Page 8 of Crimes, Conspiracies, and Courtship (Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 7

Three days later

The Grapes Tavern

Narrow Street, Limehouse

W alters pushed through the crowd of dockworkers, sailors, and local patrons. The Grapes was a working-class tavern, and he fit in well, dressed as a sailor with his canvas slops and short dark jacket. He’d added a large mustache tonight. His wool cap was pulled well over his head, hiding most of his hair.

He liked using this tavern to meet up, depending on the client. First, it was far enough away from his own neighborhood, and second, much of the clientele came and went with the tide. Many here only patronized the Limehouse area when their ship was docked on the Thames. The Grapes’ ideal location on the riverfront, next to the Limehouse docks and basin, made it popular with any crew. There were warehouses behind this street for storing the latest shipments and the merchandise waiting to go out. The scent of unwashed bodies and ale invaded his nose as he made his way toward the kegs.

Spotting George Edwards in a far corner, he pushed his way to the counter and waited for the barkeep to draw two bumpers. He counted out the amount of coins carefully, as if was making sure not to overpay the man. Generous men, or those with a heavy pocket, would draw attention here and become a mark when they left.

“Walters,” the spy acknowledged as Harry sat down on the bench. “I heard you’re to keep me alive.”

Walters handed him one of the ales. “How many have you had?”

“Two,” Edwards answered, reaching for the bumper. “I wanted to hold the table but be careful. This barley broth already has me mellow.”

“Is there anything you need me to do? Besides watching out for your hide?” Walters took only a sip, knowing it would also be sour. He was getting spoiled in his old age with the fine ale served at the Dog’s Bone and Paddy’s excellent whiskey.

Edwards shook his head. “I still can’t get Thistlewood to say who is funding the group. He calls him a concerned benefactor but won’t give out his name.”

“Keep trying. That information is priority.”

“He trusts me, but there are many in the group who don’t.” Edwards leaned forward. “I know Colvin is a go-between, but if Thistlewood won’t speak his name, we have no proof.”

“Another shipment of weapons was purchased, mostly pistols and grenades. I’m trying to find out where they are stored. Thistlewood keeps information close to the chest, doesn’t even tell the oldest members.” Edwards pulled his worn cap lower, hiding his dark eyes. “I think when I get him alone, I may be able to learn the address. Over a year, and he’s finally beginning to trust me.”

Walters nodded. “Then we can surveil the building. If you need anything or need to meet with me, send word to the Dog’s Bone. Leo is a friend of mine and will make sure I get the message.”

Edwards grinned. “ Anything is a broad term.”

“Pertaining to the Spenceans only, please. When do you meet with the Philanthropists again?” Walters was ready to exit the crowded tavern.

“Next Tuesday, nine o’clock. You know where? On Cato Street?” he asked.

Walters nodded. “I’ll be there. Remember, if you ever need to escape during a meeting, if things go awry, I will be the hackney driver waiting in the back. There’s a public house close by, so if anyone tries to engage me, I’ll say I’m taking care of a customer who’s at The Horse and Groom.”

Edwards nodded and rose to leave. “By the way, nice lip hair. Didn’t recognize you until you sat down.”

“Good. That’s the point.”

Walters waited until Edwards was gone, then headed toward the door, weaving his way through the patrons inside and surrounding the entrance outside. They were a raucous bunch tonight. He patted his sides, felt the reassuring solid butt of his pistols tucked inside his belt on each side. In addition, there was a knife in his boot and another up his left sleeve. Besides the drunken sailors here, these were neighborhoods only a prepared man would walk through at night.

He made his way up Narrow Street, planning to turn onto Lennox, then toward Commercial Street. There would be plenty of hackneys on the main road. He would arrive at the Theatre Royal just as Colvin was leaving.

Walters heard a scuffle and voices as he approached the next alley. Three men surrounded another, circling their victim.

“Give i’ up, lad,” rasped one. “No one fights so hard fer sixpence. Ye ‘ave to have more to take such a beatin’.”

As Walters eased into the dark alley, the ground glinting wet from the sudden light of the moon, the men closed in on their victim. The boy, his face bloody and swollen, left arm hanging at his side, swung his right arm. Bone crunched as the boy’s fist connected with one of the thieves, and the man crumpled to the ground.

“Well, tha’ weren’t very polite, son. I think ye need to learn some manners,” sneered one of the remaining men.

“I agree about the manners,” said Walters, moving into the darkness, his pistol drawn. “Now, let’s even up the numbers, shall we?” He clicked the hammer on his weapon.

“Bloody h—” Another crack of bone, and the waif sent another man falling to the slimy alley floor with a thunk .

The last man standing looked at the boy, then to Walters, and put out his hands. He inched sideways until he was facing Walters across the alley, then tried to run. Walters reached out and grabbed the man by his shirt collar, ducking right to avoid the flying fist as the thief struggled to get away.

A blow to his gut knocked the wind from him, but he still had enough strength to bring the butt of his pistol down on his attacker’s head. Walters took a moment, his hands on his knees, pistol still at the ready, and caught his breath. He looked sideways at the boy, standing like a sapling in the wind, swaying side to side.

“What’s your name, boyo?” he asked, approaching him slowly. There were two bodies behind the lad, just beginning to stir. The devil if the boy hadn’t taken two down before Walters had arrived.

“Roger Lynch.” He fell forward, and Walters caught him.

The boy was in bad shape, and Walters didn’t think he could survive another beating. He looped the boy’s right arm over his neck and walked him back to Narrow Street.

“If you can hear me, Roger, we’re going to pretend you’re drunk, and I’m bringing you home.” Looking both ways and seeing nothing to warrant concern, Walters resumed his original direction. But now he was heading home—and to the O’Briens—instead of Covent Garden. He hoped the duke didn’t have too “exciting” of an evening since Walters wouldn’t be there to report it.

Walters had made it to the next corner when his new friend went completely slack. With a heavy sigh, he hoisted the boy onto his shoulder. He didn’t weigh much, considering how he basted those tag-rags with that facer. A bloody mess over sixpence. Maggie would be in a temper when Walters brought this bundle home.

Once he reached Commercial Street, he set Roger against a wall and hailed a hackney. “Give me half a minute while I fetch something,” he told the driver. He pulled Roger up and over his shoulder, put him in the coach, and yelled the address to the driver.

“Gracechurch, it is,” the driver yelled back in acknowledgment.

When the hackney crossed into Cheapside and stopped in front of his house, Walters paid the man and retrieved Roger. He entered the hall with the boy over his shoulder.

“Maggie, Paddy, I need help.” He paused, then added, “And send for Sampson.”

Commotion from above confirmed the couple heard him, and he headed to the kitchen, which often served as a makeshift surgery. Sampson kept supplies there for times such as these.

Walters grabbed a covered bowl with rising dough and set it on a chair before lowering Roger onto the table. He took off the boy’s ragged coat to inspect for any gaping wounds. His left arm had been slashed and would need sewing, but no other major injuries on his upper body he could see. That would be for Dr. Brooks to determine.

“What has ye home so early and hollering—” Maggie stopped at the doorway, seeing the boy on the table, then sped into action. She went to the hearth and stoked the fire, grabbed some cloth, and joined Walters. “Let me take a look.”

“Is there anyone to send for Sam?”

“I’m on my way. Where’d ye find him?” asked Paddy, pulling on a coat. “Took a pummeling, eh?”

“I was leaving The Grapes after meeting with Edwards. Three ruffians had him surrounded.” Walters shook his head. “The lad held his own for a while. There were two down before I came upon the scene. He’s got guts.”

“Well, let’s hope his guts ain’t too badly damaged. Do yer best, love.” Paddy put on his cap and stopped at the back door. “Tar anseo!” he called to his dog.

“I feel better when he takes the filthy beast with him,” Maggie mumbled, her attention on the lad. “Few men brave enough to challenge a gargantuan pair such as dem.”

Maggie peeled off the boy’s shirt and applied a cold, wet cloth to the oozing wound. She tsked as she went to work, occasionally smoothing back the boy’s rat’s nest of black curls and murmuring soothing words to him.

“I doubt if he can hear you,” Walters said as he moved his hands up and down Roger’s legs, checking for any breaks. He removed the shoes—if one could call them that—untying the thick string holding the two large remnants of worn leather together. A small pouch fell to the floor.

“What is it, Harry?”

He shook it and heard the coins jingle. There had been more to steal. “The money he didn’t want the thieves to find. He fought hard enough for it.”

“I hope he lives to enjoy it.” She turned back to her patient. “Let’s get him cleaned up for Sam.”

By the time Sampson and Paddy returned, the boy was stripped down to his drawers with a sheet pulled over him. His arm was lightly bandaged, ready for the physician.

“What have you found so far?” Sampson asked, removing his hat to reveal neatly combed brown hair, stylishly cut. His hazel eyes quickly took stock of his patient.

“Only this gash on his arm,” answered Maggie. “But he’s been out for some time, according to Harry, so I’m worried about a whack to da noggin or something hurt on da inside.”

“Any blood from his mouth, nose, or ears?” Dr. Brooks’s capable hands moved up and down the body, stopping here or there for a better inspection.

Walters and Maggie both shook their heads.

“That’s good.” Sam unwrapped the arm bandage and whistled. “Quite a cut. Do you have the water ready?”

Maggie nodded and went to the kettle over the fire. Paddy pulled out a bottle of Irish whiskey and handed it to Sam, who poured it over the wound.

“For all that’s holy!” Roger’s lids blinked open, hissing in pain. He pinned his green eyes on Walters, rasping, “Am I dead?”

Walters laughed. “I hope not, or you took me with you.”

The yelling roused Paddy’s dog, and he sat beside the patient, two giant paws on the table. The lad let out a gasp.

“Síos leat!” scolded Maggie, glaring at the hound as put his paws back on the floor. “Amach leat!” And the dog left the kitchen to lie in the hall and wait for his master, his brown soulful eyes watching their every move.

“Quiet, boyo,” said Paddy, lifting Roger’s upper body and offering him the whiskey. “Ye’ll be wanting a wee drink o’ dis before da good doctor gets to work.”

If the boy had been pale before, he went full white now. After a nod, Paddy lowered it to his lips, and Roger took several big gulps.

“Seems ye’re no stranger to da bottle,” murmured Paddy with amusement. “One more for good measure.”

Sampson finished preparing the injury for stitches, threaded the needle, and nodded to Paddy, who took the boy’s hand in his. “Ye squeeze my hand as hard as ye need. Yell like a banshee if ye want. No one here will care.”

Walters was impressed. Roger never whimpered, just clamped his jaw tight and held on to Paddy’s huge paw. Maggie wiped the boy’s forehead with a cool cloth.

“Fifteen. And a fine job if I do say so myself.” Sampson stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. “Must have been protecting something important to risk your life.”

Roger leaned up. “Where’r me boots?” Panic shone in his gray-green eyes.

“Is that what you call them?” Harry held up the leather pieces.

“Tell me ye have me pouch of coins.”

Harry held it up. “This?”

Roger fell back against the table, a smile on his face before he passed out again.

Paddy took a drink from the bottle. “He’s a wee older than what we usually take in. What d’ye t’ink, Maggie, my love?”

“I t’ink we should see if he has a mother of his own, ye old curmudgeon. I’m getting too old for raising boys.” She put her arm around her husband’s waist and looked at Sampson and Walters. “I’m saving my energy for our grandchildren.”

“That is my cue to leave,” declared Sampson, his dimple deepening as he grinned at Harry and collected his equipment. “As the eldest, I believe you should show your younger siblings the way to matrimonial bliss.”

“Come, Harry. We’ll drink away yer worries in the library.”