Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (30 page)

Ten minutes later, the door to Curtis’s office opened and Percival strode out. He paused on the pavement, and Curtis joined him. After glancing over his shoulder, Percival stepped out. Checking the traffic, he crossed the street, Curtis following.

The six inquiry agents who had answered Curtis’s call streamed out of the building, fanning out in three pairs, then following in staggered formation in Percival and Curtis’s wake.

Davies bounced on his toes. “Should I go now?”

“No.” Stokes pushed away from the wall. “We need to be sure before you take off.” Hands in his pockets, head down, Stokes strode easily along, following the last of the inquiry agents.

He hung back, letting the considerable number of pedestrians in the area provide cover, just in case any of Curtis’s men had hyperaware instincts.

Stokes’s men gradually drifted closer, following several paces behind him, a loose net set to catch anyone among the party they were pursuing who might fall back. None did, and as they trailed down streets leading south and slightly west, it was soon apparent that Percival and Curtis were heading toward the Salisbury Stairs.

Their quarry reached Fleet Street, just east of The Temple, and turned west; Stokes continued ambling in their wake. The men ahead of him strode along easily enough, yet there was an air of purpose in their steps, a sense of focus. Percival, in particular, moved with single-minded determination; he barely seemed to see the people around him—he was always looking ahead.

Keeping pace at Percival’s shoulder, Curtis seemed rather more laconic, or perhaps more taciturn. Or perhaps he was simply harder to read.

Finally, approaching the Strand, with Davies all but straining at an invisible leash, when their quarry reached the point where the road split into two around the Church of St. Clements and Percival led his party onto the south arm, Stokes nodded to the north arm. “Go that way, and you’ll pass them without them noticing you. To Adair first—tell him and Sergeant Wilkes that it’s on, then straight on to the Yard and report to Ferguson on the desk—he’ll be waiting to hear.”

“Aye, sir!” With that, Davies was off. Fleet of foot, he flew down the street, dodging and weaving; within seconds, he was out of sight.

Suppressing a grim, rather feral smile, Stokes continued in Richard Percival’s wake.

T
he Salisbury Stairs were the first set of waterman’s steps west of those under Waterloo Bridge. The stairs lay at the end of Salisbury Street, a middling-sized street of old houses. The stones of the quay where the street met the river’s edge were dark gray, their upper surfaces above the waterline etched with lichens. Below the tideline, the stones were coated in slime.

Sitting in a rowboat, holding it in position just off the stairs with an occasional wielding of the oars, Thomas had plenty of opportunity to observe the sights and the smells. He’d forgotten that particular delight of the capital.

He was dressed like a waterman, his normal clothes entirely covered by an oilskin cape, his features shadowed by the peaked hood he’d pulled low over his head. The cape spread all around him, concealing his awkwardly placed left leg and his cane.

In front of him in the body of the rowboat lay a trussed bundle of cushions designed to realistically represent William; Penelope and Rose had, quite literally, matched the bundle to William’s height and girth.

The children were safely stowed under constant guard, while both Penelope and Rose were waiting—no doubt impatiently—with Montague at Scotland Yard, ready to assist with the subsequent interrogation, assuming Percival took their bait.

Violet was manning Montague’s office in case any further information came to hand. Griselda, much to her dismay, had had to remain home with her and Stokes’s young daughter, who had apparently woken with a cold.

A sudden patter of flying feet on cobbles, and a young man came pelting out of the shadows of Salisbury Street. He raced directly up to Barnaby, who was playing the part of the man in the plaid cap; in an ancient frieze coat over rough workman’s trousers, Barnaby was loitering, clearly waiting for someone at the head of the stairs.

The young man came to a skidding halt and breathlessly gasped, “They’re on their way. Guv’nor said as it was on.” He glanced around. “Where’s Sergeant Wilkes?”

“Here, lad.”

The young man glanced up a narrow alley behind Barnaby, spotted the grizzled sergeant, dressed like a drunk, crouching there, then nodded, gave a weak thumbs-up, and spun on his heel. “I’ve to warn the Yard.” He flung the words at Barnaby and took off again, long legs extending as he raced along the river’s edge, then dodged into the alleyways to the west.

Barnaby glanced at the sergeant, who raised a hand in salute and drew back into the shadows.

Turning, Barnaby looked at Thomas. “Ready?”

Thomas merely nodded. There weren’t that many watermen plying their trade at that time of day; glancing to right and left along the water, then out over the river, Thomas confirmed that there were no other craft approaching the stairs. Leaning on one oar, he steered the rowboat closer until its prow grazed the side of the narrow stone platform at the bottom of the stairs.

In the distance, drawing nearer, he heard the tramp of booted feet. Not the stride of one man but of several.

Eyes narrowing, Thomas glanced at Barnaby—who was standing still and silent, looking into the maw of Salisbury Street. A moment passed, then Barnaby glanced Thomas’s way and flashed his fingers. Five, plus another three. Eight men, then.

They hadn’t expected that many.

Thomas felt a sudden surge of emotions. The excitement, the thrill, was something he recognized from his far-distant past, the anticipation of impending satisfaction when he’d closed a difficult deal, or made an unprecedented financial strike, but this time, other feelings—surprisingly potent and strong—were laced into the roiling mix. The strongest, most powerful, was a form of anger—a latent fury blazing up like touch-paper at the lick of a flame at the prospect of finally coming face-to-face with the man behind the cold-blooded murders of Rose’s and the children’s mother, of William and little Alice’s father, who had stolen so much from the three. The man who had forced Rose to forfeit the life she should have had to keep her half siblings safe and alive.

To survive herself; Thomas harbored no illusions over what Percival would have done to Rose had he ever caught her.

That righteous fury flared and Thomas welcomed it, embraced it—surprised to realize he’d felt its like once before, over Charlie Morwellan’s refusal to accept the freely offered love of his wife and openly admit to her that he returned it.

But that time righteous fury had been fueled largely by frustration. This time . . . it was that other emotion, the one Rose, and, in a somewhat different version, the children, too, evoked.

That was what made today’s fury burn so much hotter than in the past.

The city’s bells started tolling the hour, and Thomas had a blinding flash of insight. He felt so strongly—because he truly cared.

Because those three were so important to him now.

Because he loved.

A gentleman came striding out of Salisbury Street. Behind him, the tramp of boots slowed. From where he bobbed on the water, Thomas saw six men—inquiry agents all—fan out to block the end of the street.

Richard Percival—it could only be he—strode boldly forward, eyes narrowing as he scanned Barnaby, noting his plaid cap. Then Percival’s gaze moved on to the boat and Thomas, and finally came to rest on the bundled cushions at Thomas’s feet.

Percival halted an arm’s length from Barnaby; his gaze remained locked on the bundle representing William.

To Thomas’s eyes, Percival’s gaze looked hungry, drawn.

Close behind Percival, a heavyset man with a close-cropped head and the build of a brawler, garbed in a plain but good-quality suit, ambled with deceptive gentleness to a solid halt.

Curtis. Thomas kept his head angled so the cape’s hood shaded his features. He’d dealt with Curtis several times in his previous life; there was a reasonable chance the highly observant man would remember his face if he saw it, scars notwithstanding.

Curtis noted him assessingly, measuring also the distance to the boat, but then looked at Barnaby.

Thomas transferred his gaze to Percival; the blackguard looked . . .

The word that leapt to mind was tortured, but there was no sympathy in Thomas’s soul; his fury welled, pure and hot, and he had to fight to suppress a snarl.

Percival had been sizing up Barnaby, who Thomas now wouldn’t have recognized. The man was a chameleon; he appeared shorter, more hunched, definitely seedier.

Percival’s gaze fixed on the plaid cap atop Barnaby’s dusty—liberally dusted with ash—curls. “So.” Percival’s voice was hard, rigidly controlled. “You say you have the boy.”

Barnaby glanced briefly at the bound lump at Thomas’s feet. “Right little beggar, he is.”

“He’s alive?”

Thomas blinked at the desperation in Percival’s voice.

Barnaby bobbled his head. “He’s well enough. You got the cash? Thousand pounds, or me mate sets sail.” Barnaby gurgled a short, rather ugly laugh.

Percival spat an oath and turned to Curtis, who reached into his jacket pocket, drew out a wad of notes, and handed it to Percival, but Curtis’s watchful gaze never left Barnaby.

“Here’s your money.” Percival thrust the notes at Barnaby. “Now”—Percival turned to the boat, his gaze once more locking on the trussed bundle—“give me the boy. And for your sake, he’d better be alive.”

Percival’s tone and the look on his face made Thomas frown, but Barnaby, deep in his disguise and busy ostentatiously counting the notes, only bobbed another bobble-headed nod. “Comin’ right up, guv’nor. Jest as soon as I knows you haven’t diddled us.”

Turning slightly as he counted, Barnaby slid his left hand into the pocket of his horrible coat and drew out a silver whistle. Shooting a glance at Thomas, Barnaby raised the whistle to his lips and blew.

The shrill note sliced through the morning.

Percival leapt as if whipped. “What the . . . ?”

Curtis spun toward Salisbury Street, but then he saw Sergeant Wilkes come barreling out of the alley making for Percival. Curtis swung back and nimbly intercepted the burly sergeant, engaged, and threw him back.

Curtis’s men didn’t wait for any signal but came charging out onto the quay.

As they did, the rest of Stokes’s men, all in disguise, poured out of the mouths of the tiny alleys and lanes.

Curtis’s men swung around and met them in a snarling, fist-swinging clash.

Fleet of foot, Barnaby ran down the stairs and stepped into the rowboat as Thomas pushed off with an oar.

Richard Percival, momentarily distracted by Sergeant Wilkes’s charge, and then the swelling melee, spun around, saw . . . he roared and charged down the stairs.

Thomas swung one oar out and fended off Percival, then the rowboat floated out of reach.

“
Bring him back!
” Percival swore. “What the devil do you want with the boy?” Then, his gaze falling on the bundle from a different angle, his expression changed. “Did you ever have him?”

Another whistle sounded, two short, sharp blasts, followed by Stokes’s bellow: “
Police!
”

The effect was instantaneous. Curtis’s men froze.

“What?”

“Police?”

One minute, Curtis’s men were brawling; in the next, they disengaged from their opponents and stepped back. Slowly, openly puzzled at the sight of the squad of beggars facing them, they lowered their fists.

After several seconds of total astonishment, as one, the six men looked at Curtis.

Who had stopped fighting Wilkes. Even though the sergeant maintained a dogged hold on one of Curtis’s arms, the man ignored him, instead staring across the quieting quay at Stokes. Then Curtis glanced at Thomas and Barnaby in the rowboat, then swung his gaze to Richard Percival. His face a mask of confusion, Curtis demanded, “What the hell is going on?”

Richard Percival returned his look with one of equal incomprehension.

Stokes pushed through the large bodies crowding the quay. He glanced at Barnaby and Thomas, then went down the slick stairs to where Richard Percival stood on the narrow shelf at the bottom. “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.” Meeting Percival’s gaze, Stokes clamped a heavy hand on Percival’s shoulder. “Richard Wyman Percival, I’m arresting you on a charge of conspiring to kill your ward, William Percival, Viscount Seddington, and with having caused or conspired with persons unknown to bring about the deaths of the late Robert Percival, Viscount Seddington, and his wife, Corinne.”

Percival’s features showed nothing but utter astonishment; his jaw had dropped. “What?” The word was weak; he swallowed, then stated, “No! You have it wrong.”

He went to shake off Stokes’s hold, but an enterprising constable was already there, waiting with shackles to assist Stokes.

Percival saw, stiffened, but then gave up the fight. “Very well.” The words were spoken with a cutting edge. He glanced, narrow-eyed, at Barnaby and Thomas. “I don’t know who you are, or what your game is, but if you believe I’m guilty of any of those charges, you are beyond misguided.”