with the third floor of the south warehouse, the one they call Greene House, on account of it being bought once, long ago, from a spark called Greene.”
“What do they do on the third floor of the Greene House?”
“I can’t say, as ain’t no one allowed there. Any deliveries or removals have to be done by Aadil’s men and no one else, and every time he brings something in or takes something out, Mr. Forester ain’t too far behind.”
“Have you asked him about it?”
“No, I haven’t done that any more than I would stick my head in the mouth of a wolf. You only have to look at the cove to see he don’t want you asking, and as you value your place here, you’ll stay away from the business.”
“Is not anything that happens in the warehouses now part of my business?” I asked, with deliberate obtuseness.
He laughed. “I’ve worked here now the better part of these twenty years, Mr. Weaver, and I can tell you as much as this: Craven House is a place of secrets and hidden alliances and graspings for power that would do any stage play proud. That’s how it’s always been. The men what want to get ahead have to plot and sneak to destroy their betters. That’s all. You ain’t got anything to gain by discovering what those two are up to, but on the other hand you got nothing to lose by
As for those duties, I was unsure of what I was to be doing with myself for ten hours a day. Once I had worked out the details of the schedule, I saw it would only be a matter of a few hours’ work each week to maintain it. Other than wandering about the warehouses and making certain the men appeared to remain vigilant and keep to their posts, I was at a loss. I mentioned as much to Mr. Ellershaw, but he told me only that I should continue my fine work.
Elias informed me that he had, as of yet, received no word from Ellershaw, and I thought it imprudent to pursue that matter as well, so I wandered about the grounds, chatted amiably with the watchmen, and listened to their gossip, hoping to stumble upon some reference to Cobb’s mysterious Absalom Pepper. No one spoke the name, and I dared not raise it myself.
On my second day, the same in which I observed the strange interactions between Aadil and Forester, I stayed late at night, on the pretense of observing the men as they went about their later rounds, and I attempted once more to search through Ellershaw’s papers. But to find a reference to a single man among so many documents would have required an astonishing amount of luck, and luck did not serve me in this cause. I remained awake nearly the entire night and discovered nothing, obtaining for my efforts only a headache from straining my eyes against a single candle.
ON THE THIRD DAY, however, I had an encounter of particular importance to these events. Late in the morning, I abandoned the warehouses for the kitchens of Craven House, where I hoped to take a glass or two of strong wine to fortify my fatigue against the further obligations of the day. When I entered that room I found it devoid of all servants save one, the lovely Miss Celia Glade, whom I had seen only at a distance or in crowded spaces since our encounter in Ellershaw’s office. She was in the process of setting up a tray of coffee dishes, no doubt destined for some director or other. I smiled at her when I entered the room, but I felt my stomach drop, as though I had been tossed from a great height. Here was a woman who knew my dark secret, or at least knew I had one. I was protected from her only because I knew she had one as well.
“Good morning, Miss Glade,” I offered.
She turned to me, and in an instant I felt a terrible fear wash over me—a fear that I was not in entire command of my own sensibilities. She was naught but a woman, a remarkable pretty one, yes, and no doubt a remarkable clever one too. But what of it? Was not London full of these? Had I not enjoyed my share of them? Nevertheless, as I stood in her presence I felt that there was something else about her, far beyond beauty and perception. She played a game, as I did, and she played it well. I believed I was in the presence of someone quite capable of undermining my efforts.
She curtsied at me and lowered her face deferentially, but she nevertheless kept her dark eyes fixed upon mine. “Oh, it ain’t right to address me in such lofty terms,” she said, deploying the accent of daylight hours, not the ladylike voice she’d used during our late-night encounter. “All the folks here calls me Celia—or Celie, those what are my friends.”
“And am I your friend, Celie?” I asked.
“Oh, la! I hope so, Mr. Weaver. I don’t want to make no enemies.”
She frittered about so busily, her brow furrowed in concentration, that for the most fleeting of instants I had to question whether my late-night encounter could have been with this same woman. I could see nothing about her that revealed she was not what she wished the world to believe.
I pressed on. “As I recall, when we first spoke, your voice had a slightly different quality.”
“When I brung Mr. Ellershaw his medicine drink? I must surely have been taken with my work, or some very like thing.”
“As you say, Celie.”
“I must be about my duties, Mr. Weaver,” she told me. But as she brushed by, she nearly stumbled with her tray, and I had to reach out to help her right herself. In the confusion, she very deftly whispered two sentences in my ear. She said, “They’re always listening,” so softly I could scarcely hear it over the rattling china on her tray. And then she said, “The Duck and Wagon in St. Giles—tonight.”
“I cannot tonight,” I whispered back.
She nodded. “Of course. The dinner with Mr. Ellershaw. Two nights from now?”
“Two nights from now,” I assured her.
For a fleeting instant, she took my hand in her own. “Good.”
My heart thudded with buoyant pleasure as I watched her leave the room. I had forgotten, it would seem, that I had not been invited to an assignation. I felt a twinge of surprise that she knew I was to eat with Mr. Ellershaw. I had no idea of what it could mean, nor did I know if meeting Miss Glade at the place of her choosing was a sound idea. At best, I would receive some sort of explanation for her duplicitous nature. At worst, I would enter some manner of trap.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RIOR TO DRESSING FOR MY EVENING OUT, I WALKED FROM MY rooms to my uncle’s house on Broad Court. I had been remiss in my duties as a nephew since my involvement with events at Craven House—partly because I in no way wished to incur the ire of Cobb, and partly because I had been too busy to play the dutiful relative. Those were the reasons I told to myself, but if I am to be honest, I must admit to a further. I avoided my uncle because he seemed to me a living testament to my poor management of affairs. That his health declined could be laid upon no earthly doorstep, but that his finances declined I counted among my failings. To say I felt guilt would be to press the point, for I knew I had done nothing to lead to this end, but I nonetheless understood that I bore the responsibility—if not for his difficulties then at least for their resolution. If I had not yet devised a means of helping my uncle, that in no way diluted my desire to continue the pursuit.
When I arrived, I found that matters were far worse than I might have predicted. In the gloom of evening, a small gang of rough-looking fellows carried from out my uncle’s house a chest of drawers. Parked upon the street was a dray wagon attached to a pair of ragged horses that appeared themselves to be half dead from starvation and abuse. In the dray already were several chairs and a pair of end tables. A crowd had gathered to watch the pathetic procession, and the rough men were being followed by Mr. Franco, who barked at them to be careful and to avoid knocking the doorway in between bouts of cursing or naming the men rascals.
“What is this?” I hurried up the drive and placed a hand on Franco’s shoulder.
He must not have heard me for he spun around violently, and I believe, had the light been any poorer, he should have struck me and only later troubled himself to learn who had received the blow.
However, he did check his arm. Indeed, at the sight of me, his whole body appeared to grow limp. He shook his head and cast his eyes downward. “Creditors, Mr. Weaver. They’ve scented blood. I fear it may not be long before they descend upon your uncle like ravens. And they could not have come at a worse time, for your uncle—
