enough. Tell a boy his father has summoned him and nine times out of ten it’s trouble. I’d spent half my childhood in my father’s study, staring at the floor while he expounded upon my failings. Weak. Obstinate. Wilful.
‘I’ll change,’ Sam said.
I blinked, confused – as if he had somehow read my mind. By the time I understood him he had slipped around the counter and was climbing the stairs to his garret room.
‘You are dressed well enough,’ I called up to him.
‘Too well.’
A good point. I returned to my own room and threw on my drabbest waistcoat and breeches, and a fraying, mouse-coloured greatcoat. No silver buttons, no embroidery. Not for a trip to St Giles.
St Giles is barely a ten-minute stride from Covent Garden but it might as well be another country. The Garden is not without its perils – especially at night – but the stews of St Giles contain some of the deadliest streets in the city. The last time I’d ventured in I had crawled out again upon my hands and knees, battered and bloody, lucky to be alive. I had been led there by a linkboy I’d paid to light my way home. Instead he had tricked me, leading me through the twisting maze of verminous streets into an ambush, where I had been robbed and beaten.
The same boy was at my side today.
Sam’s father, James Fleet, was captain of the most powerful gang of thieves in St Giles. I would call them infamous, but their success hinged upon the quiet, secret way they went about their business. Fleet was careful not to make a name for himself, except where it mattered: whispered in the shadows. While other gangs swaggered about the town boasting of their deeds, Fleet’s men were stealthy, silent and – if caught – never peached another gang member. For ten years James Fleet had ruled St Giles – and barely a soul knew it.