CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Questions at the White Swan
“Our friends do more harm than our enemies, sometimes . . .”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
The White Swan’s landlord was none too pleased to see Adam walk back through his doors.
“If you’re planning on keeping those rooms locked up, you’d best be planning on paying for them.”
“What’s your fee for a night, then?” asked Adam.
“The night, is it?” the man replied sourly. He also named his price. “An’ extra if you’ll be wanting your supper.”
“Naturally,” said Adam.
It was the busiest hour—early evening, with dark just beginning to settle in—and the pub was filled to overflowing. Sara waded through the crowd, plying her jug and wielding her powerful elbows to clear a path between inattentive customers.
Adam took himself up the stairs. There were neither lamps nor candles to light the way, so the windowless corridor was pitch black. Even so, Adam saw the shapes of two men push themselves away from the wall where they’d been lounging.
He froze, his legs flexing and weight shifting, getting himself ready to fight or to flee.
The immediate reaction from the shadows was a burst of laughter. Adam relaxed instantly.
“What are you two doing here?”
Sampson Goutier and Sam Tauton looked at each other. These two men were Adam’s closest colleagues when he was still at Bow Street. Tauton had been an officer for donkey’s years and knew half the ne’er-do-wells of London on sight. Sampson Goutier had been christened Percival by his mother and rechristened by his mates on the river patrol for his size and strength before he came to Bow Street. As canny a patrolman as Adam had ever met, Goutier worked his way swiftly up the ranks, becoming a principal officer in even less time than it had taken Adam.
“This isn’t a conversation to have in the hall.” Tauton pushed Poole’s door open.
Adam swore. “I left that locked.”
“It may be the landlord here is less than trustworthy,” remarked Goutier.
Adam swore again, but he followed them both into the room. He kicked the door shut and shot home the bolt.
Tauton tucked his thumbs into his belt and surveyed the chaos. “I was saying to Goutier someone took a disliking to this place.”
“I wish that’s all it was,” muttered Adam.
“Right, Harkness.” Goutier folded his arms and assumed an air of getting down to business. “What’s going on?”
“What makes you ask?” replied Adam.
Tauton lifted his brows. “Ooh, he’s gotten cagey these days.” He shoved a heap of papers aside and sat on the bed, which creaked dangerously. “Sir David came to see Townsend. Closed the door to the office and all. Less than half an hour later, Sir David leaves, without a word to anyone.”
“Looking like he’s drunk an entire vat of vinegar,” put in Goutier.
“Next thing we know, Townsend’s sent poor little Archie running after Stafford, and then the two of them’s behind closed doors, with Townsend hollering at the top of his lungs.”
“So loud that if you got too near the door, you’d hear every word,” Goutier remarked.
“He went on about Stafford’s assurances and his plans and promises and what’s he going to do now, and what in God’s name is Townsend going to tell the palace—” Tauton broke off when he realized Adam was staring.
“You’re sure?” said Adam. “You’re certain that’s what he said?”
“Half the station is certain that’s what he said,” said Goutier.
Adam scrubbed at his face, several cold possibilities settling into his mind.
“What was Stafford’s reply?”
Goutier shook his head. “Stafford wouldn’t raise his voice to say he’d heard the last trump sound.”
“And none of the clerks have been particularly forthcoming, even after a couple of pints,” added Tauton.
“As they value their jobs,” said Goutier.
“And their skins,” said Tauton.
“So, we came to find you,” Goutier concluded.
“How’d you know where to look?” asked Adam.
“The clerks were not entirely silent,” said Goutier, a little impatiently. “Now, what’s happened, man? Why’s Townsend yelling about the palace in one breath and you in the next?”
“And.” Tauton leaned forward. “You might want to know, Townsend’s convinced Sir David that they should send one of Stafford’s clerks round to help you out. I’m supposing it has to do with this mess.” He nudged the nearest drift of papers with the toe of his boot.
“Of course, it might also be to spy on you,” suggested Goutier.
Adam pressed his hand against his mouth. When he lowered it, it was to curse, roundly and soundly and with a few phrases that raised even Goutier’s eyebrows.
Adam looked from one man to the other, aware of an uncomfortable ambivalence. He trusted both Goutier and Tauton with his life. But he wasn’t Bow Street anymore, and this business he was in wasn’t entirely his business.
On the other hand, this half-heard conversation between Townsend and Stafford raised some immediate questions. Stafford and Townsend surely knew by now that Rosalind was involved in this matter with Mrs. Fitzherbert. And, of course, they knew Adam helped her in her work, just as he helped Sir David.
“If one of Stafford’s men is on the way, you’d best be off, sharpish,” he said to Tauton and Goutier. “Townsend won’t be happy to find out you’re here.”
“Oh, no, me lad,” said Tauton. “You’re not getting off that easy.”
“It’s already dinnertime. Clerk won’t be here until tomorrow,” said Goutier. “So, talk, Harkness. Or I’ll have to tell Sal who made me late getting home.”
Sal was Goutier’s wife. She kept a secondhand clothing shop and had a tongue and a right arm that would have done credit to the Royal Navy. She and Adam actually got on quite well, but she was possessive of her husband and his time. Even more so since the birth of their first son.
Adam set aside his concerns and started talking.
There was no question that he was outnumbered—three to one if you counted Sal—but the truth was, he needed to talk. Tauton had been his mentor when he first got to Bow Street, and he and Goutier had worked side by side for some years. They’d mince no words if they thought he was imagining things. More importantly, he could trust them to keep his secrets and Rosalind’s.
So, he told them about the summons from Mrs. Fitzherbert, about her marriage certificate going missing, about talking to Ranking the next day. About Ranking’s story of Josiah Poole being seen at Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house. About tracking Poole to the sponging house.
About seeing Poole’s corpse tossed into the street and then finding his rooms in this state. About how Rosalind had found his home and family, and how their first question was not about what had been done to Poole but what Poole had done.
When he finished, he was grimly pleased to note that both men were staring at him in unvarnished shock.
“’S truth,” murmured Goutier.
Tauton whistled. “Well, well, Harkness. You have stepped in it up to your neck, haven’t you?”
“Don’t think I don’t know it.” Adam kicked at the papers surrounding his feet. “And now you tell me Townsend and Stafford are in on it, too.”
“Do they know about the certificate?” asked Tauton. “Would Sir David have told Townsend?”
“I doubt it,” said Adam. “He knows Townsend and how Townsend works. One hint that the marriage certificate had gone missing, and Townsend would be off straight to the palace.”
Townsend had been in charge of the king’s personal security for years when he was still Prince of Wales. He still boasted of how he had held the prince’s watch for him when he’d been at the gaming tables, and he wore the white hat His Highness had given him in all weathers.
There was no question that if he heard about the missing certificate, Townsend would tell the king.
Unless Townsend and the king already know.
“Poole’s wife said he’d picked up a new client recently, and a well-heeled one,” Adam told them. “Stafford employs all sorts. It could have been him.”
“Stafford doesn’t stab his informants, as a rule,” said Tauton blandly. “Waste of resources. If he needs to keep them quiet, he blackmails them or jails them.”
“But he also doesn’t act on his own,” said Adam. “If Stafford’s trying to get his hands on the certificate, it’s because someone’s asked him to do it.”
“Do you really think the proof is in here?” Goutier swept a hand out, indicating the stew of papers.
“I hope something is,” said Adam irritably. “Either way, I need to sort this lot before Stafford’s clerk shows up. And you need to get out of here,” he added. “They’ll notice you missing at the station.”
“Not me,” said Goutier promptly. “I’ve gone home to supper.”
“And I’ve got croup.” Tauton cleared his throat. “Who knows when I’ll be fit again?” He picked up a heap of papers from the bed. “So, let’s get started.” He held up the first document and squinted at it. “Harkness, you’d better roust out the landlord and see about some candles. And a supper.”
Goutier must have realized Adam was about to argue, because he smiled easily. “You’re not getting rid of us, Harkness. So, you may as well get along, as Tauton says. There’s a good lad.”
Adam threw up his hands in surrender and went to the door. He shot back the bolt and threw the door open.
And reeled backward.
Tauton shoved himself to his feet, and Goutier straightened up to his full height.
All three of them stared at the thin, crook-necked man who stood quietly in the doorway.
“I thought I might find you here.” Mr. Stafford stepped across the threshold. “I believe we need to talk.”