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Page 1 of Pads, Purses, and Plum Pudding (A Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #2)

PROLOGUE

Christmas Eve 1802

East London

A mist of icy rain coated Sam’s thin jacket and seeped into his cracked shoes. He was so cold. His stomach hurt. He had nowhere to go. Approaching footsteps—at least two sets—echoed eerily behind him, so he turned a corner and hurried into a dark alley. With his back to the slimy wall, he watched three dark forms pass him.

Sam had no money for them to steal, but they’d take his coat and shoes. He slid to the ground, leaning against a cluster of barrels, and closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Just until he could figure out where to go. His trembling hands pulled the coat tightly around his neck, and he huddled with his head against his knees, feeling his warm breath go through the ragged wool of his breeches.

“Sam, would you light the plum pudding?” His mother’s soft voice matched the gentle touch on his shoulder. She was so beautiful in the deep-blue silk gown that matched her shining eyes.

He looked to his father, excitement rising in his chest. “Sir?”

“You’re a young man of ten—almost eleven now, Sampson.” There was an odd catch to his father’s voice that Sam had rarely heard. Smoothing his thick black hair, his father tugged on his brocade waistcoat before continuing, “It’s time you took on more responsibility and learned your place in the world. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Brooks?”

His mother blinked rapidly and nodded. “Yes, dear.”

To Sam’s surprise, she pulled him into a tight hug. Pressing her lips to his forehead, she whispered, “Remember, we love you very much.”

“Mama, don’t overset yourself.” He gave her a peck on the cheek as she poured brandy into a cup. He gave his father a side-glance with his eyebrow raised, wondering why they were both so out of character tonight. “It must be the holiday making you both sentimental.”

A thought struck him. “It isn’t because I’ll be going off to Winton next fall? I’ll always be home for Christmastide.”

“Of course you shall!” His father slapped Sam on the back and handed his wife the sprig of holly to place on top of the dessert. “But this will be the last Christmas… well… as we have known them. You’re becoming a man, and someday, God willing, you’ll have your own house with your own family. Life can change in the blink of an eye or the stroke of a pen…” Mr. Brooks blinked and turned toward the window.

Mrs. Brooks smiled brightly. “No dour thoughts tonight, my love. Let us enjoy the festivities.”

His father retrieved the tinder box from the mantel and handed it to his son. Sampson poured the brandy over the dessert, a smile turning up his mouth as the liquor pooled around the bottom of the plate. It was a fine brandy—his father had taught him the difference between the smooth and cheap blends.

“Papa?” Given a nod of approval, Sam pulled a slender pine stick from the box and held it to the hearth fire. The brimstone at the end flared yellow and orange. He slowly turned and touched the burning end to the pool of brandy surrounding the dessert.

With a loud poof! the plum pudding was surrounded in flames. He held his breath as the dessert flickered, the pungent scent of brandy mixing with the sweetmeats. The Brooks family laughed and clapped, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks kissed, then hugged their son, and wished one another a happy Christmas. As his mother cut each of them a slice, his father poured the wine.

It was the best day of the year for Sam. He had received his own writing set, with a bottle of ink and a journal to write in. “For your memories, ponderances, and the most valuable lessons you shall learn in life,” his father had said when he’d opened the gift.

After they finished eating, they gathered around the harpsichord. His mother’s slender fingers touched the wooden keys lovingly, then impatiently brushed at a tear rolling down her pink cheek. With a deep breath, her fingers hit the keys with gusto, playing “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks” as they all sang. Afterwards, his parents took their chairs before the fire, waiting for Sampson to read to them.

He settled on the plush rug, leaning against his mother’s legs, and opened the Bible to a marked section in the Book of Matthew. The story of Nazareth and the babe born in a stable was always the crown on the evening. The fire crackled cheerily before them, faces of family now gone watching over them from the mantel.

Sampson cleared his throat as he always did before reading aloud, then paused. He looked up at his father, pride beating in his chest for the man who had begun life as a coal boy and now was a prosperous merchant. His mother was known as the Beautiful Mrs. Brooks. Sampson would continue to improve the family name by attending Winton, moving on to university, then studying at the Inns of Court. There, he would study law and become a solicitor. Make his father proud. Oh, how he wanted to be as respected and successful as his father.

“Papa, tell me again what my days will be like at Winton?” He would begin the Michaelmas term in October. It seemed more like years rather than months away.

“Well, first of all, you’ll become accustomed to a new routine. Your studies will be difficult, but you have a quick mind. I am confident you will ? —”

A swift kick to the backside woke Sampson from his dream.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” sneered a voice from the shadows of the alley. “Anything worth my time?”

Sam swiped at his face and squinted at the dark figures hovering over him. The chill, damp stone had soaked through his bones. He tried to sit up, one palm landing in something slick, what he didn’t want to think about. He wiped his hand against the wooden barrel he’d been leaning on before he fell asleep.

The man wore a filthy wool coat with the collar turned up against the cold. His hair hung from under his cap, greasy strands loose and stuck to the side of his face. Puffs of white floated from his nose when he snorted, still peering down at Sam.

“Leave the lad alone, will ye?” pleaded a woman. She was dressed in a tight gown that exposed her generous bosom. A thin shawl covered her shoulders. “I’m givin’ ye what yer lookin’ fer. It’s Christmas Eve—let the boy be.” She whispered something in the man’s ear, and he grinned, displaying brownish-gray teeth.

“C’mon then, my little bat. Let’s see if yer worth the price.”

They moved on, stopping in the blackness at the end of the alley. Their laughter and moans faded as Sam scurried back onto the street. He made his way down Bush Lane, searching for an empty alley where he could hide behind some barrels and wait for the sun to rise. Surely, there would be a few passersby he could beg for some coin from on Christmas Day. His belly growled in agreement.

Only a year ago, he’d been surrounded by loving parents, a fine home, a warm bed, and a promising future. Tonight, he’d be grateful for a chunk of bread and a coat not threadbare, sleeves that covered his arms, and shoes that fit without holes. His stomach growled painfully after the cruel recurring nightmare. The memory of that last dinner of roasted fowl and plum pudding made his mouth water. He chewed on his chapped bottom lip, and it started to bleed. He gagged at the salty, metallic taste.

It had been a nightmare when the constable came to arrest his father. February second, Candlemas Day. In hindsight, he understood the disappearing furniture “out for repair,” his mother insisting she enjoyed performing household duties for her “men” as the cook, then the maid quit. The poorer quality of their meals had been explained away by the change in butcher or baker. Yet, Mr. Brooks had refused to sell the harpsichord—his wife’s only possession she’d brought into their marriage.

After several months, what little blunt his father had been able to take with him to debtors’ prison had been sorely depleted. They’d had to move to more crowded quarters. His mother’s cough worsened inside the damp stone walls, shoved together with so many people that there was no room for cots. So, Sam had left the prison and looked for work. At King’s Bench, he was one more mouth for his father to feed.

This afternoon, Sam’s last coin had gone to his parents, still residing in debtors’ prison. It had taken half the day to make it to the Southwark prison and cost a farthing of his precious stolen hoard to see them. But his fragile mother would die in the debtors’ prison without a dry place to sleep and sustenance. He’d been horrified to learn that one must pay for everything in gaol. It made no sense. His father was in debt, yet he might never leave the prison walls because all their blunt went to the wardens. Without the payments, his parents would suffer worse conditions in an overcrowded cell, layers of filthy straw for a mattress, fending off even hungrier, more desperate inmates.

He learned to survive. Therefore, his parents would survive. But it was a daily struggle to find a position when one had no manual labor skills, only book learning. Grown men with families claimed any position Sam might have been qualified for.

He tried street sweeping, but he didn’t have the gumption for it. The successful boys jumped in front of people, swept a path for them, then demanded or finagled money from the unlucky passersby. He was too big for a chimney sweep. A barkeep gave him a corner in the kitchen in exchange for running errands and tending the fire. With a place to sleep, Sam had held horses for the genteel and sold newspapers on the street during the day. A modiste gave him soup and bread whenever she needed a chore done around her shop. But it was barely enough to keep himself fed and warm, let alone support his parents.

And then the final blow. Last week, a new barkeep had taken over the tavern. He had his own sons to help him, and Sam found himself out on his ear without shelter.

So, much to his horror, he found himself snatching food from stands and running like the thief he’d vowed never to become. At low tide, he joined the other mud larks, combing the Thames’s muddy bottom for anything he could sell. His clothes reeked of the foul river, the cuffs of his shirt and hems of his breeches in tatters. His hands and feet blistered from the constant exposure to the frigid water and muck. There, a boy of five had befriended him, offering “trade secrets” on pickpocketing for a share of Sampson’s stolen food.

Sampson J. Brooks, once a future solicitor with the world before him, was now a thief and a pickpocket—still an apprentice-in-training for the latter. He hadn’t actually picked any pockets or stolen any purses yet. But it had to be better than mud larking. Except his hands shook every time he thought about it.

He saw a lively group in front of a tavern, just off Bush Lane. Maybe someone would drop a coin. He approached the stone building, blending with the rest of the businesses except for the sign above. The Dog’s Bone .

“Where’re ye goin’ so early, my friend?” A drunken portly woman called out from a tavern door.

A large man stumbled out, his hand up in a friendly goodnight wave, the echo of music and laughter following his huge dark form. “Home. I’ve a wife waiting. I won’t risk her wrath by not being home on Christmas Day.”

The murky yellow light spilling from the grimy window framed the customer’s silhouette into a giant menacing shadow. Sampson couldn’t see his face, but he could feel the strength of the man. But the glint of gold that flashed as the man twirled his walking cane had caught Sam’s attention. How much could a cane like that be worth? Enough to feed his parents for a month, he’d wager.

Sam leaned back, blending into the shadows of the stone steps and hoping the man would head his way. He did, weaving ever so slightly across the street toward Sam. Collecting his courage, Sam hid in the dark corner of the stoop, willing the feeling back into his calloused hands. As the gentleman passed by—for he must have been a gentleman from his fine coat, hat, and gleaming boots—Sam prayed to any god listening that the man was foxed.

Slipping from the darkness, Sampson quickly moved behind the tall form, mimicking his victim’s walk as the river lad had taught him. When the man leaned to the right, then to the left, so did Sampson. He eyed the walking cane with the gleaming handle and intricately carved stick, knowing it would bring a month’s keep at the pawn shop.

He sucked in a deep breath, lunged forward, his hand grasping the stick, and?—

“Mother Mary and Joseph. What d’ye t’ink ye’re doin’, boyo?”

A great paw pulled Sampson up by the back of his collar. It began to rip, and he struggled, praying the cheap wool that had never kept him warm would at least aid in his escape. His feet hit the ground again, and Sam took off once more, only to have the hook of the cane pull him back by his neck.

“Oh-ho. Ye t’ink to get away so easy?” boomed the deep voice.

Sampson raised his head and looked at the barrel-chested Irishman. His brogue was as thick as his red hair and beefy hands. I’m doomed. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the sturdy fist to find its target.

He stared at Sam for a while, then gave him another shake.

“Open those eyes, boyo,” the stranger demanded. “Ye want to die in a rat-infested prison or be transported to Australia?”

Sam shook his head, terrified of this monstrosity of a man.

“Tis no answer, boyo.”

Sam shook his head again, blinking back the hot tears stinging his eyes.

“No tongue? A mute, are ye?”

“No, my lord.”

That seemed to amuse the man, for he let out a hearty guffaw. “I’m a hardworkin’ Irishman. Not a drop of blue blood in me.”

“Yes sir,” Sam croaked.

“Da workhouse would give ye a meal and a cot to sleep on.”

“I need coin, sir.”

He barked a laugh. “Don’t we all. Better ways to get it besides robbing a man.”

“I’ve tried, sir,” Sam managed, imagining his mother’s tearstained face when he never showed up at King’s Bench again.

The man’s blue eyes narrowed, studying Sam for a long while. Sam held his gaze, waiting to be dragged to the nearest constable. Why had he tried for that walking stick?

“So ye have manners, I see. Where’d ye learn ‘em?”

“My parents, sir.”

“And where might they be?”

“At King’s Bench, sir.”

Another long stare as Sam fought the urge to squirm.

“How long ye been on da streets?”

“April last, sir.”

“What’d ye do before da family was put away?”

“My father owned a bookshop, and I was to start Winton last month.” Something in the stranger’s tone had changed, sparking a tiny flicker of hope in Sam’s chest.

“How long ye been stealin’ from honest folks?”

“Except for food from the costermongers—and only the finer dressed ones—you are my first. And I wish to God I could undo it!” he blurted out to his captor. “I swear I’ll never do it again.”

“Da fat is in da fire, lad.” The stranger eased up a bit on the cane around Sam’s neck, then snorted. “Do ye want a hot meal and a cot to sleep on?”

Sam nodded his head vigorously, his chin bumping the gold crook of the stick.

“Are ye willin’ to work for it?”

Another energetic nod.

“D’ye have a dram of loyalty in yer blood?” asked the burly man.

“At least a barrel, sir, if you don’t hand me over to the constable.”

“I’ll want every drop. I can put ye to work but no tongue waggin’.” He squinted at Sam. “I see sumtin’ in yer sad eyes, boyo. If I be a bettin’ man, I’d say ye learnt some life lessons and will come out da better for it.”

Sam hung his head, blinking back pesky tears.

“T’ink about it, boyo?—”

“It’s Sampson J. Brooks.” He looked the Irishman in the eye. “My name is Sampson J. Brooks. I can read, write, and keep a ledger. I’ve read a dozen books about plants and healing. My brain is quick, but my hands…” He held up his hands, palm up, implying that pickpocketing wasn’t his best skill.

“Oh, ho! Well, Sampson, I don’t need a thief in my employ.” He removed the cane from the boy’s neck. “Tis yer lucky day, for I’m goin’ to release ye. If ye run, I’ll not chase ye. Dat action will tell me ye ain’t worth da effort.” He nodded and grinned. “If ye come with me, ye get a cot, a warm meal, and Christmas with da most generous and kind woman God’s ever seen fit to put on dis earth.”

A tear slid down Sam’s cheek, and he brushed at it with an angry jerk. He tried to take a deep breath, but a pain shot up his ribs. Could he trust this man? He didn’t appear to be an angel. But then, Sam had never seen one except in religious books. He felt the giant paw on his thin shoulder and looked up. It couldn’t be worse than gaol.

You have manners, he’d said. Sam did have manners, and he’d make his mother proud.

“I would be honored to accompany you home, sir.”

“There’s the spirit, boyo. I’m Paddy O’Brien. Mister O’Brien to da likes of ye.” He chuckled, a warm rumbling sound that made Sam smile too—his first in months. “I think my Maggie will take to ye once she’s cleaned ye up.”