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“There’s no need to cut up rough at Dan, old chap. What do you suggest?”
“There can be no harm in making a few enquiries. I’ll see what I can do.”
“And I can ask around,” Perry broke in cheerfully. “I ain’t much of a one for church-going, but I could mingle with the Reverend’s congregation and question a few people.”
“With your well-known subtlety?” His brother’s tone was ironic. “I can hear you now. Would it not be something on the following lines, ‘We think your preacher is a rogue. What do you know against him?’”
Even Perry was forced to join in the laughter.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted. “I’d best leave it to you.”
“I think you had. It should not take above a day or two.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Elizabeth warned. “That snake will cover his tracks.”
“Yet even snakes may be trapped and destroyed, my dear.” With these words from Sebastian the rest of the company had to be content.
Unwittingly, Elizabeth had hit upon the truth, but the past life which the preacher had been at such pains to conceal was, at that moment, in danger of being revealed to the world.
Truscott had, that very morning, been approached by a filthy urchin in his own church.
“Out!” He’d eyed the ragged figure with distaste. The child was little better than a scarecrow. “You’ll get no charity here.”
“Don’t want none, mester. I been paid. I wuz to give you this.” The child held out a grimy scrap of paper, but his eyes were wary. He kept his distance, as if ready to dodge a blow.
“What’s it about?”
“Dunno. I was to fetch you with me.”
A discreet cough drew the preacher’s attention to a small group of ladies advancing down the nave towards him.
“My dear sir, do you never rest?” one of them asked tenderly. “We’d hoped that you’d take tea with us today. We are raising funds for the Foundling Hospital.”
“God bless you! Sadly, this little chap is in some kind of trouble.” The Reverend Truscott considered resting a benevolent hand upon the urchin’s spiky hair, but he thought better of it.
“You ain’t read the note,” the child accused.
“My little man, you have given me no time to do so.” With the eyes of the ladies upon him, he was forced to open the paper. Drat the child! Had they been alone he would have been well rewarded for his impertinence.
The words were ill-spelt, and formed in an illiterate hand, but the message was all too clear. As its full enormity sank into his consciousness the colour drained from his face. He swayed, and held himself upright only by clutching at the back of the nearest pew.
“Bad news? Mr Truscott, you must sit down. Let me get you a glass of water.”
He could have struck the speaker. What he needed at that moment was a glass of brandy. If only these ridiculous old biddies would go away! He raised a hand to cover his eyes.
“Thank you, pray don’t trouble yourself,” he murmured. “This is but a momentary faintness.”
“It is exhaustion, sir. You do too much. This child must not trouble you today.” She tried to shoo the boy away. “Your bride-to-be will scold you.”
“Let him be! The Lord will sustain me in his work. I will accompany the child. I fear it is to a deathbed.”
If only it were, he thought savagely. So many of his problems would be solved. With a brave smile he ushered the ladies from the church. Then he returned to the vestry to draw on a voluminous cloak, and cram a wide-brimmed hat low on his brow.
The boy’s eyes never left him. A child indeed! There was cynicism in that look, and a quick intelligence which, he knew well enough, stemmed from a life of survival on the streets.
He spared no sympathy for the lad. The strong survived, and the weak went under. He’d been lucky. No, that wasn’t true! Luck had played no part in his rise to fame. Say rather that a ruthless streak had helped him climb the ladder to success.
And was he to lose it now? The words of the message burned in his brain like letters of fire.
“‘My friend seen your notice in the paper, Charlie. Time yore pore old mother had a share. The boy will fetch you to me. Best come, or you’ll be sorry.’”
It was unsigned, but no signature was needed. The letter was authentic. Only his mother had ever called him Charlie.
“Is it far?” He spat out the question to the boy.
“Not far. I allus walks it, rain or shine.” The child inspected him with critical eyes. “Best hide that ticker, guv’nor, and the chain. You’ll lose it, certain sure.”
The preacher said nothing. He never walked abroad without his knife, a long and narrow blade, honed to razor sharpness. As a child, he’d learned to take care of himself. His lips drew back in a snarl. He was more than a match for any ruffian.
Now anger threatened to choke him. It was sheer ill-luck that had revealed his whereabouts. The Gazette, which had carried the announcement of his betrothal, was unlikely to fall into his mother’s hands. In any case, she could not read. He’d thought himself safe. Yet some cruel trick of fate had given her a friend who was sharper than herself.
He glanced about him, and was not surprised to find that he was being led towards the parish of St Giles. He knew the area well, but he had not thought to enter it again.
Preoccupied with the scarce-veiled threat contained in the message, he was unaware that he was being followed. Even so, he pulled his cloak close, sinking the lower part of his face deep within its folds. Then he glanced about him before he entered the maze of alleys which led far into that part of London known as “The Rookery.”
Behind him, Dan prepared to follow, but his way was blocked by a thick-set individual wearing a slouch hat and a rough jacket out-at-elbows.
“Not in there, sir, if you please! You wouldn’t come out alive.”
Dan stared at the man. He was an unprepossessing individual. His broken nose and battered ears suggested a previous career as a pugilist. When he smiled his missing teeth confirmed it.
“Out of my way, man!” Dan snapped impatiently. The figure of the Reverend Truscott had already disappeared.
“Now, sir, you wouldn’t want me to plant you a facer, as I must do if you intend to be a foolish gentleman? I has my orders from his lordship…”
“Who are you?”
“A Redbreast, sir.”
“You mean you are a Bow Street Runner?”
The man threw his eyes to heaven, and dragged Dan into a doorway. “Not so loud!” he begged. “You’ll get my throat slit.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, you won’t, young sir. You’ll slow me down. This ain’t the place for you. Now be a good gentleman, and leave this job to me.” His tone was respectful, but extremely firm.
Dan thought of pushing past him, but the Runner was already on his toes, ready for any sudden move. “We’re wasting time,” he said significantly.
“Then I’ll wait for you here.”
“Best go back to Mount Street, sir. I may be some time.” He turned quickly and disappeared into an alley way.
Wild with frustration, Dan retraced his steps. The delay had lost him his quarry.
Damn Sebastian! Why must he always be one step ahead? Then common sense returned. At least his lordship had wasted no time in setting enquiries afoot. The Runner had seemed competent enough. His very appearance would make him inconspicuous in that nefarious area.
Dan himself was unarmed. It hadn’t occurred to him to carry a weapon. Now, on reflection, he knew that the Runner had been right to stop him.
Always a poor parish, in the previous century the Church Lane rookery had reached the depths of squalor with its population of hawkers, beggars and thieves. Every fourth building was a gin shop, where the verminous inhabitants could drink themselves into oblivion for a copper or two. Stupefied with liquor, they could forget the filthy decaying lodging houses in which they lived under wretched conditions.
The narrow warrens and dimly lit courts had always attracted a transient population. Overcrowding was rife, and it was easy enough for the worst of criminals to cover their tracks, hiding in perfect safety among the teeming masses. They issued forth only to rob the unwary, and murder was a commonplace.
Dan shuddered. He didn’t lack courage, but, unarmed, he’d be no match for a mob. He’d been a fool to think of entering that slum alone. His very appearance made him a tempting target. An attack might, at best, have left him injured. He could be of no possible service to Judith then.
Meantime, the Reverend Charles Truscott had penetrated to the very heart of the thieves’ den. As a child he’d grown accustomed to the sight of the tumbledown hovels, the piles of rotting garbage in the streets, and the all-pervading stench.
Now he had grown fastidious, and the smell which assailed his nostrils made him want to gag. Then his guide pushed open a door which swung drunkenly on its broken hinges, and beckoned him inside.
“Up there!” The boy jerked a thumb towards a rickety flight of stairs and vanished.
The preacher found that his stomach was churning, and he could taste bile in his throat. He was tempted to turn and flee, but he dared not risk the loss of all that had been so hard-won.
He schooled his features into an expression of smooth benevolence, mounted the stairs, and knocked at the door which faced him.
It swung open at his touch, and for a moment he thought the room was empty. He looked about him in disgust. He’d seen squalor in his time, but this was beyond all. Flies swarmed over a broken bowl of half-eaten food, and looking down, he saw that they had laid their eggs. The place was bare, except for a single chair without a back, and a battered wooden crate. A heap of rags lay upon the floor, but there was neither bed nor mattress.
“Well, Charlie, how do you like it? A regular palace, ain’t it?” A face peered out at him from beneath the heap of rags.
The preacher stared at his mother without affection.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you’d be long gone.”
“In a wooden box? That would have suited you…”
He was in full agreement with this sentiment, but he must not antagonise her.
“I meant only that I thought you would have found a better place.”
“Ho, yus? Look at me, Charlie!” With a swift movement she thrust aside the rags, and staggered to her feet. He was aware of the strong smell of gin.
“You’re drunk,” he accused.
“Drunk for a penny, dead drunk for twopence,” she jeered. “Well, son, how would you like to see me on a stage?” She thrust her face so close to his that the stench was overpowering.
He hadn’t seen her for years, and now the raddled features shocked him. Nellie Truscott had been a beauty. Her looks were all she had had to offer in the marketplace. Now she was painfully thin, her hair grey and unkempt, and her face bloated with excess.
He tried without success to hide his feelings, and his expression roused her to fury.
“Quite the fine gentleman, ain’t you? Ashamed of your poor old mother? You done nothing to help me, Charlie. Now it’s time to pay.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he told her roughly. “I’m naught but a poor parson.”
“And on the way to being a rich one. You was always smooth, my lad. Now your lady wife will help me.”
His face grew dark and the look in his eyes was frightening. She cowered away from him.
“You’ll stay away from her,” he said softly. “Shall I remind you how I serve those who cross me?”
She made a feeble attempt to placate him. “I shan’t do nothing you don’t like, but I must have money, Charlie. Even the men round here don’t want me now I’m sick…”
The preacher had been about to grip her wrist. A reminder of his capacity for inflicting pain would have done no harm, but now he shrank back. Thank God he hadn’t touched her. He had no difficulty in guessing at the disease from which she suffered. It was a common cause of death in prostitutes.
“Here!” He threw a handful of coins on to the wooden chest. “This is all I have with me.”
“It ain’t much, Charlie. Can you come tomorrow?”
“No, I can’t.” He was about to say more when a man and a woman entered the room.
“It’s no matter, Nellie. Tomorrow we’ll all go up town to hear the Reverend preach. I hear it’s a rare treat.” The woman laughed, and even her companion smiled. They had him in their power and they knew it.
The preacher ground his teeth, but he knew when he was beaten. With a sudden access of native cunning his mother had used her newfound knowledge of his coming fortune to surround herself with friends. She must have promised them a share.
“I’ll come at the same time,” he said.
Chapter Three
Judith was puzzled. She’d promised to accompany the Reverend Truscott to the charity tea in aid of the foundling children. When he didn’t arrive she decided that she must have mistaken his instructions. Eventually, she went alone, only to discover that he had been called away on parish business.
The next day, at her stepmother’s insistence, she stayed indoors to wait for his usual daily visit, but he did not arrive. That evening, a note was delivered to her, explaining that he would be away for several days in connection with a family matter. This did not trouble her unduly. In fact, it was something of a relief to be spared the need to agree with his sententious remarks.
She took herself to task for this unworthy thought. No one was perfect, least of all herself, and if her betrothed seemed, at times, to be a little pompous, it was easy to forgive his didactic manner. He was a good man. That she believed with all her heart.
She stayed in her sitting-room all morning, conscious of her own failings. She had not been entirely truthful with the man she was to marry. What would he say when he learned that she was actually writing a novel? It could not be considered a suitable occupation for a preacher’s wife, but the story begged to be written. Throughout each day she found herself composing further snatches of dialogue, or planning yet another scene.
She was not destined to be left in peace for long. At nuncheon that day, Mrs Aveton made her displeasure clear.
“Must I tell you yet again?” she cried. “You have not bought above one half of the items on your list. You put me out of all patience, Judith. Peace will return to this household only when you are wed and gone from here.”
Judith doubted the truth of this statement. Mrs Aveton’s daughters were as ill-tempered as she was herself, and the servants were treated frequently to the sound of quarrelling, screams, and wild hysterics. Neither of the girls had yet been sought in marriage. They had neither fortunes, not a pleasant disposition to recommend them.
“Must I go back to Bond Street, ma’am?” she asked hopefully. She welcomed any excuse to get her out of the house.
“I see no other way of obtaining your necessary purchases,” came the sarcastic reply.
“And I may take the carriage?”
“I suppose so. At least you will be there and back more quickly than you were the other day. You must watch this habit of dawdling, Judith. It cannot please your husband.”
