Sunday, 12 June
T itus Poole?” said Sir Henry Lovejoy when Sebastian stopped by the Bow Street magistrate’s Russell Square house that Sunday morning. “Don’t tell me he’s mixed up in this.”
“That’s what I’m hearing,” said Sebastian, taking the seat Lovejoy indicated. The morning breeze blowing in through the parlor’s open windows was already hot. “What can you tell me about him?”
Lovejoy rubbed his eyes with a splayed thumb and forefinger. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of the man. He was considered a genius when it came to tracking down and catching thieves. Up until five years ago, he was Bow Street’s most famous Runner.”
“Five years ago I was in Portugal.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
“So what happened?”
“Unfortunately, it became apparent that he owed much of his vaunted success to a habit of framing vagrants and lying at their trials. He was never prosecuted, I’m afraid—the last thing Bow Street wanted was to have one of their Runners linked to the kinds of perversions of justice associated with eighteenth-century thieftakers like Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold.” Lovejoy gave a faint shake of his head. “I understand the desire to protect the Public Office, but at the same time I can’t help but believe it was a mistake—in addition to being a serious failure of justice. The man left with his reputation intact and now enjoys a lucrative career as a private thieftaker.”
Despite the establishment of the Bow Street Runners as a quasi police force, private thieftakers were still active in London and the surrounding counties. Typically they received fees for returning stolen goods to their original owners. But they also had a reputation for running protection rackets and lending their expertise to rich men with little respect for the law.
Sebastian said, “It’s been suggested that someone was paying Poole to follow Nicholas Hayes.”
“How odd. If someone knew Hayes had returned to England, why not simply inform the authorities and have the man taken up?”
“That I can’t explain, but I suspect Poole could. Do you have any idea where I might find him?”
“Last I heard he’d married a woman who owns an inn in Warwick Lane, just south of Newgate Street. The Bell, I believe it’s called.”
Sebastian studied the magistrate’s strained features. The graft and corruption of London’s public officials had long been a source of severe aggravation to Lovejoy. “Could Poole kill, do you think? In cold blood?”
“The man’s lies sent a dozen or more innocent men, women, and children to the gallows. I can’t see someone like that balking at murder, can you?”
“No,” said Sebastian.
Lovejoy reached for a small notebook lying on the table beside him and flipped it open to a marked page. “So far we’ve discovered no reasonable explanation for Pennington’s death other than the possibility that he saw Hayes’s killer that night. We’ve also found that Lord Seaforth did indeed spend Thursday afternoon and evening at his club before leaving directly for Carlton House, while the Count de Compans dined with the Regent himself that evening. So both men have solid alibis.”
“It sounds like it. Although that’s less significant when you consider that either man could have hired Poole to do his killing for him.”
Lovejoy sighed. “True. I’ve also heard back from the lads who were trying to find Hayes’s ship. Turns out only two ships from Canton have docked in London in the last several months: the Dover Castle and the Morning. Both arrived in a convoy with three whalers this past Monday.”
“That’s too late. Hayes was here before then.”
“I thought so. There was another convoy of three ships in May—the Clyde, the Earl of Abergavanney, and the Broxbornebury. All three struck the Shambles off the Isle of Portland in a dense fog. The Broxbornebury and Clyde sank in the bay with great loss of life, but the Earl of Abergavanney managed to limp into Weymouth.”
“That sounds like it’s probably our ship.”
Lovejoy nodded. “I’ve sent inquiries to the authorities in Weymouth, to see what they can discover. Presumably Hayes and this child traveled up to London by stage.” He paused. “No luck yet finding the boy?”
“None. Which is worrisome, given that even if the lad doesn’t know whom Hayes was meeting that night, he presumably knows where Hayes went and whom he saw after coming up to London. And that means he could be a threat to this killer.”
“Perhaps that’s why he’s hiding—because he knows he’s in danger.”
Sebastian hesitated a moment, then said, “I’ve discovered nothing definitive one way or the other, but it seems reasonable to suppose that the child could very well be Hayes’s son. And if he’s legitimate . . .”
Lovejoy stared at him. “Merciful heavens.” He was silent for a moment, absorbing the various implications of this possibility. Then he said it again. “Merciful heavens.”
The ancient, winding street known as Warwick Lane ran south from Newgate Street toward St. Paul’s Cathedral. Dominated by the fine octagonal dome of Wren’s famous Royal College of Physicians, this was an area frequented by booksellers from Paternoster Row and busy with traffic going to and from the Warrick Arms, a famous coaching inn. But the looming nearby presence of Newgate Prison and the law courts of the Old Bailey cast something of a pall over the district—that, and the pervasive stench of raw meat from Newgate Market.
The Bell Inn was built around a narrow yard reached through an archway opposite Warwick Square. Dating to the time of Charles II, it was a small but reasonably respectable hostelry, with stables that stretched along the yard’s eastern side. Titus Poole himself was in the yard talking to a coal monger when Sebastian walked up to him.
A balding man in his late thirties, the former Bow Street Runner was a good four inches taller than Sebastian and big boned, with a slablike face and small dark eyes that narrowed at Sebastian’s approach. “I know who ye are,” said Poole, turning away from the coal man. “Yer that viscount. Devlin, ain’t it?”
“That’s right. You’re Titus Poole?”
Poole used his tongue to poke at the wad of chewing tobacco distending one cheek. “And if I am?”
“I’d like to know how you came to be following Nicholas Hayes.”
“What makes ye think I was?”
“You were seen.”
“Ah.” Poole shifted the tobacco from one cheek to the other. “Just so happens I spotted him in Smithfield Market. Thought I recognized him, so I followed him.”
“Why not simply notify the authorities?”
“I wasn’t sure it was him.”
“No?”
“No.”
“For whom are you working at the moment?”
“No one.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Poole gave a scoffing exhalation of air. “I don’t rightly care what ye believe.”
Sebastian watched a towheaded little girl bounce a ball against a nearby brick wall. “So what was Hayes doing when you just happened to see him?”
“Nothin’ of interest. Just walkin’.”
“When was this?”
“A week or more ago. Don’t recollect precisely.”
“And you were still following him this past Tuesday or Wednesday?”
Poole’s eyes narrowed. “Who says I was?”
“The person who saw you.”
Poole gave a dismissive twitch of one shoulder. “Told ye I didn’t recollect exactly.”
“Have you ever worked for the Count de Compans?”
“Don’t think so. Don’t hold with workin’ for foreigners—especially Frogs. M’brother died in Holland, he did.”
“What about the Earl of Seaforth? Ever work for him?”
“Not so’s I recall.”
Sebastian watched the little girl chase after her ball as it rolled away toward the arch. “You seem to have a shockingly poor memory for a former Bow Street Runner.”
Poole set his jaw. “I pay attention when I need to.”
“For whom are you working now?” Sebastian asked again.
“Ain’t none o’ yer business, is it?” said the man.
Which was a slightly different answer, Sebastian noticed, from “No one.” He let his gaze scan the galleries fronting the second-story chambers that ran along two sides of the yard. “I’ll find out, you know.”
Poole took a menacing step toward him, his big head thrusting forward as his lips pulled back from his teeth in a sneer. “Ye reckon ye scare me? Because if that’s what yer thinkin’, yer thinkin’ wrong, yer lordship.” He accentuated the title in a way that turned it into an insult. “People who know what’s what, they’re afraid of Titus Poole. Not the other way around.”
Sebastian met the man’s gritty gaze. “Is that a threat?”
“Just some friendly advice.”
“Ah.” Sebastian gave the man a hard smile of his own. “Then in the spirit of friendship, I have some advice for you: If you’re smart, you’ll come clean sooner rather than later. Because I’ll be back.”