CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Sponging House

“I shall die and nothing tell of my existence!”

 

Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

Adam had no need to ask Ranking, or anyone else, the way to Ross’s sponging house. He had often visited Ross’s, and other houses like it, to fetch out a man under suspicion or to coax information from a desperate soul.

The sponging house had stood on this spot since the days of William and Mary. The original structure had been expanded by each passing generation of Rosses. Now it was a dubious combination of soot-stained brick, dirty timber, and a roof that looked like it might not last out the week if the weather turned stormy. It also stretched back a surprising distance from the street, with crooked gables and puzzling additions jutting out here and there.

The sponging house’s servants were turnkeys dressed as shabby footmen. It was their job to check the men out and check them back in again before the doors were locked for the night. Bribes were a matter of routine. Many residents handed over rings or stickpins or watch chains in exchange for a few extra hours out in the fresh air.

Adam asked the man at the door for Ross and was reluctantly told to look in the office.

“I know the way,” Adam told the man and started down the long, narrow hall before the other could heave himself up off his stool beside the door.

There had been some effort to turn the inside comfortable. The paint on the walls was fresh, and if the linen and furnishings were not precisely new, neither were they threadbare. There were fireplaces in most of the rooms. Adam happened to know the residents were charged extra for the coals.

The men residing there—and it was all men—defied all attempts to create comfort. They looked haunted. The air around them smelled heavily of the spirits they drank (and were charged for). The writing tables in the parlors were always crowded with fellows sporting crooked collars and loose cravats, penning yet more begging letters as they tried to raise the necessary sums from someone. Anyone.

The costs of pen, paper, and ink were all added to the bill.

It made no sense. It never had. How was a man who could not pay his existing expenses to pay the added bills from the sponging house? And yet it was the system, and it ground on, and that seemed to suit Gareth Ross well enough.

Ross’s office was the one genuinely comfortable room in the house. The open window had clean muslin curtains, and the lamps were turned well up. The broad table was piled high with papers and ledgers.

Adam pushed the door open without bothering to knock. “Hello, Mr. Ross.”

Ross was a big man with mottled pink skin, a long nose, and a bald head. He wore a good black coat and stovepipe trousers and looked much more like a schoolmaster than a jailer, at least until he looked right at you. Then you felt the cold calculation of a man who saw his fellow human beings in terms of how many shillings might be wrung out of them.

Or, in Adam’s case, how much of a danger they posed.

“Well, now, Mr. Harkness,” said Ross, his voice low and heavy. “What brings you here?”

“I have a question I was hoping you could answer.”

Ross’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Do you? And why should I bother myself with answering your questions? You ain’t Bow Street anymore. In fact, I heard you’ve made yourself all snug behind some very nice petticoats.”

Adam leaned across the desk. He did not shout. In fact, he lowered his voice. “You speak about the lady in question again, and I will see you in the dock.”

“For what?” Ross spread his hands. “I’m as honest as the day is long.”

“For all the little items that find their way into your hands, whether their owners know it or not,” said Adam. “It’s all strictly for the benefit of the sterling clientele you keep here, I know, and of course they all are the right owners of whatever they give you to sell on.”

“Now, then, Mr. Harkness, it’s all by way of business.” Ross’s attempt at joviality sent a shudder down Adam’s spine.

“Naturally,” agreed Adam. “And you and I both know the magistrates have the warmest regards for men in your business and will demonstrate their complete faith in your honesty as soon as you explain the matter to them.”

“I don’t care for your threats.”

Adam said nothing. He just held his gaze steady. Ross threw out his chest, and for a moment Adam thought he had misjudged the other’s bravado. But as the silence stretched, Ross withered. His brow and bald scalp also took on a noticeably damp sheen.

“Well, I don’t see as a few questions can do anyone any harm,” Ross muttered.

“Of course not.” Adam straightened up. “In fact, all I need from you is to tell me where I can find Mr. Josiah Poole.”

“Poole?” exclaimed Ross, both surprised and relieved. “What d’ye want with him?”

Adam didn’t answer.

Ross sighed. He also pulled out his heavy silver watch and checked the time.

“Well, you’re in luck.” Ross tucked his watch away. “He has several clients among my guests, and he generally stops by before lunch. If you care to wait, you should meet with the man before the hour’s up.” He waved an expansive hand. “An’ if for some reason he don’t make his appointments today, you can look for him at the White Swan. Will that do?”

“It should.”

“The parlor is at your disposal.” Ross gestured grandly toward the door.

“Thank you,” replied Adam gravely. “But I think I’ll wait outside. I’ve no wish to make any of your guests uncomfortable.”

“Suit yourself,” said Ross. “Was that all? Don’t see why you need to make such a fuss.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Ross.” Adam made his bow.

“Always glad to help the law,” said Ross.

Adam did not bother to reply.

* * *

The street outside the sponging house was relatively quiet, especially for the heart of London. What people there were slunk by quickly. Even the barrow pushers seemed in a hurry to get out of this street in the shadow of Newgate, as if its bad luck might cling to them.

Adam found himself an unobtrusive spot in the shadow of the sponging house and composed himself to patience. It seemed that much of his life had been spent like this—waiting for someone else to make up their mind.

Like Rosalind.

Adam frowned at the stray thought. It was ungenerous, and he didn’t like himself for having it. Rosalind loved him, and he would love her until he took his last breath. That was not in doubt. From the day he made his decision not to fight against the dictates of his heart, he had known it would be difficult. The demands of class, and the narrowness of the path that her past had fitted her to, were not going to go away for wishing, or for love, no matter how deep.

They had both been raised to the idea of marriage. Adam had always seen it as the fit state for a man and a woman. It was a pledge of support and the heart’s commitment to the work of life and family, as well as the love and respect for the other.

For Rosalind, it was a tangled morass. It was loss and danger and enforced dependence. That was a great deal to ask anyone to see beyond.

And yet her inability to do so left him not angry, not even sore or frustrated, but puzzled. He wanted to do something but didn’t know what that something ought to be. Because the fault was not Rosalind’s. It lay in her past, and in the world they must try to navigate together. These truths left him uncertain that there was anything that could be done, now or ever.

Except there was something. Adam touched his coat pocket. And he knew how to be patient. Their time would come.

While Adam sorted through these thoughts, he also noted the fresh sound of horses’ hooves. A closed carriage, somewhat battered, drawn by unmatched and undistinguished chestnuts, rolled up the street. The driver had his hat pulled down and his coat collar turned up. A dirty scarf muffled his face.

Adam resisted the urge to straighten, but his attention fastened on the driver. The day was warm. The man must be stifling.

The carriage stopped in front of the sponging house, and its door opened. It rocked slightly, and a fat, dark bundle dropped onto the cobbles.

Adam sprinted across the street. The bundle unfurled, turning into the unmistakable figure of an unconscious man.

A man with fresh red blood pouring out over the front of his shirt.

Adam dropped to his knees beside the man, aware even as he did that the carriage was already clattering away.

“Stop that carriage!” Adam bellowed to the world in general. “Raise the hue and cry and stop that carriage!”

Passersby shouted. Some ran forward, but it was too late. The carriage driver lashed his horses mercilessly, and those who tried to reach the carriage reeled back to avoid being run down.

The carriage rounded a corner and was gone.

Adam looked down at the fallen man and saw that he was also gone beyond recall. He held his palm to the man’s mouth to be sure, but there was no breath to feel.

“Dear God!” shouted a man behind him.

A crowd was already gathering—a mix of bystanders and men from the sponging house. The doorman he’d talked to earlier was first among them.

“Do you know him?” Adam shouted to whoever might be able to answer.

“Know him!” cried the doorman. “I should say! That’s Josiah Poole!”