“Indeed I haven’t,” I told her, “though I cannot say why you should choose to frame my indifference to his actions with such rancor.”
“Mr. Ellershaw has no concern for matters of the heart,” she explained to her lover. “I should think he hardly recalls, if he ever knew, that men and women are disposed to have feelings for one another. If he were made aware of you, sir, he would keep his tongue until it served his interest. No, the thieftaker is here upon another matter.”
“Out with it,” Forester demanded of me, as though he had some means to compel me to say what I would not. The lady spoke into my silence.
“I hadn’t believed he’d learn the truth, but clearly he has. It’s Bridget. That wretched bargain she made was not good enough. Now he wants to end the threat permanently,” she explained to Forester. Then she turned sharply back to me. “Were you to look through my things, my papers? You shan’t find anything, I promise you. And you shall gain no intelligence from me. If you are half so clever as you seem to believe, you will return to Mr. Ellershaw and tell him you could learn nothing of my daughter’s location, and you will tell him you are like to never learn, for indeed you shan’t. I should rather throw myself ’pon the fire, in the manner of the Hindoo ladies, than give her to him.”
What madness was this? It took a moment for me to recall where I had heard the name, but then I recollected it from dinner. Bridget was Mrs. Ellershaw’s daughter from her first marriage. But why should she be hidden away, and why should Mr. Ellershaw care so much that his wife believed he might hire me to discover her?
“Madam,” I said, offering another bow, “I cannot but be moved by your maternal sentiments, but allow me to state once more that I merely wished to discover the exit. I am upon no other errand than that.”
She locked her eyes upon me for the better part of a minute and kept her face hard and unyielding. Then she spoke. “Follow this hall to the junction and turn to your left. Decline the stairs, and on your right you will see the kitchen. You may depart from there, which I believe to be more fitting for you than the front entrance.”
I bowed once more. “As you wish,” I answered, making no sign that this was the means of egress I should have chosen. “Sir,” I said to Mr. Forester, as my awkward means of taking my leave. I then hurried in the direction given to me by the good lady and soon found myself in the cold of night.
I spared no time to consider the strange encounter I had just endured. Instead, I hurried around to the front of the house, where two chaises had been brought from the mews. Here was good news, for Thurmond had not yet departed, so I had not missed my chance, and in my delay I had gathered intelligence I hoped might help illuminate some of the darkness in which I dwelled.
My task now was to follow Thurmond, and to that end I studied the environment for some height I could scale that would enable me to drop down upon the coach as it passed. This was a skill I had mastered during my younger years, when I earned my living in not the most honest of methods. The top of a coach or carriage makes a wonderful starting point for any man seeking to surprise the inhabitants, particularly if he has an accomplice who will meet him with an extra horse for the escape.
There was, however, no way to gain purchase to an appropriate height and very little chance I might sneak inside the vehicle. The footman and the coachman were engaged in conversation, and while it was theoretically possible I might be able to creep past them and somehow avoid the inevitable creak of the door opening, I did not like to depend on such luck. And once inside, then what? How could I hope to go unnoticed by Mr. and Mrs. Thurmond?
As I considered my options-such as stealing a horse or following on foot in hopes they did not travel fast-a servant emerged from the house and darted over to the coach, instructing the driver and footman to spring into action. They did at once. The driver climbed up and took the reins, the footman hopped onto the back.
I followed through the shadows as they pulled directly to the door, and here I enjoyed a wondrous bit of luck, for the aged gentleman helped his wife inside but then declined to enter himself. Instead, he spoke a few words to her and gave some instructions to the coachman and then walked away from the house toward Theobald’s Row. I followed at a safe distance, but I was close enough to hear when, at the corner of Red Lyon Street, he dropped a coin in the hand of another gentleman’s waiting footman with the request to find him a hackney.
This was a far superior situation, for once the transportation was secured it was no difficult thing to hop on the back and remain crouched, that I might go unobserved. And so I did, clinging to the back as the carriage traveled at its snail pace through the filthy streets of the metropolis. My presence was remarked upon by a few of the whores and low men we passed, but the coachman failed to understand-or failed to care-and ignored the jeers until the conveyance arrived at Fetter Lane. Thurmond then departed and entered the Brush and Palette, a tavern favored by men of an artistical inclination.
I crawled down from the back, determined to wait a moment before entering.
The coachman then turned around. “Enjoy the ride, did you, my master?”
I knew too well the code of the streets either to ignore his meaning or to begrudge it. The metropolis inhaled knowledge and exhaled revelation, and if I did not wish this coachman to respirate to Thurmond, I would have to buy his silence. A sixpence, I was delighted to see, did the business, and the coachman and I parted friends.
I now turned to the matter at hand-principally the question of why Thurmond might choose to attend a coffeehouse of portrait painters- but suspected the answer quickly enough, for I had done such tricks in my time. Why does a man ever go to a public house associated with men with whose business he has no contact? Because he wishes not to be seen.
Maintaining both distance and luck, I followed the worthy inside and was unobserved as he took a room in the back and left instructions with the publican. After a moment, I approached this fellow, a stooped fellow of about Thurmond’s age. Rather than wasting time, I handed him a coin.
“What did the gentleman instruct you?” I asked.
“That when another gentleman should inquire for a Mr. Thompson, he be shown to that room.”
I proceeded with another coin. “Is there a room adjacent to his?”
“There is indeed, and it is available for three shillings.”
It was, of course, an absurd price, but we both knew I would pay without haggling, and so I was led to my own private space, where I waited, close by the wall, for something to happen. And something did. Within half an hour I heard another person enter the adjoining room. I pressed my ear to the wall, but I could still not make out the particulars of their conversation. Nevertheless, I recognized the voice of Thurmond’s visitor. It was the second clandestine meeting I had seen the same gentleman engage in that very night.
Yes, Mr. Forester of the East India Company had come to meet with Mr. Thurmond of the wool interest, and I did not believe they met because of their many conflicts. With the meeting of the Court of Proprietors hard upon Ellershaw, it would seem his rivals had found much to discuss.
THERE WERE MANY QUESTIONS now before me. Ought I to tell Ellershaw of Forester’s betrayal with Ellershaw’s wife, his betrayal with his enemy Thurmond, with both, or with neither one? As near as I could tell, I gained no advantage in doing so. Sending Ellershaw, and perhaps the whole of Craven House, into chaos would not serve my ends, and I had nothing to gain by gathering for myself more of the gentleman’s trust than I had already obtained. As for Cobb, I was determined to mention only Mrs. Ellershaw’s indiscretion. Such intelligence would demonstrate to my overseer that I performed as he wished and would offer greater protection for my friends. At the same time I felt confident that Cobb would have no use for this information, and consequently there could be no risk in revealing it. As I knew not which was the greater villain in this conflict, I could not easily tell how best to disseminate my discoveries to full advantage.