The meal with Gabriel was difficult. They dined again in the same upstairs room in the Black Lion where Flynt often met with Charters, the music from the tavern below drifting towards them on the rise of voices and the clatter of ale pots and plates. The stench of piss from earlier had thankfully dissipated, or at least was successfully countered by the fragranced candles guttering around the room. He knew Gabriel well enough to be aware that he would have intuited something amiss, for the man’s empathetic skills rivalled Flynt’s at gaming, but this night they had either failed him or he chose not to remark upon it, instead keeping up an endless stream of reminiscences of their time on the road and tales of his amorous adventures. Flynt listened and smiled and laughed and contributed a story and a quip or two, but all the while he wondered what game his old friend was playing.
At around ten of the clock Flynt made his apologies, telling Gabriel that the day’s labours had left him fatigued, which was no lie. He also knew he had a long journey ahead of him and he needed a decent night’s sleep. He had already warned the retired military officer who owned the stables where he lodged Horse that he would require her to be bridled and saddled by cock crow. Mrs Wilkes was also aware that he would be absent for some days, although not his destination.
Gabriel seemingly accepted the early termination of the evening’s conviviality with a comment about them both growing old and that in years past they would have carried on all night. At their parting, he suggested that they meet in the morning to discuss if there was any way forward regarding finding Templeton, irrespective of what Flynt may have told his employer.
‘I believe we can’t leave the matter there, Jonas,’ he said. ‘There has to be a way of finding this fellow. After all, people don’t simply vanish into thin air. He is a lawyer, not a magician. There must be a trace of him and damn it, we’ll find it, you and I.’
Flynt agreed, the deception on his part not stirring his conscience a whit.
In the tavern downstairs he saw Bess talking to a soldier in the blue coat with red facing of the recently formed regiment of artillery, who was no doubt negotiating a price for her favours. She spotted Flynt looking at her, said a word to the artillery man, giving him a reassuring caress of the arm, and moved to face him. She was considerably more pristine than previous, and her dress was of more recent vintage than her usual garb.
‘Before you says anything, Jonas Flynt, I ain’t staying in that place no longer. I don’t care what you think, but I am my own girl and that’s all there is to it. That Mother Grady, she’s a right tyrant, she is, and she forced me into that bath and rubbed me down herself. You ask me, I think she enjoyed it.’
Flynt knew Mary Grady would merely be ensuring that Bess was properly clean before she took up space in one of her beds. Anyway, knowing that Romulus Trask was dead did mean that Bess no longer faced any peril from that quarter.
Nevertheless, Trask was not the only reason Flynt had lodged her in Mother Grady’s house. ‘That has to be your decision, Bess, but Mother Grady and Miss Belle would have taken care of you.’
‘I don’t need no taking care of and not by the likes of them, what looks down their noses at ordinary street girls like me, even though we all be the same on our backs, which is what our station is. So I’ll thank you not to preach me no sermon.’
He saw fire in her eyes but no shadow of guilt, no sign of self-recrimination. ‘It was not my intention…’
She flapped her lips to recreate the sound of a fart to let him know what she thought of his intentions, then caught him glancing down at the dress. ‘Yes, I took this with me. They gives me it, they did, for they had burned my other one without even as much as a by-your-leave, so I calculate that this is mine by right, fair exchange being no robbery.’
She glared at him, as if daring him to debate the point, but he merely shrugged and smiled. ‘You must do as you please, Bess. The danger has now passed and you are free to follow your life as you see fit.’ He tipped his hat and stepped around her to make for the door, then paused again. ‘And when you see young Jack, I would be grateful if you would inform him that I will be leaving the city on the morrow for the north and may be gone for some time.’
She sneered. ‘Stay away forever for all I cares. You ain’t good for that lad. One day you’ll be the death of him.’
A promise that he would never purposely see the boy in harm’s way took life in his mind but died before it reached his tongue. She would never accept it. Instead he said, ‘You care for him, don’t you?’
He saw something then that he never thought he would. It was a brief look in her eye, the merest flash, but it revealed the young woman underneath the rock-hard exterior. In that moment he realised that there had once been hopes and dreams in that breast, but they had been eroded by the winds and tides of life to leave the sharp edges. The look was gone as soon as it appeared but Flynt knew she bore tender feelings for Jack, even though her voice was as cutting as usual. ‘He’s a God-rotting pest, is what he is. Panting after me like a little dog. But he has the bunce occasional for a fumble, not that he lasts long, bless him. He’ll learn though.’
‘I feel certain that you’ll be the one to teach him, Bess.’
As he made for the door he could feel her eyes burning into him. She was a formidable young woman but he was gratified that there was even a tiny spark of affection for Jack. She had killed a man only the night before and yet appeared to be entirely unaffected by it. He’d told Belle that murder has a way of festering in the soul, but Elizabeth Lyon seemed to have some form of immunity. He wished he possessed such resistance.
He genuinely was tired so he had chairmen carry him to Charing Cross. Sitting back in the sedan, he rested as much as he could given the fact that the mode of transport often meant being jostled. Thankfully, the journey was as smooth as the expert chairmen could engineer and they deposited him at the coaching inn quickly. No music floated from across the way and as he turned into the archway, his hands rested on his pistols lest there be another attempt at ambush. There was no attack, but in the light of the courtyard lanterns he saw two familiar figures. The largest of them touched the other on the shoulder and pointed in his direction.
‘Jonas Flynt,’ said Jonathan Wild, as ever impeccably dressed and sporting the sword that he believed was a mark of his self-appointed rank.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr Wild?’ Flynt said, nodding to the Thieftaker General’s companion. Blueskin Blake’s broad face, his chin heavily shadowed with a beard that no amount of scraping could clear, did not return the acknowledgment but stared back with his customary mix of distrust and dislike. A fine way for a man to be with someone whose life he once saved, Flynt thought, even though he done so only upon Wild’s order.
‘You are well, I trust?’ Wild said, his voice still bearing echoes of his Wolverhampton roots.
‘Quite well, thank you,’ Flynt replied.
‘Your wounds have healed fully?’
‘They have.’
‘Right glad I am to hear that. There was a moment, back in the winter, when we thought you were lost to the world.’
Flynt felt the icy waters gripping him, numbing the pain of the knife slashes but dragging him down into the depths. Had it not been for Blueskin, they would have. ‘For a moment, so did I.’
‘You had some excitement in this very locale just recent, too, I hear.’
Word travelled fast in the city’s underworld and Wild had an intelligence service to match Charters’. With all these mouths passing on gossip and occurrences, there was no need for newspapers in the flash world, for it would spread through the streets faster than any press could roll it out.
Flynt asked, ‘Do you know the name of the man who tried to kill me?’
‘I do. Peter Simms, a killer of minimal prowess.’
‘His prowess was most certainly minimal last night.’ Flynt didn’t recognise the name. ‘I’ve never met this fellow so had no argument with him.’
‘He was a sword, pistol and fist for hire, but I would wager he would be no match for you, for he worked mostly the lower end of the market. However, it is my understanding that someone got to him before you did.’
Wild’s intelligence was most precise and Flynt had no reason to argue against it.
‘Do you know who?’
‘That is the reason I be here this night. I bring you warning of the man who it was that slit Simms’ whistle. Have you heard of the Wraith?’
‘I have not.’
‘He is very much as his appellation suggests. He comes, he goes, and nobody knows who he really is.’
‘He is also a sword for hire?’
‘That he is, and he is the best. I do not believe he has operated in London before this but I have heard of his work from other parts of the country and, they say, the continent. Most skilled he be at the hushing game.’ He paused to stare beyond Flynt to the street, as if expecting this apparition to manifest himself. ‘They say he has spilled more claret than a drunken nobleman.’
‘Who has hired him?’
‘I hear many things but the names of those who avail themselves of his services is never something that is bruited. The Wraith ensures that his anonymity is secure by using intermediaries for his transactions and that also protects those who pay him. I do know his services are not cheaply bought and that he promises the principal complete satisfaction. All I can say for reasonable certain is that he is walking these streets.’ His gaze drifted again to the street. ‘He may even be watching us at this very moment. Somewhere out there, in the night. Seeing but not being seen.’ In the brief silence that followed Flynt understood that Wild himself was concerned. That, in itself, was concerning. ‘You have irked someone most grievously, my friend. Do you know who?’
Flynt glanced at Blueskin, who remained stoic. ‘There’s a list.’
A chuckle eased Wild’s tension. ‘I thought as much.’
‘There is something that puzzles me, however. If this Wraith is indeed out for my blood…’
‘You may take that as gospel. As you know, my information is seldom wrong.’
‘Very well, why did he not finish me last night when he had the chance? Why kill this Simms fellow and leave me drawing breath?’
Flynt didn’t mention that Romulus Trask had also been killed in a similar fashion. Wild would know of the deaths in the Rookery but hopefully wouldn’t link them. That was a complication to be avoided.
‘From what I understand, the Wraith is exceeding precise in what he does and does not like others of his kind, those lesser qualified shall we say, interfering in his affairs,’ Wild explained. ‘Reports tell me that there is a feline side to his nature. Have you seen a cat with a mouse? He often plays with it, allows it to believe it can evade him, then he pounces. It is a game to him, all sport. I would hazard that is what he is doing here. He plays with you and Simms was finished off because he dared to come between him and his prey.’
Flynt wondered if Wild himself had utilised this man’s services in the past.
‘And you have no idea as to his identity?’
‘Nobody has, from what I understand. Just this name, the Wraith, in which he revels, it seems. Nonetheless, I felt it my duty to warn you of his attentions.’ He touched the brim of his hat and stepped under the archway, then halted and added, ‘I have great respect for you, Jonas, and you did me a service in the affair regarding Justice Fremont. I will not forget that. I look upon you as a friend and, in faith, I would be dismayed should harm befall you.’
Flynt had identified a rogue in his organisation who was working to his own agenda rather than that of Jonathan Wild, who was not a man who encouraged such free enterprise among his associates. He preferred his followers to obey his every command, much as Blueskin had done that night on the icy water.
Blueskin waited until his master was sufficient distance away before he leaned towards Flynt. ‘For what it’s worth, Jonas Flynt, I hope this here Wraith does for you good and proper. You is a rum one, but Mr Wild, he don’t see it clear. But I does. If this phantom do exist, then you is in the shit deep and this time I will not be the one what drags you out. On that you can have my oath.’
He gave Flynt a rare smile, which did not serve to make his features more becoming, and swaggered after his superior. Blake was unaccountably loyal to the Thieftaker General and one day his devotion would prove misplaced. Flynt watched them both turn onto the street and vanish from sight. He took a deep breath and scanned the shadows around him, feeling unease ripple in his stomach.
Moncrieff did not much care for the man before him but his business interests often dictated that he deal with many individuals for whom he did not care. The gentleman’s corpulence was not the issue, for there were a number in his circle whose fondness for food but lack of appetite for any physical pursuits led to an abundance of girth. However, he found slovenly appearance distasteful and drunkenness even more so. Ash speckled the front of the lawyer’s suit along with what appeared to be the residue of meals gone by, suggesting to Moncrieff that a lack of care went into both the smoking of the pipe and the shovelling of sustenance, perhaps caused by a superfluity of liquor. Once again, he felt irritation rise. It was his belief that a man who could not function without overindulgence in any vice – gambling, drinking, women – was not a man to be fully trusted. They did, however, have their uses.
Lemuel Gribble was admitted even though Moncrieff was preparing to retire, Lady Katherine having already done so in order to leave him to deal with correspondence. The man had somewhat laboriously lowered himself into a chair on the opposite side of his desk and Moncrieff regarded him while toying with a blunt silver blade he used to slice the seals on this correspondence. He held it in both hands as though he were testing its weight before throwing. Not that he would ever do anything as common as throw a knife. He hired people to perform such functions.
‘I take it by the fact that you have arrived at my home at such a late hour that you bear news?’
As a member of the legal profession, Gribble was well used to sharp words so he didn’t react to the slight barb in Moncrieff’s timbre. Instead, he cast an avaricious eye towards a table carrying an array of wines and spirits. He even licked his lips. Moncrieff was not oblivious to the rules of polite society and so rose from his chair.
‘Forgive me, my friend,’ he said, feeling neither need for forgiveness nor any form of friendship. ‘I neglect my manners. Would you care for something to wet your thrapple, as we say in my homeland?’ His hand rested on a rather dull bottle filled with an amber fluid. ‘Can I tempt you to sample the aqua vitae of my country? The highlanders call it uisge beatha.’
Moncrieff did not speak Gaelic but he could at least pronounce the Scottish name for the drink. Gribble, however, struggled with it. ‘Oosh… Ooshkay bee…’
Moncrieff allowed himself a smile. ‘It is much easier to simply say whisky.’
Another lick of the lips, causing a wave of revulsion to ripple through Moncrieff. ‘I have never tried it, my lord, though I have heard it be most potent.’
Moncrieff poured a liberal measure into a crystal goblet and carried it to the lawyer, who accepted it eagerly with profuse thanks. To his credit he didn’t empty the vessel immediately but sniffed at the liquid before taking a first tentative taste. However, by the time Moncrieff had returned to his chair on the other side of the desk, half of the measure was gone and Gribble was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Most pleasing, my lord, I thank you for introducing me to it.’
Moncrieff waved the gratitude away with one hand. ‘You are welcome. Now, Mr Gribble, the hour is late and I would be gratified if you would deliver your report. I trust my plan proceeds as we hoped?’
‘Like a Swiss timepiece.’
‘Flynt has taken the bait then?’
‘He has, sir, swallowed it whole and did not even taste it.’
Somewhat like that whisky, Moncrieff thought.
Gribble this time took a sip of the spirit. ‘It would not surprise me if he has not already set off for Gallowmire.’
Moncrieff sat back in his chair. Gribble’s allusion to the art of the clockmakers of Switzerland was fitting, for the plan was ticking along nicely. ‘And he suspects nothing?’
‘I sensed no mistrust of me in his demeanour.’ Another mouthful of whisky was gulped. ‘I added a conceit of my own. A cipher, which I prevailed upon Templeton to leave with the whore. I thought it added something, I hope you are pleased.’
Moncrieff permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Well done, Mr Gribble.’
‘You are satisfied with my work?’
Gribble’s role had been pivotal in the plan’s success so he felt no compunction in bestowing praise. ‘More than satisfied, your contribution has been exemplary and I am extremely pleased.’
The lawyer preened and swallowed another mouthful of the whisky, the hand darting upwards to wipe his lips as before. It, too, seemed like a mechanical movement, as though there were cogs and wheels linking the drinking arm with the hand. How often had the man done that over the years, Moncrieff mused, and if the hand that cleared the residue were licked by a dog, would the creature grow intoxicated?
‘I am delighted to have been of service, my lord,’ said Gribble, ‘and if I can assist you in any further matter then I would be honoured if you were to call upon me.’
‘I will, Mr Gribble, I will. One can never have too many legal minds to consult when conducting business. Especially one with your unique connections.’
It was Gribble’s past history with Templeton that had drawn him at first, but the man became even more important when he discovered his previous connection to Flynt. For his plan to work, the information had to be steered to him by someone he trusted, at least as much as he trusted anyone. It was Gribble himself who added the whore to the mix as a means of seemingly testing Flynt’s resolve. Moncrieff suspected it might over-complicate matters but allowed it to proceed, ultimately recognising that there was a slim chance of the Trasks besting Flynt and thus queering the rest of the plan. And if they did emerge victorious, and Flynt fell victim to them, the only disbenefit would be that he himself would not be present to witness it. Gribble, of course, had no idea what lay ahead of Flynt in Gallowmire. Beyond this point in the affair he need know nothing.
The lawyer emptied the glass and cast a hopeful eye towards the bottle but Moncrieff had no intention of refilling. He had spent sufficient time in this man’s company and now wished him to leave. To that end, he rose, walked around the desk and took the empty goblet from his grasp.
‘I thank you again, Mr Gribble.’
Drunken sot he may be, but he recognised that the interview was at an end. He pushed himself to his feet and extended his hand. Moncrieff did not welcome physical contact with anyone other than his dear wife but he often had to shake hands with those who saw themselves as his equal, or with whom he had to engender some level of fidelity. In this case, he had no intention of allowing Gribble any ideas above his station as a functionary and he cared nothing for his loyalty so ignored the hand and gestured towards the door. Gribble was taken aback by the snub but he recovered quickly.
‘I trust you will consider my name favourably for any service I might perform for your friends,’ he said, hope managing to overcome the slight.
Moncrieff’s jaw tightened. Templeton had been most indiscreet in telling Gribble about the Fellowship, but then if he had not been, he might not have been able to put this plan into motion. Despite his earlier praise, he had no intention of allowing Gribble anywhere near his, or the Fellowship’s, business. The lawyer’s involvement was a one-time-only affair, as he would soon discover.
Nevertheless he managed another smile and said, ‘Of course, my dear fellow. You will, without a doubt, hear from me very soon.’
He opened the door and gestured to the footman stationed outside to show the man to the door. Gribble’s smile was askew as he followed the servant across the hallway, his step hindered by the fact that one of his legs seemed bent inward, the result of a childhood injury he had explained on their first meeting. When he finally reached the door he realised that some obsequiousness would still be required so turned again and bowed towards Moncrieff. It was not an easy manoeuvre for him to make, thanks to his deformity and the fact that he was suffering from the effects of intoxication, but his expertise with both conditions allowed him to achieve it without any mishap. Moncrieff knew nothing of the disappointments in life that had caused the man to seek solace in wines and spirits but of one thing he was certain, he would soon be free of them.
He told the footman that would be all for the night and turned back into his study to find Lester seated in the chair Gribble had recently vacated. Moncrieff knew the man had been waiting in the side room but had made no sound as he entered.
He returned to his own chair. ‘You heard what was said?’
Lester inclined his head.
‘Matters proceed smoothly this far, at least,’ Moncrieff said. ‘As I told you, dealing with a man such as Jonas Flynt requires subtlety of Machiavellian proportions. Now we have to see if he takes the bait.’
Lester spoke quietly. ‘I took the liberty of taking action that may help focus his mind.’
Moncrieff contained his sharp anger. ‘What sort of action?’
‘Further pressure. The instillation of fear and even suspicion can be very potent.’
‘Suspicion of what?’
Lester did not reply straight away. He stared at Moncrieff through his spectacles, his expression as bland as ever. ‘He does not work alone as you thought.’
‘The boy, Sheppard…’
‘No, he has another at his side. A man named Gabriel Cain. He and Flynt seem to be old friends.’
His sudden anger subsided. ‘You know this man?’
Another pause. ‘Our paths have crossed.’
‘And he assists Flynt?’
‘He does. I felt you would wish them separated.’
‘It would be for the best.’
‘Then, as I said, I have taken steps to drive a wedge between them.’
‘What steps?’
Lester’s expression changed slightly. It was little more than a slight hardening of the eyes but Moncrieff understood that he did not like being questioned. Moncrieff didn’t care and held the gaze.
‘Lord Moncrieff, it is not my practice to explain myself,’ Lester said, ‘but I will tell you this and this only. I had a man make an attempt on Flynt’s life…’
Moncrieff cut in, ‘I told you that using common street bullies would not succeed!’
Lester’s manner remained calm. ‘It was not intended to, it was merely a means of driving that wedge, as was the removal of the man Trask. That, and some information I leaked into the city’s underworld should, if successful, make Flynt suspect Cain and separate himself from him.’
Moncrieff considered this. He would dearly love to know what information the man referred to but felt no further amplification of his methods would be forthcoming. Instead, he nodded his assent. ‘Very well, you are most experienced in this line of work and therefore I will make no further inquiry.’
Lester once again inclined his head, whether in thanks or merely acknowledgement Moncrieff could not tell.
‘I presume you wish the lawyer dealt with immediately?’
‘I do.’
Lester was already at the door. ‘The city is a dangerous place for a man alone.’
‘We shall know on the morrow if Flynt leaves for the north,’ Moncrieff said. ‘If he does, it will be in the hands of your friend Lord Gallowmire, although we shall also make all haste there to ensure it.’
Lester turned back. ‘Gallowmire will perform his function admirably.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
A rare smile. ‘Because he enjoys it…’