Page 52 of An Artful Dodge
“Oh.”
James shifted in his chair. “I figured nothing would come of it. But a week later, there were two new men in my cell, and one of them was drunk and started bragging that he dragged two women out of a carriage, stole their jewelry and clothes, then killed them both and threw them into an old boathouse. He was laughing like a bloody Punch puppet.”
“Oh, God.” I shivered.
James stood and opened the square stove door, crouching to tong a few pieces of coal from the brass hod. “About a week later, Fuller comes back and pulls me into that room again. Only this time, I told him I had something to say.”
“You told him about the dead women.”
He shut the metal door with a clank and settled back in his chair. “It wouldn’t help Fuller with his articles about smuggling, but I thought the families should know they didn’t just vanish.”
“They could bury the bodies properly,” I said.
“Aye.” Absently, he raked his hair from his temple. “He said he’d look into it. If the bodies were where I said, he’d be back. I started to say he couldn’t spring me straightaway, it would kill me, seeing as everyone in prison has someone outside, and it would be clear who told about the murders. But as Fuller left, he played it proper, called me a bloody eejit, cussed me under his breath, saying I’d lost my chance. Made it clear I’d given him nothing and he was fed up with me, without overplaying it.” His tone was one of grudging admiration.
“But you were right,” I said.
“Two days later, two guards came to the cell, threw a black hood over my head, and dragged me out like I was done for.”
His voice sobered as he spoke, and despite him sitting in front of me, alive, my heart skipped a beat as I imagined the terror of it. Into our silence came the evening’s sounds from the street—carriage and cart wheels, men’s laughter, the whinny of a horse, the slam of a door, the scrape of a shovel against the cobbles as the nightsoil men began their labors.
“So no one knew he’d sprung you,” I said at last.
He shook his head. “They brought me to the Yard by carriage and took off my hood. An inspector named Stiles had ordered my release, though he was none too happy about Fuller stepping on his toes.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, one murdered woman was a rich man’s daughter—the family’d paid to keep the case out of the papers—and the other was her maid. They’d been missing for three months.” He shifted in the chair. “Stiles thanked me, and Fuller gave me a letter of introduction to a Custom House agent who owed him a favor. He made me swear I’d never tell a soul about what I’d done for the Yard or the paper, or what he’d done for me.” His mouth twitched, curved into the grin I knew. “Stiles was waving his hands, like he didn’t want to know anything about it. The agent at the House gave me a week’s trial to prove myself, and I’ve been an honest man since.”
“Lucky for you, you speak French.”
“Aye.” A wistful look. “One of my ma’s blessings. I use it all the time.”
He settled back in his chair with an expectant look.
My fingers twined themselves in my lap. “You’ve never told anyone about your deal with Fuller?”
“No. Not even Emma.”
I held his gaze, considering, and he waited for my next question.
“Were you afraid,” I said slowly, “when that Yard man said he’d let people think you were a rat?”
His entire body stilled, his very breath halted, but he answered. “I was afraid from the minute I entered the cell and heard the clang of the latch behind me.”
The rawness took away my breath, and I sat for a long moment, silenced by the ache in my throat.
Now I understood. I could have asked him anything, and he’d have answered. His story had nothing to do with Maggie’s dodge. This was an offering, with both hands turned up, as open and honest as he could make it, to show how much he was willing to trust me. To show me I could trust him.
The words came chokingly out of my mouth: “Maggie wants me to steal a necklace. A family heirloom worth several thousand pounds.”
He leaned forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them. “Where is it?”
“She says it’s at Simonson’s in Hatton Garden, for cleaning.”
He frowned. “So it’s safe-kept, isn’t it?”
His mind ran in the same direction as mine.
