The Merchant and the Rogue, page 14
It was both reassuring and discouraging. “I hadn’t meant to leave them in a lurch.”
“You seem to be in a bit of a lurch yourself.”
He shook his head. “My struggles aren’t my biggest worry. Too many people in my life need a champion.”
“So be one.” Elizabeth had a tendency to go directly to the heart of a matter, but it meant she sometimes missed the complications.
“Again, I’m the reinforcements not the hero.”
She rose. “Then be heroically reinforcing.”
“I do not believe that is a real role.”
Elizabeth gave him one of her well-known looks of amused annoyance as she made for the door. “Heroes come in a lot of forms, Brogan. Be the one you are best suited to being.”
Best suited? What type of hero could a one-time street urchin, turned delivery boy, turned refugee, turned second-rate former member of a secret organization possibly be best suited to?
Thinking of Vera and the burden she was carrying, he found his usual doubt less powerful than his wish to help her in whatever way he could.
“Heroes come in a lot of forms.” Perhaps it was time he figured out what form he came in.
“It isn’t protection money.” Vera ended her explanation to her neighbors with very little encouragement to offer. “It’s extortion.”
“What can we do?” Mr. Bianchi asked. “We can’t go on like this forever.”
Vera pushed out a slow, tight breath. “I wish I knew.”
“Would the police help us?” Mr. Okeke asked.
“I received another note today,” Mr. Murphy said. “It warned against bringing in the blue-bottles.”
“I can’t afford to keep paying the ransom,” Gemma said. “I’ll be plum outta blunt soon enough. How do we make it stop?”
“We take away their power,” Vera said. “A big part of doing that is learning who the Protector is.”
Gemma sighed, frustrated. “There’s no way of learnin’ that. It’s a different rough every time what collects the money. And no one’s yet seen who leaves the notes.”
“Arson seems the order of the day. Can we at least protect against that?” Mr. Bianchi asked.
“Not one of us has the blunt for fire insurance,” Mr. Okeke said.
“We shouldn’t have to,” Gemma said. “I read the papers. Parliament passed a law. The fire brigades are supposed to put out any fire.”
“That law don’t go into effect until January,” Vera said. “We can’t depend on the brigades. We need to depend on each other.”
“Takes too long to get water here from the pump down the road.” Mr. Overton spoke for the first time. He and his family had been taken in by the Bianchis, but heaven only knew how long that family could afford the extra mouths when Overton had no income.
“What if we all agree to keep an extra bucket of water in our shops?” Vera suggested. “That’d give us a dozen buckets, at least, to get started dousing a fire while more water was run over from the pump.”
It wouldn’t be foolproof, and it might not be enough, but it’d be a far sight better than doing nothing.
“Word of the fire didn’t reach everyone quickly enough,” Mr. Okeke said. “If we had a plan for getting word to everyone, that’d speed things.”
“Good suggestion,” Vera said.
“I can organize that.” Mr. Overton’s downcast expression lifted. “I’ll work up some kind of plot and let everyone know.”
“Excellent.” Vera gave him what she hoped was an encouraging nod. “And if everyone’d get me them lists of people who were about or anything unusual on the days the notes were left, that’d help a heap.”
They began handing slips of paper to the people sitting closer to her, passing the growing stack forward.
“If we can convince this Protector fella that we’re looking out for each other and can thwart his plans, he might leave us be.” Gemma’s declaration was optimistic, but not entirely unrealistic.
“And anyone struggling to make the payment needs to let the rest of us know,” Vera said. “We’ve strength in our numbers, but only if we work together.”
Exclamations of “hear, hear” and “Indeed” and other shows of agreement followed, as Vera collected her neighbors’ handwritten recollections.
“Miss Vera, you’ve visitors coming.” Peter had been placed at the window, charged with watching the street.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. O’Donnell and some cloddy bloke.”
Ganor had endeared himself to everyone present with his tireless efforts to put out the fire at Overton’s. He also never failed to offer friendly greetings all around. He remembered all their names, their professions, their worries and joys.
A moment later, the man himself stepped inside along with someone Vera didn’t know, a man likely ten years his senior. The gathering grew very quiet, very attentive.
“Forgive the interruption,” Ganor said, “but I’ve called on an acquaintance of mine who’s taken an interest in your recent concerns.”
“Who’s this bloke?” Mr. Overton demanded, his tone as defiant as it was uncertain.
“This here’s Captain Eyre Massey Shaw, head of the London Fire Engine Establishment.” Ganor must’ve felt the same tension Vera sensed growing in the room. “I’ll point out to you that your recent experiences were with private brigades, not with his.”
That eased things a little.
“He told me in detail how you were treated by the insurance brigades.” Captain Shaw was decidedly Irish, which was likely how Ganor had gotten to know him. “I’ve come with the reassurance that I will insist the London Fire Engine Establishment fill in the gap while we wait for the law to change. My brigades will be made aware of your troubles here. They’re brave and tireless, and they aren’t in the pocket of any insurer.”
It weren’t precisely a guarantee, but it was far more reassurance than they’d had mere moments earlier. That was worth something.
“I mean to regularly check with the people of this street to know if you’ve had trouble in this matter.” Captain Shaw turned to Ganor. “Who was it lost their building in this business?”
Ganor motioned with his head to Mr. Overton. “A barbershop was totally lost. The entire building fell in. Only by luck and the tenacity of a hastily formed bucket brigade did the adjacent buildings escape being engulfed as well.”
To Mr. Overton, Captain Shaw said, “I’d appreciate being shown the site. It’d be good for me to be familiar with what’s happened.”
The barber nodded and rose, accompanying the man charged with overseeing all the firefighting efforts in the entire metropolis. A man who was now on their side and willing to prevent another tragedy.
Vera felt more hopeful than she had since the day of the fire. She saw that same hope reflected in the faces of her neighbors.
“The fire brigade’ll be looking out for us,” Mr. Bianchi said. “That takes some of the wind out of the threat, don’t it?”
“A bit, leastwise,” Vera answered.
Ganor received words of thanks and firm handshakes. He received them all with the broad smile she’d seen so often since he’d first begun working at the shop, the one she’d grown so very fond of.
The neighbors hung about for a spell, slowly wandering out now that their planning meeting had come to its natural close. After a time, only Vera and Brogan remained.
“How is it you convinced Captain Shaw to take an interest in our tiny, poor corner of London?”
“The man owed me a favor,” he spoke rather mysteriously. “Seemed the right time to call it in.”
“The head of the London Fire Engine Establishment owes you a personal favor?”
“Let us just say m’ years in Dublin were . . . colorful.”
“I’d love to hear about it some time.”
The smile twinkled in his eyes, setting her heart to a pleasant sort of flutter. “Come to the flat for supper again tonight,” he said. “I’ll tell you a few tales, lass.”
Despite the heaviness of her mind, Vera brightened at the prospect. In the midst of uncertainty and deception, worries over lies and threats, she had found a refuge, someone she could rely on.
Vera?” Ganor’s voice seemed to come from quite a distance. “Vera?”
She shook herself into the present moment, realizing her thoughts had wandered far afield. Again. They’d left the shop after the neighborhood meeting and retreated to his flat for supper. His sister had indicated she had a few things to do in the kitchen and had shooed them out. To her embarrassment, Vera had heard very little of what Ganor had been saying since they’d settled into the sitting room.
“You’re full distracted, you are.” He turned to face her more fully, the two of them sitting on the settee. “I’ve a fair idea what’s weighing on your mind, but I’ve also a very good ear for listening.”
“You invited me here for an easy chat and some tale-telling. I cain’t imagine you’re yearning for troubles to be poured into your lap.”
“Two make the load lighter,” he said. “My parents always used to say that. ’Twas their way of reminding us that bearing a burden alone makes it heavier than it needs to be.”
It was a fine sentiment, but putting it into practice wasn’t so easy as one might hope. “You’d be every bit as reluctant to share troubles with me,” she said.
Far from pushed off his purpose, Ganor looked even more determined. “I’ll strike a deal with you, Miss Vera Sorokina. I’ll tell you something I’m struggling with, something I’ve not shared with many people. And, in return, you let me bear a little of your burden.”
Was he in earnest? Even her papa was often reluctant to share cares and concerns. She had thought only that evening what a refuge Ganor was. What a comfort. If anyone could be trusted to truly care, he could. She’d allow herself to trust this little bit more. She could do that much.
“What’s your trouble?” she asked.
Ganor looked utterly relieved. He not only seemed to be willing to open up to her and be willing to listen in return, he seemed eager to do so. “My sister and I left Dublin under less-than-upstanding circumstances. I’ll not go into detail, doing so’s not necessary for this particular problem. But I will say this: ’tisn’t safe for us to go back. And yet, Móirín misses Dublin. We talk about home sometimes, places we went and people we knew. Her eyes grow sad. Breaks m’heart.”
“Could you go back?” Vera said. “You told me once that your troubles in Dublin involved the police.”
“So I did.” He laughed lightly. “I seem to tell you more than I realize. Certainly more than I tell anyone else.”
She turned a bit on the settee, facing him more directly.
He leaned an arm on the back of the settee, resting his head against his upturned fist. “If Móirín thought for one moment she could go back to Dublin and be at all safe, she would. But if she went back, I would too. And we’d be in deep water soon enough.”
“So, you’re protecting the both of you by staying here where you’re safe even though she—and you, I suspect—very much wish you were in Ireland.”
He nodded.
“Why is it you’d go back with her if you know it’d be dangerous?”
“Because”—he took her hand and held her gaze—“‘two make the burden lighter.’ I’ll not leave her to bear her portion of it alone.”
“Instead, the two of you are here, making your current burden lighter.”
His smile was a visible sigh of relief. “What you’re tellin’ me is, rather than worry I’m failing her by not bearing together the burden of returning to Dublin, I ought to lighten the burden of having to stay away.”
“My papa has longed to return to St. Petersburg for sixteen years, and that yearning has eaten away at him. My mum constantly lamented being away from her homeland. There was no sharing the load. In the end, that burden tore them apart.”
He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “So, perhaps I’m not ruining m’sister’s life by failing to find a way of helping her go back?”
“If it ain’t possible, then finding joy in what is possible is a mercy.”
Ganor nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “I suspect you’re right.”
“I cain’t help it. I’m more or less a genius.”
She particularly liked how easily he laughed, that he recognized and seemed to thoroughly enjoy when she was being humorous. She liked to laugh but had done so far less often over the past years than she’d have preferred.
“Well, Madame Genius,” he said, “I’ve shared m’ worry. Now you’re meant to share yours.”
Vera slowly emptied her lungs. “You can likely guess my biggest worry is the threat hanging over Old Compton Street.”
“I’d twigged that, yeah.”
She smiled at his use of the cant phrase she’d taught him. “I’d hoped coming here would let my thoughts rest at night . . .” She let the sentence wander off. Gads, she was even too weary to finish talking.
He squeezed her hand. “Troubles don’t disappear simply because we’re not looking at them.”
“Is that another of your parents’ poetic words of wisdom?”
“I’ll claim that as one of my own.”
She ran her thumb over the thick scars on his knuckles. “Did you get these in Dublin?”
“Most of ’em.”
“You did say you lived a colorful life there.” This evidence of his rough past had worried her when she’d first met him. She saw them differently now. He was a fighter, yes, but one dedicated to fighting for those who needed a champion and for causes worth backing.
“Hideous ol’ things, aren’t they?”
“Not at all.” She threaded her fingers through his, grateful for the strength she found in him. “Thank you again for bringing Captain Shaw around. We’ll all feel safer knowing he’ll answer if we raise the alarm.”
“And yet it doesn’t seem to have set you much at ease,” he said.
“Not entirely.” What a sour broth it all was. “If only we knew who the Protector is; who’s leaving the notes and who set the fire. I had everyone write down what they can recollect about the days they received their notes. I’m hoping against hope there’ll be a clue in there somewhere.”
“Have you looked over the lists yet?” he asked.
“I was completely knackered by the time we left the shop. Even reading felt beyond me.”
“Does it still?”
“If you’d go through them with me, I think I could manage it.”
“Of course.”
She rose and reluctantly released his hand. Until she’d had that connection, she hadn’t realized how much she’d longed for a reassuring touch. For years, she’d reconciled herself to being, in many ways, alone. She’d more or less accepted that the characters she came to love in the stories she read on the sly would be her only reliable companions. Vera was pleased to be wrong.
Her coat was hanging on a hook near the front door. She reached into the pocket where she’d tucked the stack of papers.
When she returned to the sitting room, Ganor was standing beside the round table under the far windows. He’d pulled out a chair for her.
She sat, then set each paper down, the stack turning into three neat rows. Ganor opened the drawer under the tabletop and pulled out a notebook and pencil. He sat in the chair beside hers.
They proved a good team, making quick work of the lists. When something matched between lists, Ganor made a note of it. The similarities ran from the vague to the detailed, everything from “more customers than usual” to “a man with a cane and pocket watch who didn’t buy anything.”
They’d been cracking on with the effort for a quarter hour when she realized a name appeared on every list. “Clare is on all of these.”
“She frequents all the shops,” he said. “I’ve seen her about quite regularly.”
That was certainly true. Vera spun her mind on her gabs with Clare. There weren’t anything suspicious in any of it. “She’s a bit quiet—shy and fragile—but also friendly.”
Ganor read over his notes. “Everyone said ’twasn’t anything odd about her being there.”
Vera shook her head. “It’d be stranger if she weren’t knocking about.”
He leaned back, clearly thinking. “You’ve doubts she’d be the one leaving the notes.”
“Can you picture her being part of something like that?” Vera asked.
“’Twould be out of character, for certain. Unless . . .”
“Unless, what?”
“Unless she’s being forced into it,” he said.
Vera hadn’t thought of that but couldn’t deny it was possible. The entire street, after all, was being forced into paying the Protector. Stood to reason he might be forcing someone to leave the notes.
“Any notion where she lives?” Ganor asked.
“Somewhere near the shop.” She stopped up short. “I suppose I don’t know that for sure and certain.”
“That’ll complicate things.” He rubbed at his mouth and chin. “If we can find her, we might manage to get to the truth of her situation, which might set us on the trail of the Protector, or at least save us a misdirection.”
Vera bent her elbows on the tabletop, searching her memory for any hint Clare had given of her home neighborhood. “We can watch for Clare, but if she ain’t knocking about Old Compton, watching won’t be of much use. It ain’t as if everyone and anyone knows what she looks like.”
It wasn’t Brogan who answered, but Móirín. “So describe her.”
They both turned toward the doorway. How long Móirín had been there Vera hadn’t the first idea.
“Do you mean to help?” Vera asked.
Móirín offered a single nod, then snatched up a stool and sat at the table with them. “We frequent nearly every poor corner of this ol’ town. M’brother knows what she looks like. If I knew, the two of us might run her to ground. Better yet, if we’d a sketch of the lass we could ask around and see if anyone else has seen her.”
