The Memory of Your Kiss (24 page)

“So, where do we start?” McIntyre asked.

“With Laughton. He’s the most likely suspect and,” Zachary added grimly, “the most likely to harm the child he sees as a threat to his ambitions.”

“You will need a carriage,” Thornton said. “And you cannot go about the city in those army coats.” He immediately dispatched a footman to have a carriage readied and brought around. Then he disappeared
into what must have been his and Allyson’s bedchamber for several minutes. He returned with a brown and a black jacket and a brown cotton shirt. After a bit of trading around for fit, Richardson and McIntyre donned the jackets and Zachary the shirt as Thornton disappeared again.

He reappeared to say, “Here. We may need these too.” He handed over three pistols and shoved one into his own waistband.

“You keep an arsenal in your bedchamber?” Zachary asked. “And what do you mean ‘we’?”

Thornton seemed slightly embarrassed, like a child caught stealing a biscuit. “My wife enjoys shooting, too. And surely you did not think of leaving me behind. You’ll need a driver.”

Within another ten minutes, Zachary had sent off a note to Bow Street, Thornton had informed his wife of what he was doing, and the four of them settled into a Rutherford landau to be on their way.

When they arrived at Laughton’s lodging house, Zachary was not surprised to find Laughton gone. Nor to find his landlady less than eager to help them find him. They sat in the carriage trying to determine what their next move should be. It was very dark. Gas lighting had not yet reached this section of the city, so the only sources of light were a half moon high above murky clouds and an occasional splash of light from an undraped window.

Ruskin and Lowell arrived in a hackney cab as they debated and informed them that earlier in the evening Laughton had been seen entering a gaming hell in the Seven Dials.

“Entering, but not leaving?” Zachary asked.

“He could have left by a back door,” Ruskin conceded, “but his usual behavior is to stay put in one of those places for several hours. We may have made a mistake, but since we were already in that part of town and Laughton seemed set for a while, Lowell and I decided to find out what we could about his new best friends, Olson and Scrubb. Of course, had we known of that missing child, we would have stuck closer to Laughton.”

“That task required both of you?” Zachary asked.

When the Runner hesitated, Adam Richardson answered. “In Seven Dials, a man asking questions had best have someone to watch his back.”

“True,” Zachary agreed. “So, Ruskin, what did you find out about Olson and Scrubb?”

“They move around a lot. Right now Scrubb lives with a whore who works the Charing Cross area and Olson has a room in the back of a fishmonger’s shop in the Dials.” He named the exact locations.

“We’ll start with where those two live,” Zachary said. “They are just the types Laughton might use for such work as this. Ruskin, you and Lowell go back to that gaming hell. If Laughton is still there, one of you keep watch on him and the other report to us at one of these places. If he is gone, try to find out where and when.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Charing Cross location proved fruitless. No one had seen either Scrubb or his woman since noon that day. Zachary cursed the trip as a waste of time and worried anew about poor little William. Anger and frustration kept showing him images of Lucas scared and helpless. Once the carriage—an open landau with two shuttered lanterns—reached the Seven Dials area, they drove slowly past the fishmonger’s shop, pretending to be drunk and to have wandered here unwittingly.

“Where’d you say this light skirt lives?” McIntyre asked in a loud “drunken” voice.

“Uh—here, sh-somewhere.” Richardson stood up and feigned looking around for the right building. It was far darker in this section of the city. “Veronica,” he called loudly and plaintively and fell rather than sat back down.

They heard shutters fly open and bang against a wall on the second floor of the building next to the one that had the fishmonger’s shop. A man leaned out and shouted, “Shut up! They’s some as needs our sleep!”

“Sleep when you’re dead,” Richardson shouted back, then said, “Well, we know for sure one of these flats is occupied.”

The fishmonger’s shop was on a corner. As they passed over the cross street, they could barely make out a delivery alley behind the shop. The main street itself seemed empty, though two doors down was a pub of sorts. Its open door emitted a rectangle of subdued light and a cacophony of sounds: people talking in loud, drunken voices, arguing, singing, and the plinking tones of three or four stringed musical instruments.

Zachary called a halt. “Adam, Cam, let’s check out the rear of the shop. Nathan, drive on. Give us plenty of time to scout out the situation.
Can’t leave horses like these on a street in this part of town at any time.”

“Take one of the lanterns,” Thornton said.

The shop faced onto a main thoroughfare; it was shuttered and dark. The ground floor of the building was raised two feet above actual ground level and there was undoubtedly a cellar beneath. On the side street were two steps leading up to a door that probably led to a hall and stairs for access to other rooms. Zachary tried the door. It was not locked. The alley smelled of rotting fish. Light from an open window above revealed a jumble of debris and garbage. “Watch your step,” Zachary cautioned, as his boots slipped on something soft and spongy. There was also a door here in the alley and Zachary thought it must lead directly to the shop. It was locked.

The sound of a small child crying hysterically assailed their ears as they stood beneath the window, listening.

“Scrubb, can’t you do something to stop that caterwauling?” a male voice growled.

“I give ’im a piece o’ bread. He threw it on the floor.” It was another male voice.

“Well, give it back to him. Or pick him up. Or something. You got a kid. You should know how to deal with him.”

Scrubb grunted and said, “Ain’t seen my boy in ten years ’n’ more.” But he apparently did pick the child up, for the tone of his cries changed momentarily, then resumed their pitch.

The window, set off to the side of the alley door, was too high for any of them to see into the room from the ground. “We need to get a look inside,” Zachary whispered.

“Could just rush them,” McIntyre responded. “Have surprise on our side.”

“We don’t even know that’s the right baby, do we?” Richardson asked. “Besides, he might get hurt. Especially if they are armed.”

They stood in silent frustration. Zachary ran a hand through his hair. Finally, Richardson spoke again.

“Quintin, you are the only one who knows William. If we braced ourselves against the wall, you could stand on our knees and perhaps see in.”

Zachary mentally measured the distance. “That might work.”

With their help and bracing himself against the wall, too, he managed
to look into the room. It had a bed, a table, three wooden chairs, and an unlit coal fireplace. There was also a nightstand that probably held a chamber pot and a dresser with a wash basin and a ewer. All this Zachary saw in a mere glimpse, for his attention riveted on the human figures in the room.

William. And two men. William, alive and so far looking none the worse for his ordeal, though Zachary’s heart wrenched at seeing his tears of fear and despair. Once more, a vision of Lucas in such a circumstance flashed across his mind. William was dressed in only a nappy and a nightshirt. His feet were bare. The two men looked to be in their mid to late twenties. The one holding William was an exceptionally big man with already thinning dark hair; the other had a full head of sandy hair. Dressed as dock workers, they were unkempt and dirty. They sat at a table on which could be seen the remains of a sparse meal. The dark-haired one had William on his knee and seemed to be trying to distract him. So that was Scrubb; the other must be Olson. Zachary saw no sign of a weapon other than a bread knife on the table.

He motioned for Richardson and McIntyre to let him down. They moved slightly away from the window, and he had just finished describing the layout of the room when they heard the crunch of boots approaching. They quickly covered the lantern and flattened themselves against the wall under the window. Then they heard the visitor throw open the door to the room above.

“Ah, my little treasure. My ticket to the good life. Come to Cousin Percy.” The speaker apparently snatched William from Scrubb’s arms, for the child let go with a loud screech of fear and rage.

Zachary mouthed “Laughton.” Richardson and McIntyre nodded.

“Now look what you done. He was startin’ to quiet down,” Scrubb said.

“He’ll quiet soon enough once he hits the river. Just make sure you do it where the river currents will wash the body ashore while it is still recognizable. They have to be able to identify him—not just another unwanted baby tossed away like so much flotsam and jetsam.”

William was still squalling.

“Here. Take him,” Laughton said in disgust. Then he gave a snort of surprise. “What the—?”

Now Laughton was furious. “You idiots! You blithering damned idiots!”

“Wha—?”

“Who you callin’—?”

“You got the wrong damned brat,” Laughton roared. “This isn’t Paxton.”

“He was the only baby we saw in the Paxton nursery.” This was Olson’s voice.

“How do you know it ain’t him?” Scrubb asked. “Babies all look alike.”

“Look at his feet. Paxton heirs always have a tattoo on the inside of their right ankles. A pair of crossed swords.”

“Well, you didn’t tell us to look for no bloody tattoo.” Olson sounded both belligerent and defensive.

“An’ we didn’t see but one baby,” Scrubb said.

McIntyre touched Zachary’s shoulder and whispered, “Shouldn’t we put a stop to this?”

“If we go charging in there like a mad bull, that little boy will get hurt,” Richardson said, also in a whisper.

“Let’s give it another minute or two,” Zachary said. “If they come out, they will come one at a time through that side door. It will be easier to take them.”

Within the room Laughton was still fuming. “What a mess. This is no good to me at all. You’ll have to go back and get the right brat.”

“I ain’t goin’ back there,” Olson declared.

“Me neither,” Scrubb said. “Never do the same house twice. Bad luck, don’t you know?”

“Then you don’t get paid,” Laughton threatened.

“We’ll get paid if you know what’s good for you.” Olson’s threat sounded more ominous than the other’s had.

“Look—I’ll pay you twice as much if you go back for the other boy.” This time it was a desperate plea, not a threat.

A long silence followed, broken only by William’s pitiable cries.

“Too risky. They might have figured it out by now. Too risky by half.”

“I’ll find someone else then.” Laughton’s voice sounded as though he had turned away. “Right now, I have a hackney cab waiting.” The listeners heard the door open.

“What should we do with this kid?” Scrubb asked.

Laughton apparently turned back. “I don’t care. The river? Leave
him on some church doorstep. Do what you will.” The door snapped shut.

Scrubb was heard to mutter, “Don’t seem right to drown ‘im just because he don’t got that tattoo. No profit in that.”

Zachary and Adam crouched on either side of the steps to the side street outer door, their weapons drawn. As Laughton’s boots touched the ground, Zachary said softly, “Good evening, Laughton. Only I suppose it is more accurately morning now, isn’t it?”

“Wha—? You!” Laughton started to reach for a weapon.

Zachary pressed his own pistol against Laughton’s ribs. “Don’t even think about it. I would truly enjoy pulling this trigger. Quietly, now.”

Richardson relieved Laughton of his weapon and they nudged him into the alley where McIntyre still listened beneath the window. Tearing Laughton’s own neck cloth into long strips, they tied his hands behind his back and a gag over his mouth, then forced him to sit in the muck on the ground.

“They’re trying to decide what to do,” McIntyre whispered. “Right now they are opting to give the boy to Olson’s sister to leave as a foundling.”

“I think that will prove unnecessary.” Zachary motioned Richardson to guard the prisoner. “If he moves, kill him,” Zachary said, venting his own cold fury. “Come with me, Cam,” he said to McIntyre.

They went to the side street door, opened it, and boldly walked down the hall to where they saw light under a door. As they pushed into the room, Olson, his back to the door, said, “Forgot something, did you?” Something in Scrubb’s expression caught his attention. He twisted to face two drawn pistols.

“As a matter of fact, we did,” Zachary said. “Hand over that child.”

“Not so fast, your lordship, sir,” Scrubb said sarcastically. He was a big man—even bigger than he had seemed initially. He still held William on his lap. “See this here little neck?” He caressed the child’s neck with a huge hand. “I could break it just like that.” He snapped the fingers of his other hand. “Be like breaking the neck of a kitten.”

Zachary cursed himself for not seeing this possibility. He lowered his weapon, as did McIntyre.

“Get their barkers, Dan.” Scrubb stood, still holding William, whose
sobs were more subdued for the moment. Zachary and McIntyre turned over their guns.

Scrubb said, “Now, you two stand aside as me ’n’ Dan here take our leave.”

Daniel Olson seemed unused to having a weapon in hand at all, and especially inept with one in each hand. Such firepower in the hands of the ignorant was extremely hazardous, Zachary reminded himself as the two men backed toward the still open door, Scrubb first, still holding William.

As they passed Zachary, William cried out and reached toward this person he apparently recognized with positive feelings. That suddenly stiff little body in his arms seemed to startle Scrubb, whose attention was momentarily diverted and he was unaware of the man in the doorway behind him who dealt him a resounding blow to the head. Scrubb uttered a small grunt and, already unconscious, slowly sank to his knees—still with the baby in his arms—then down completely.