The Merchant and the Rogue, page 21
Fletcher jumped into the discussion once more. “Were that the only difficulty Brogan’s juggling, I’d not’ve dragged the lot of you here.”
Brogan knew the underlying message in those words: the Dread Master had given the nod to tell these few Dreadfuls about the blackmail. But unless Brogan received a letter specifically telling him to do so, he’d not reveal his assignment or the Dread Master’s involvement.
“Baron Chelmsford, former Lord High Chancellor, is being blackmailed,” he told the group, “and that blackmail is being perpetrated by the Mastiff.”
This, clearly, was new information among them. Surprised and concerned glances were exchanged all around.
“The man that owns the print shop where I work has been forced to create counterfeit documents, likely by holding over his head the axe of his own difficult history. The Russian Ambassador is being forced to corroborate the forgeries, likely by means of threats. The papers that will be his downfall are assumed to already be at Chelmsford’s house, tucked in a place where they will be discovered and made public.”
“Any notion what the forgeries are?” Elizabeth asked.
He pulled the papers from his coat. “A letter from Lord Chelmsford”—he held it up—“asking the ambassador not to reveal the existence of this document”—he held up the marked drafts—“which is also a forgery.”
“What’s the document about?” Doc asked.
“A list of names, of payment amounts, and what was being paid for. Printed at the top are the words ‘Securing a Verdict in the Radlett Case.’ The obvious inference is that this is meant to document the bribing of witnesses and judges and such to obtain a particular verdict.”
“This is to do with the Radlett murder?” Hollis let forth a low whistle. “Chelmsford’s efforts in defending Joseph Hunt in that trial are quite famous. It is the stuff of folklore: songs recounting the gruesome scene, waxworks recreations, penny dreadful retellings.” Hollis gave them all knowing looks. “Calling into question his role in something so well-known is a risk.”
“What’s the risk to Chelmsford?” Stone asked.
“That trial is one of the reasons he was made a baron. His reputation, his accomplishments, his potential future place in administrations rests in significant part on that case,” Hollis said.
“It seems ruining Lord Chelmsford is the goal here,” Elizabeth said. “Except, he likely can prove it false.”
“Or,” Fletcher jumped in, “he can likely almost prove it false, but even doing that would leave lingering doubts. And the Mastiff likely has a plan for addressing those doubts . . . for a price.”
“More blackmail,” Brogan said.
“More ‘protection payments,’” Doc tossed back. “Have you considered that maybe the two schemes might be related?”
Saints. “I’m considering it now. The extortion notes are signed by someone calling himself ‘the Protector.’ Might very well be yet another colleague of the Mastiff.”
“It’d make sense,” Fletcher said. “Threatening the street kept everyone’s attention off Mr. Sorokin, including his daughter’s. With their resources strapped in more than one way, they’d be that much more vulnerable.”
Brogan pulled out of his pocket the sketch Móirín had made of Clare. “This is the woman we think has been leaving the notes. If the Mastiff is connected, she might be a clue to finding him. Maybe we could finally stop him.”
He handed the paper to Elizabeth.
Hollis eyed it over her shoulder. A gasp escaped, apparently involuntarily. “It’s her.”
“You know this woman?”
He nodded. “It isn’t a perfect likeness, but . . .” Hollis studied the face as he spoke, low and quick. “Do you remember when I was infiltrating the gambling house and there was a housekeeper, Serena, who helped us escape and begged that we rescue her and her children?”
The DPS had been attempting to find Serena ever since, wanting to uphold their promise and help her escape the clutches of the infamous Mastiff.
“This is her.” Hollis tapped the sketch. “I’m certain of it.”
Boil and blast. Serena was likely still in the employ—
coerced, no doubt—of the criminal mastermind, being forced to do his dirty work for him, just as she had in the gambling den, though now she was going by a different name, likely also forced on her.
That meant the Mastiff was connected to the trouble on Old Compton as well as to the forgeries. There didn’t seem to be a rancid pie he didn’t have a finger in.
“Lives are in danger on that street,” Brogan told them. “The Sorokins look after urchins; two work at the shop regularly. There’re families living over the businesses there. Women who’re already being exploited are now even more vulnerable. Street vendors with nowhere to hide. We have to find a means of stopping this. All of it.”
No matter that the Dreadfuls likely still didn’t think too well of Brogan for having abandoned the organization, they united fully and quickly under the necessity of a desperate cause.
“We need to unravel the game from the top,” Fletcher said. “It’s the only way to stop both efforts with one blow.”
“It’d be easy enough to watch the street,” Martin said. “A few extra eyes’d make a difference. Sounding the alarm when needed, stopping assaults. Keeping a weather eye out for this mort”—he tipped his head in the direction of the drawing of “Clare”—“and see if we can’t thwart any roughs that come by to make trouble. We can set up a rotating watch of Dreadfuls. Might take a bit to organize it, but it can be done.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Brogan said.
“How do we stop the blackmail scheme when the documents are already at Lord Chelmsford’s house?” Doc asked.
“Can you warn him?” Elizabeth asked Brogan
He shook his head. “Not without implicating the other victims. And I’ve every reason to believe they’re being watched—the other victims, I mean. If they double-cross the Mastiff . . .” He let the sentence hang unfinished. They didn’t need to be told again how dangerous their greatest foe truly was.
“So steal ’em,” Stone said in his usual direct manner, bringing all eyes to him. “If the papers disappear when neither fella is anywhere near Chelmsford’s house, they can’t be blamed for it.”
“They’ll likely be in the man’s library.” Fletcher shook his head. It was a tall ask, for certain. “None of us is that stealthy.”
With a sigh, Hollis said, “Ana is.”
She’d had a long, impressive, and entirely secret career as the legendary sneak thief the Phantom Fox.
“Would she help?” Brogan asked. “’Tis a risky business, this.”
“I’d wager she’d be willing,” Hollis said, “but giving her information about this raises the possibility that she’ll sort out more of the DPS and our efforts. I’d guess she’s not far off the mark as it is.”
“We’ll be careful,” Fletcher said. “We’ve already lost one member over the weight of secrecy. We can’t afford to lose another.”
Vera caught herself staring off into nothing at odd times as she knocked about the shop. Papa was drowning in illegal and dangerous forgeries. Her neighbors were on edge and worried. She was as confused as ever about Brogan Donnelly. She had every reason to be worried as a toad, and yet she was frustrated with herself for being so entirely distracted.
“Ye’re full clutched today, Miss Vera,” Olly said. “What’s worrying you?”
“Nothing.”
“I ain’t bacon-brained.” Olly popped his fists on his hips. “You’re fretting, and I’d guess it’s to do with Mr. Donnelly.”
She’d had to explain to the children why the man they’d known as “Ganor” no longer worked at the shop. That he was, in addition to being dishonest, a murderer, she’d chosen not to spill into their ears.
“We’re well rid of him, and I’m not thinking on him at all,” Vera said.
“What a heap of bung,” Licorice said. “Not having him here ain’t helping nothing, and you’re thinking on him, sure as anything.” She looked toward the back room where Papa was passing the day. “Mr. Sorokin certainly ain’t in better spirits since Mr. Donnelly quit coming.”
If only the little ones knew why that was.
“Mr. Donnelly lied to you lot. Don’t that burn you?”
Olly shrugged. “He gave a wrong name. We’ve all done that.”
Licorice nodded. “You really think Bob’s Your Knuckle is that sprout’s true name?”
“You mean to simply forgive him?” Vera eyed the urchins, unsure which answer she wanted them to give.
“He saved me from being snatched off the street,” Licorice said. “And he never acted like I owed him anything for it, never held it over my head. He helped because that’s what he does. He may’ve lied about his name, but he didn’t lie about who he is.”
“The mad thing is,” Vera said, “I don’t think the two of you are entirely wrong about him.”
“Ain’t nothing mad about it,” Olly insisted. “Smart as whips, we are.”
She couldn’t help a smile. How she adored these two. On those days they spent time at the shop, they filled it with joy.
Sudden commotion out on the street pulled all their attention to the front windows. Voices shouting. What sounded like wood splintering. Thuds. Cracks. Crashes.
Outside was absolute chaos. Peter’s cart had been overturned, and men with clubs were smashing it to splinters. His produce was strewn throughout the street, being crushed underfoot and under carts. Anything salvageable was snatched up.
Vera rushed out. Others were running from their businesses toward the fray. With an elbow and shoulder thrown hard against one of the assailants, Vera managed to knock him down.
Rather than fight back, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He said it again and again, his tone fearful.
“Sorry for what?”
“Didn’t wanna do it.” The man rolled, getting to his feet. “We don’t have a choice. They make us.”
Even the assailants were being forced into this. More blackmail. More extortion.
The man grabbed the arm of the other apparently unwitting ruffian. “That’ll be enough. Cain’t fault us for that much.”
And they rushed off.
Peter was decidedly worse for wear. His lip was bleeding, and a bruise was quickly forming on his jaw. But the look on his face was more worrying than his physical state. Devastation. Absolute devastation.
“I didn’t obey the last note,” he whispered to Vera, looking at the shattered remains of his livelihood. “Wanted me to bust someone up. I wouldn’t do it.”
Mercy. “Bust ’em up like was just done to you?” Vera asked. “Instead of paying money?”
Peter sat on the pavement, slumped and defeated, the exact posture Mr. Overton had assumed when his business had burned. “We ain’t never gonna shake them, Miss Vera. Not ever.”
She’d done her best to help them all, including herself, and she’d failed. Again and again she’d failed.
“This has happened before?” Papa had arrived in the midst of the chaos.
“I’ve told you about this, pápochka. The money for protection. The fire. All of it is connected.”
“I didn’t—” He scratched at his beard. His eyes scanned the wreckage, then shifted to the ashes of the barbershop across the street. “I thought I was keeping us safe.”
“How were you keeping us safe?” she asked.
But he only shook his head and wandered off.
The business owners, street vendors, and locals were there, picking through the piles of broken wood and finding, to Vera’s relief, some salvageable fruits and veg. Even with that unforeseen bit of good luck, their faces made clear how quickly they were losing hope.
She couldn’t fail them again. She wouldn’t.
“Neighbors,” she called out to them. “This is no time to abandon ship. The men what did this were victims of extortion, just as we are. They didn’t want to be part of this. But the Protector, I’m full certain, required it of them.”
“How does that give us hope?” Mrs. Bianchi asked.
“All of this—all of it—depends on the strong-arming and threats working. We loosen even a few links in that chain, and the scheme falls to bits.”
“It’s too big,” Mr. Overton said. “There’re too many links.”
“But most of those links are us.” She spoke with as much firmness and confidence as she could. They needed to be reassured. She needed to find the strength to offer them that. “We can break the chain.”
“Not if they break us first,” Mr. Okeke said.
“If we don’t fight back,” Peter said from where he sat on the pavement, “then they’ve broken us already.” He took an audible breath and stood. “We can’t abandon each other.”
“But we’re just small folks.” Burnt Ricky’s little voice trembled. He crushed the sides of his coat in his tight fists. Few things fretted a child of the streets.
“These big men, with their notes and their threats, cain’t follow through without us,” she said.
Interest flickered.
“If enough of us refuse, their schemes fail.”
“She’s bang up to the mark on this.” Brogan emerged from the crowd and stood beside her. “Breaking the chain is the best chance we have.”
Heaven help her, that we warmed her through. He’d helped with Papa’s trouble. He was still helping her neighbors. He was standing beside her.
“How do we do it?” Mr. Bianchi asked.
Brogan, rather than seizing the reins as so many men would do, deferred to her as naturally as if they’d decided on the arrangement ahead of time. She hadn’t a plan but was formulating one as she spoke. Still, she weren’t entirely without ideas.
“London is a large city,” she said, “and, yet, its boroughs and corners are connected by the people. I was brought up in Southwark and know people there still. We’ve customers in Charing Cross and Westminster I could call on. Peter, I’m certain you know other street vendors who sell in other areas.”
“I do,” he confirmed.
She looked to Brogan. “You and your sister know a few vendors in Covent Garden.”
“That we do.”
Turning back to the crowd, she continued. “Our Olly knows urchins who know every corner and seemingly every person in London. Licorice, Bob’s Your Knuckle, and Burnt Ricky likely know all the rest.”
“We know people in Clerkenwell,” Mr. Bianchi said.
“And I’ve plenty of friends and family in the Rookery,” Mrs. Murphy said.
Mrs. Okeke added her voice. “I’ve people in Bethnal Green and Wapping.”
“We’ve connections,” Vera said. “Those connections have connections. If everyone—or at least enough of everyone—stands their ground against our tormentor, he’ll lose his footing.”
“We can do this,” Brogan said. “I’ve watched as you’ve helped each other. I’ve seen this strength in other corners of London. This challenge can be met. I know it can.”
“We’re fit to this purpose,” Peter said to them all. “I don’t want this”—he motioned to his shattered cart—“to happen again. But if we don’t do something, it will for certain.”
“We all know people outside of Soho,” Mr. Overton said. “If we begin today, we can gather people to the cause in the parishes of London, the poor, the tradesmen, the merchants. We can free ourselves.”
Discussions immediately began among them, comparisons of who they knew and where, decisions about going together or dividing the efforts. They were focused and determined and convinced. They weren’t giving up.
“Do you think we can truly do this?” she asked Brogan out of the side of her mouth.
“You won’t be doing it alone,” he said. “All your neighbors are rallying. And I’ve a few friends who’ll help as well. I’d actually hoped they’d be watching this street already, but organizing takes time.”
“And experience.” Vera sighed. “I haven’t got much of either.”
“You’ve spread hope here today. That’s a powerful thing.”
A familiar and unexpected voice replied, “Not powerful enough.”
She turned at the sound. For the length of a breath, she couldn’t speak. Clare. The one likely delivering the notes. The only undeniable link they had to the Protector.
Clare held out a folded bit of paper. “You might stop this part of his plan, but it’s bigger than you know. It’s bigger than anyone knows.”
“Help us stop him,” Vera pleaded.
She shook her head, still holding out the paper. “I ain’t got a death wish.”
“But you said we could stop this part,” Brogan said. “How?”
“Please take the note. I’m risking too much even talking to you. If he finds out—”
“He?” Brogan repeated. “The Mastiff?”
The Mastiff? Vera thought they’d been talking about the Protector.
“He times me. If I return late—” Clare visibly shuttered. “Take the note. Please.”
“We can protect you,” Vera said.
Clare shook her head. “No one can be protected from a storm this large.” Apparently giving up on Vera taking the note, she shoved it awkwardly into Brogan’s outercoat pocket, and rushed off.
“Who is the Mastiff?” Vera asked.
“Explaining that requires I tell you what I’ve discovered about Clare.”
“What did you discover?”
“I’ve a friend who knows her, but as ‘Serena.’”
Another person with a false name?
“Serena works—or worked—as a housekeeper for a man known as the Mastiff, a criminal mastermind with connections throughout London. He’s beyond dangerous. Even the police are afraid of him.”
