A Conspiracy of Ravens (18 page)

“No, he hasn’t done anything that I know of. You know where he is?”

“I ain’t seen ’im in years, but I ’eard ’e did six months in Dartmore Prison for putting a knife in a bloke. Good thing ’e was another bad ’un, or Roland ’ud still be in Dartmore. ’E was part of Max Benbow’s band. Bad ones, all of ’em. Where’s this ’ere money yer talkin’ about?”

Dylan reached into his pocket. The cash that the Earl of Darby had given him was coming in handy. “Tell us all you can about the boy, and I’ll give you four of these.” He held up the sovereigns, and Durkins’s eyes were filled with instant greed.

“I’ll tell you all I knows, but I ain’t seen ’im in a long time.”

“Was he anything like his mother? Did he look like her, I mean?” Serafina asked.

“No, ’e didn’t. I ’ave to say ’e was a good-looking boy, but ’e was too crafty and shrewd. ’Eaded for trouble ’e was.”

The two stood over Durkins and fired question after question until finally in despair he said, “That’s all I know. Give me the cash, will ya?”

“All right.” Dylan handed him the money, and Durkins snatched it as if he was afraid it would be taken from him. “Where’s Meg now? I ain’t ’ear ’bout ’er since she went to Brixton.”

“She died, I’m afraid.”

“Died, did she? Well, she was a tough one. I’ll say that for ’er.”

“Come along, Serafina.”

The two left, and Serafina shook her head. “He’ll just spend the money on drink.”

“Of course he will, or on laudanum or something else. He’s not long for this world. I wanted to talk to him about his soul, but he didn’t seem in the mood. Maybe I’ll come back.”

Serafina turned. “You really think there’s hope for a man who’s that far gone?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You have more faith than anybody I’ve ever seen. Come along, let’s give the rest of the reward to Callie and Paco. It’s more money than they’ve ever seen.”

Mike Sullivan found pleasure in running the Green Dragon, the toughest pub in London, as smoothly as possible. And now as he looked around the smoke-filled bar, he felt a glow of satisfaction. Sullivan had been a bruising, bare-knuckle pugilist and served as his own bouncer. Mike liked nothing better than pounding a customer who refused to keep the simple rules customers were obliged to obey. There were only three rules actually: Number one, anyone who drank and had no money to pay was beaten to a pulp by Sullivan and tossed outside. Rule number two, no firearms allowed, and the man who violated this rule received rough treatment and lost his pistol. Rule number three, no squealers allowed. The underworld understood this rule and was proud that Sullivan treated such scum as they deserved.

Sullivan’s head barkeep, Jake Kilrain, had come to stand beside Sullivan, saying in a hoarse whisper, “Young Roland is foolin’ with Alice.”

“So what?”

“She’s Frenchy Doucette’s woman. You know ’ow ’e is.”

Sullivan glared at Kilrain. “I ain’t no nursemaid, Jake.”

“You know what Frenchy done to Bob Grogan for goin’ after Alice.”

“The rozzers never proved that it was Frenchy that done Grogan in.”

Kilrain shrugged, saying only, “The Anderson kid spent time in Dartmore for sticking some bloke with a knife. ’E won’t do that to Frenchy. That Frog is the best ’and with a knife I ever see!”

“I ain’t takin’ no kid in to raise,” Sullivan said. He downed a glass filled to the top with gin and grinned. “I’d kind of like to see Frenchy and Anderson square off. We need a little entertainment.” He studied Roland Anderson with interest. “He’s just a baby-faced kid, but word is he can see in the dark like a cat and open any lock he pleases.”

“Mebbe so, Mike, but that won’t help ’im if Frenchy slices ’im with that long shiv ’e carries.”

“Ain’t my problem.” Sullivan thought hard then shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, Jake. I’ll give the boy a little fatherly advice.” He moved from behind the bar and made his way across the room. The air was thick with smoke and raw whiskey fumes, and the sound of crude laughter and profane language filled the room. Of course, it all smelled like money to Sullivan.

Coming to the table where three men and a woman were seated, Sullivan studied the youngest of the men, thinking,
He don’t look like
much, Roland don’t—but looks don’t mean much.

Roland Anderson looked up at Sullivan and smiled.

“What’s up, Mike?”

He was smoothly shaven, and his auburn hair was neatly trimmed. He had light blue eyes and a deep cleft in his chin. He took pride in his appearance and could have passed for a gentleman anywhere.

“Better send Alice away,” Sullivan said quietly. “Frenchy is a jealous fellow.”

“’E don’t own me!” Alice said. She was a cheap-looking woman with a rather curvy figure, and her voice was shrill as she added, “I’ll see anybody I please!”

Sullivan considered that he had done his best. He stared at Anderson for a long moment then wheeled and returned to the bar.

“’E ain’t my boss—and Frenchy don’t own me either!” Roland said.

Hack Wilson, a skeletal man with a knife-edged face, sat across the table from Roland. “Come on, Alice, you know wot ’e’ll do if ’e catches you with another bloke.”

“Too right, Roland.” The third man, Charlie Wait, was thickset and had dulled features. He shook his head, adding, “Hack and Sullivan are right. Get rid of Alice.”

Roland drained the liquor from his glass, refilled it, then said, “Alice, did you know Bob Grogan was a pal of mine?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, ’e did me a good turn once, ’e did.” He sipped his drink, then said idly, “I always said Frenchy would pay for doin’ Bob in.”

Wilson snorted with disgust. “Come on, Roland, we got this job lined up. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“Yeah, we’ll make a bundle, Roland. I been casin’ the place for two months. The old guy always goes to his club on Wednesdays, stays all night. The servants take the night off. We waltz in, take the stuff, and scram. Now we got to—”

“Look out,” Wilson broke in and nodded his head toward the door. “There’s Frenchy.”

Roland turned to study the newcomer, aware that everyone in the bar was doing the same. “Frenchy looks pretty mad.” He smiled.

“Don’t fight ’im, Roland,” Alice whispered. Her face had lost its colour and her hands were trembling. “’E’ll kill you—and me too!”

Doucette was a tall, thin-blade figure of a man with sharp features. He moved across the floor with an animal-like grace and pulled a long-bladed knife from under his coat with a lightning gesture.

“You make a beeg mistake, fellow!” His chin protruded sharply, and his eyes were like glowing coals.

“Why, good day to you, Doucette.” Roland got to his feet and put his arm around Alice. He was smiling and seemed totally at ease. “Alice and I ’ave been talking about you. She tells me she’s tired of you, that she wants a real man.”

Doucette’s face flamed, and he uttered a curse and moved closer to Roland, holding the knife out. “I show you what you are, boy! I cut your throat and laugh while you bleed to death!”

Roland pushed Alice to one side and faced Doucette, still smiling. “Why, I believe you’re upset, Frenchy. But you ’ave to remember, you’re not as young as you once were. Alice tells me you don’t satisfy her. But I’ll take care of that for you.”

Doucette uttered a wild cry of rage and lunged toward Roland. He made a slashing movement with the blade, but Roland turned sideways so that the blade sliced through his coat sleeve and made a shallow cut across his upper arm. At the same time, he lashed out with his foot and kicked Doucette’s feet out from under him. Even as Doucette was sprawling out on the floor, Roland picked up a chair and lifted it high, then brought it down with all his might on the Frenchman’s head. The edge of the seat caught Doucette in the crown, cutting his scalp and knocking him unconscious.

The action had only taken a few seconds, and a cry of admiration went up from the crowd. Sullivan came to stand over Doucette, then shrugged. “Well, he ain’t dead, Roland. He’ll come after you if you don’t finish him off.”

Roland’s light blue eyes were alive, and he stooped and picked up Doucette’s blade. He studied the bloody face of the man, and Alice cried out, “Go on, Roland! Do ’im in!”

Roland leaned down, but instead of slitting Doucette’s throat, he rolled him so that he lay on his stomach. Roland slashed at the material of Doucette’s trousers, cutting the seat out neatly. He then drove the knife into the oak floor, snapped it off at the hilt, and looked at Alice. “Why, ’e ain’t worth gettin’ my neck stretched, is ’e now?”

A laugh went up, and Mike laughed the loudest of all. “You should’ve killed him, Roland, but this is better. Every bloke in London will laugh when they hear how you turned his bare bottom up!”

Roland walked back to his table and said, “Come on, let’s go to work.” He kissed Alice and said, “I’ll be back with a present for you, sweet’art.” He moved across the room, followed by Hack and Charlie.

Hack, his voice shaded with admiration, said, “You got class—that’s what you got, Roland!”

Roland appeared not to have heard. “Let’s go rob this old fellow. I need a new shirt.” He touched the cut in his sleeve made by Doucette’s blade. “The bloody beggar ruined me best shirt!”

Serafina and Dylan had been looking for Benbow and his gang for days before they asked Grant for help. He had stared at them. “I know that bunch. It’s dangerous for you, Lady Trent. Let me go along.”

“That’s a good idea,” Dylan had said at once. “You know where to find them?”

“I know a couple of places.”

The next day they fruitlessly searched two taverns, but on the third try they were more fortunate. Before they went in, Grant said, “You’d better stay out here, Lady Trent.”

“No, I’m going in with you.”

“Well, all right,” Grant said with a sigh.

They walked inside, and Grant saw Benbow immediately, “There he is over there. You want to talk to him?”

“Maybe you’d better soften him up, Matthew.”

“Right.” Matthew grinned briefly. He walked over and stood in front of a tall, lanky man who was watching him with close-set, narrow eyes. He had a deep, red scar that worked its way from his forehead to his chin, along his jawbone, and clear down over his neck. It looked like a wound that should have killed, but Benbow was very much alive.

“What you want, Grant?” he demanded.

“A little cooperation,” Matthew said. “If you act right, I won’t arrest you.”

“You can’t arrest me.”

“You don’t think so?”

Something about Matthew Grant’s look made Benbow drop his eyes. The other men looked as frightened as he did, but none of them spoke up.

“Okay, what is it? What do you want out of me?”

“I’m looking for Roland.”

A young man who had been watching the exchange slowly stepped forward. “I’m Roland.” Serafina studied the man’s clean-cut features through the dirt on his face. He looked familiar, but she said nothing.

“We need to talk to you.”

“I ain’t done nothing.”

“I doubt that,” Matthew said dryly. “Come along. We mean you no harm.”

They stepped outside, and Matthew said, “Well, you don’t need me anymore.”

“No. Thank you, Matthew.”

Roland was watching them guardedly.

“We’d like to talk to you, Roland.”

“Go on, then, and talk.”

“Maybe we’d better go somewhere we won’t be disturbed. The street is not a good place to talk.”

Roland nodded his head. “’Ow about over there at the Pink Angel? Their drinks ain’t bad, and I’m ’ungry.”

“That’ll be fine,” Dylan said.

Dylan followed the young man carefully. If he turned and fled, Dylan was prepared to chase after him, although he doubted he could catch him. He looked fast indeed. They went into the Pink Angel and found a table over in the darkened corner. A slovenly woman came and took their order. Neither Dylan nor Serafina took anything, but Roland ordered a dish of fried eels and ale. As soon as the server was gone, he looked at them and said, “Wot’s this all about?”

“My name is Dylan Tremayne, Roland. This is Viscountess Serafina Trent.”

Roland’s eyes narrowed. “Viscountess?”

“That’s right. We’ve been asked by a friend of mine, the Earl of Darby, to find you.”