She plunked herself down at her desk and sat sorting her thoughts into stacks, like letters. “He says he’s going to lock me up if I keep hunting Cinq.”
Pitney picked up some files the Captain had pushed onto the floor. “He’ll do it. Kennett’s a man of his word.”
“That’s an admirable trait, generally.”
No matter how she rearranged the quills and paper and ink in the top drawer, they wouldn’t look natural again. Damn him.
He’d been in her bedroom. He’d held her trinkets and keepsakes in his hand, studying them with those shrewd, shrewd eyes, picking out tidbits of her mind like he was a scavenging crow. He saw all me bits and scraps. All my shabby, little memories. They’ve seen everything, him and the other men. It’s like the wind tossed my skirts up and showed off me nether parts to a pack of sailors.
Next time, I’ll let Kedger bite him.
This was how it felt when somebody broke into your house. All those years she’d gone burgling, she’d never known.
She really was a villain, wasn’t she? Not just joking with herself and a little proud. She’d done harm and never once noticed. I wonder how many bedrooms I’ve rummaged through. A hundred? All those people felt like this. That was a ledger full of debts she should be paying back.
One of the clerks was at the door, striking a pose so he’d be noticed. She recognized him, vaguely. Even big as Whitby’s was, she tried to remember the men, and this one was always underfoot. She caught Pitney’s eye. “That clerk, Barnaby. No . . . Buchanan. That’s it. Could you see what he wants?”
Pitney went to intimidate a clerk.
Her burgling bag was still in the middle of her desk blotter. She took it down into her lap. It felt comfy there, familiar from all the times she’d carried it. “Dangerous, is it?” Now he had her talking to herself. The Captain’s fault. “He can’t even imagine dangerous.” She ran her fingers over the burlap. “He should see what I’m not doing. The part I’m too scared to do.”
This was rope on the side here and hooks and her burgling tools. Souvenirs of the old days. It was organized inside so she could find everything by touch. Nothing jingled or clanked, no matter how much you shook it. “None of his business, anyway. I don’t know why I keep this. I haven’t used it in years.”
Pitney was back. “I told him what to do with his signatures. ” Pitney’d probably been earthy and explicit. Buchanan, if that was his name, was retreating, posthaste, down the clerks’ room.
She got up and let the Kedger out of his cage. He circled the room, his tail perked up high and his fur ruffling.
Pitney said, “Jess . . . What are you planning?”
The Captain should find out what it feels like when somebody paws through his goods and chattels.
She hadn’t admitted it to herself, till he asked. But she had her burgling bag out. Part of her had known what she’d do.
“We’re going to take a stroll, me and Kedger. I need to look into a few things.”
At this hour, Mr. Doyle would be sitting in a public house near Covent Garden, the Crocodile. She’d invite him along. She might even surprise him. There wasn’t much that surprised Mr. Doyle.
She clicked her tongue to call Kedger. He swarmed up her chair and began sniffing at the bag. It’d been a while since they’d gone on the stroll together, but he remembered.
“Jess, don’t do this. Stop and think. Josiah’s going to have my liver and lights if I let you get into trouble while he—”
“While he’s in quod and can’t stop me. Right you are, Mr. Pitney. He is not going to like this at all.” She slipped her bag of tricks over her shoulder, just seeing how it felt. It went home under her arm, all the knobs and bumps feeling right. “The Captain paid us a visit. A polite woman would return the favor.”
“The Service has men—”
“Following me. I know. Never lonely when the British Service takes an interest in you. I’ll go out the back way.” She picked up the bundle of clothes. Kedger, knowing the drill, launched through the air to her shoulder. When she put on her cloak, he scrambled into the big pocket. His place. “You would not believe how much I’m going to enjoy giving them the slip.”
THREE men loitered beside a black hackney carriage drawn up to the curb. They could have been Irishmen from one of the work gangs trundling cargo from wagon to warehouse. They might even have worked for Whitby’s. Most of the men on this end of the street did. And these three kept a close eye on the front door of Whitby Trading.
Across the street from them and fifty yards down, a lone marine had his back to the wall, waiting stolidly. He was set in place by Military Intelligence. He was Colonel Reams’s creature.
Sebastian Kennett’s men were inside, in the lobby. The pair sat on the wood bench, under the eye of a disapproving porter, deciphering their way, word by word, through the London Times.
The British Service was there. Invisible. A street sweeper. A waiter smoking in front of the tavern. Two men checking a pile of crates, dressed like bank clerks, muscled like jungle animals.
They were the only ones who saw her slip out the back. It took her half an hour to lose them.
Fourteen
SHE’D ALWAYS LIKED ROOFS. SHE LIKED BEING UP high. There was a whole city up here nobody knew about but chimney sweeps and thieves. Miles of slanting, topsy-turvy roads ran over the gables, across balconies, and up and down chimneys and fences. It was quiet here. Peaceful. Safer than the streets, if it came to that. Her own private London. This was one more thing she gave up when she went respectable.
She’d left her cloak and her woman’s clothes with Doyle, at the bottom of a drainpipe two houses down. Might as well lay a ladder up to a house as run a drainpipe. Doyle said if she was going to climb that, why didn’t she just jump off Tower Bridge and spare him the apprehension. A fine man to work with, Mr. Doyle.
It was a regular turnpike for cats up here. A fair treat to crawl across.
She squatted on the cornice, keeping low to the roof so she didn’t make an outline on the sky. She wore a black scarf wrapping her hair and soot-colored trousers and shirt. If somebody spotted her, she was small enough to pass for a sweep.
Over there, on the other side of the alley, was Eaton Expediters. The jump across was seven feet, give or take.
A solid company. The Captain was only one of the shippers who ran paperwork through Eaton, using them to keep records instead of hiring clerks of their own. He should set up his own premises, though. Kennett Shipping had got to be the size it needed a general manager who stayed ashore and looked after the cargo. Somebody should talk to Sebastian about that.
“It’ll be interesting to see his books, anyway. He’s highly profitable.”
The bag at her back wriggled and listened.
“I might clear him. I have four of the dates secrets were lifted from the War Office. If he didn’t have any ships sailing out of London right then, he’s clear. Cinq ships his secrets to France, fast as he can peel ’em loose from Whitehall.”
Eaton’s roof was a steep bit of slate. Nothing more slippery than old slate. And she couldn’t rig up a safety line. Everywhere here was rotten stone all through and mortar crumbling like cheese. Disgraceful, really, the way people neglected their chimney pots.
Seven feet. She’d made hops worse than this when she was a kid. Of course, she’d had a partner then, helping out, handling the rope. It was harder, doing this alone. That last time, the time when she fell, she’d been alone, going home after a job.
She wasn’t going to think about that.
“Trouble is, the Captain’s got just a mort of ships. Always some Kennett ship in the Thames. It’s not going to be that easy.”