Chapter 2

CHAPTER2

A few hours earlier

The room in which Mr Garmon Lovell sat, was quite pleasant, particularly given its location in Monmouth Court, Saint Giles in the notorious district of Seven Dials. A fresh coat of paint to the walls, panes of glass in the windows and a sturdy door with a lock, did much to restore the room to its former glory. As had done the coat of paint and new windows to the building in which it was situated above a bookshop and printers. The renovations gave it a certain éclat in the rather run down environs of Monmouth Court.

The row of urchins before him certainly thought so and were suitably overawed. This collection of the urchins of the street were, to a child, small, under-nourished, filthy and scabrous. They also stank of the Thames in which they spent quite a bit of their time. That notwithstanding, they were valuable to Garmon as the cogs of his vast information network. He paid them five pence a day and a meal, to fatten them up, but he suspected most of the money and the food went to their families, because the little varmints continued to be skinny and malodorous no matter his efforts.

Having briefed them for their day’s work, he dismissed them. He listened to them pad downstairs on dirty, bare feet and into the street where they would disperse to their posts for the day, returning at dusk to receive their wages and meal and be replaced by the night shift.

The idea of using street urchins for his spy network was not his. He had learned it from his mentor, the Chevalier De Salle–purportedly a French émigré fled the terror in Paris -, on the streets of Brussels, where he served an apprenticeship as a youth and young man; learning the ways of an adventurer, which included aping the manner of a gentleman, as well as how to fleece an ignorant nobleman and survive the brutality of Brussels’ backstreets.

De Salle owned Brussels in those days, much as Garmon now owned London. He wondered if the old reprobate was still alive. He’d lost touch with him when Brussels was annexed by the French in 1795, and they were forced to flee the city. He returned to London, De Salle’s intention was to go to Italy. He had been tempted to go with him, but a strange homesickness sent him back to St Giles to find his own way.

Dismissing the reminiscence, he returned to his work of sifting through titbits of information that he had gleaned from his various sources, putting together connections and opportunities which were his stock-in-trade. This was his new enterprise, having been robbed of his gaming hell by the Duke of Mowbray. He still had every intention of getting the hell back, now that he was healed of the bullet the Duchess of Mowbray had put in his back. She had damned near killed him with that shot, if it weren’t for Connor he would have died of the fever.

Vengeance was a dish best served cold, and Garmon’s fury had cooled to arctic temperatures by now. He meant to exact a price against his treacherous niece and her iniquitous husband that neither should ever forget and get his hell back in the process. They would both learn the price of crossing Garmon Lovell.

The door opened to admit a swarthy man of solid, muscular build, escorting none too gently, a thin man in a jacket shiny with age and a battered crown beaver hat. He removed it at sight of Garmon, revealing a thinning crop of greying hair, combed over his balding forehead. His eyes watered behind their spectacles, and he clutched his hat nervously. Garmon nodded to Rooke, who released the thin man’s arm and stepped back, blocking the exit with his large frame.

“Mr Whiteside, it is quarter day. Where is my money?”

“Mr Lovell, Sir, I just need a little more time-”

“How much does he have Rooke?” Garmon asked.

Rooke stepped forward and laid a roll of bills on his desk. “Just shy of fifty pounds by my reckoning.”

“It’s all I have Mr Lovell!”

“But not enough...” Lovell counted the bills rapidly and shoved them in a drawer of his desk. “Rooke, retrieve whatever you can to make up the shortfall. The house if necessary. Good day Mr Whiteside.”

“Not the house–where will I live?”

“Not my problem, Mr Whiteside.” Garmon returned his attention to the pile of documents before him.

“Please Mr Lovell, I’ll do anything, just don’t take the house-”

“You had your opportunity; I have been more than patient. Mr Rooke, please remove Mr Whiteside from my presence.”

Rooke stepped forward and seized the man’s arm as he cried out a protest. Rooke hustled him towards the door and the man’s glasses fell off in the scuffle, clacking on the floorboards. “Please! Wait! I–I have something you may want-”

“I want my money,” replied Garmon.

“I have information!” The man tried to pry his arm out of Rooke’s grip, but the attempt was futile.

“Well?” Garmon sat back sceptical. “Out with it.”

“You will leave my house alone?”

“Depends on the value of your information.”

“I want a guarantee-”

“You’re in no position to be making demands Mr Whiteside. Leave here with your information and without your house, it’s all one to me.” He waved a hand. “Rooke.” The big man seized his arm again and Whiteside began to babble.

Garmon listened to him for a few minutes and then waved him away. “I already knew most of that, and the rest is incorrect. Take him away Rooke and bring me the title to his house. Send the men in to sort through what is there, anything of value bring to me, the rest they can have.”

“Yes Mr Lovell.” Rooke bundled up the still protesting White-side and manhandled him out the door. His protests could be heard all the way to the street. Garmon shook his head and returned to the pile of documents before him.

A little whilelater Mr Rooke came back with the title deeds for the house and a collection of valuable trinkets.

Garmon shoved the deed in a drawer, sorted through the trinkets and instructed Rooke to exchange them for money from Old Harry in Bent Street.

Rooke nodded. “Cruikshank’s been spotted over at Temple Bar this morning.”

“Good send a couple of lads to fetch him, I want a word.”

“Already done, Mr Lovell. He should arrive at any moment.”

“Excellent, escort him in, will you? He might need a little persuasion.”

“Yes sir.”

He came back shortly with a very tall, very thin man dressed rather dapperly in a coat of navy blue over fawn-coloured pantaloons and a floral waistcoat.

“Ah Mr Cruickshank, nice of you to drop in,” said Garmon with heavy sarcasm.

Straightening his neckcloth and shucking his cuffs, Cruikshank grimaced. “There was no need for violence Mr Lovell. No need at all.”

“There was every need Cruikshank. You’ve been evading my men for weeks. You owe me one thousand pounds. Pay up!”

Cruikshank eyed him with mild alarm, nowhere in proportion to the fear he should be feeling. The man had the hide of a rhinoceros.

“We are both businessmen, Mr Lovell. You know full well you can’t expect a fellow to produce a sum like that out of thin air.”

“You have had several months to make good on your debt Cruikshank, do you fancy a spell in debtor’s prison?”

“Now do be reasonable -!” He said visibly blenching.

“I have been more than reasonable Cruikshank.” he advanced on the man and despite Cruikshank being several inches taller, he shrank back from Garmon’s menacing glare coming up against Rooke standing like a brick wall behind him. He glanced up at Rooke and gulped.

“Mr Rooke, I think Mr Cruikshank is unaware of the seriousness of the situation. Perhaps you could enlighten him?”

Rooke reached a big hand around and gripped Cruikshank by the throat and squeezed. The man’s face began to turn purple, and he uttered some choking sounds, his hands scrabbling in effectually at the hand on his throat., his feet dangled a few inches off the ground. He wasn’t taller than Rooke.

Just as he judged Cruikshank was losing consciousness, he waved at Rook to ease his grip, which he did.

The man coughed and wheezed for a bit, while Rooke kept him upright.

“I trust I’ve made my point?” Garmon leaned against his desk watching this display of distress dispassionately.

“You–have that!” wheezed the other man.

“Good, next time it won’t be you my men bring me, but your son. How old is he? Eight? Ten? Just the right age to be a mud lark. Don’t you think? He’ll have to earn his living somehow, as he will be an orphan by the end of the week.”

“No! You wouldn’t!”

“You know better than that. How many men have wound up in the Thames who crossed me? Care me to list them?”

Cruikshank swallowed painfully. “No.”

“Good, then pay up by the end of the week, or you’ll be joining that illustrious list!” Garmon smiled, but he knew it didn’t reach his eyes, it was a grimace, designed to put the fear of God into anyone who witnessed it. He’d practised it for years in his teens and got so good at it, he’d induced many men to lose control of their bowels on sight of it.

“And if you think to disappear, think again. Your son is sojourning with us until you pay up in full.”

“He’s not! he’s with his mother in S-”

“Soho. Yes we picked him up this morning. Don’t worry we will take very good care of him. Won’t we Mr Rooke.”

“That we will Mr Lovell,” rumbled Rooke in Cruikshank’s ear.

He jumped and shuddered. “You’re a cruel man Mr Lovell!”

“I’m a businessman. Which you also claim to be . But unlike you, I pay my debts. Now, do you require any further persuasion to my point of view?”

Garmon advanced on him again and grabbed his hand, twisting the fingers. “I understand you’re fond of playing the piano, Mr Cruikshank. Difficult to do with broken fingers.”

Cruikshank yelped and whimpered. “I understand Mr Lovell. Truly. You’ll get your money. I promise.”

“Don’t promise, just deliver. You know what will happen if you don’t.” Garmon let his fingers go.

“I do. I do.” He nodded cringing and holding his fingers.

Some hourslater the door opened again and Connor ambled in. Garmon looked up, taking in Connor’s casual appearance. Garmon sat back in his chair. “Well did you get the money?”

“Not yet. According to his so-called wife, Tate is dead. I told her I’d be back on Friday to collect. Naturally she claimed not to have the money.”

Garmon waved a hand dismissively, he had more things on his mind than another petty debt. “I want you to take a note to Diana from me.”

“Alright, but why?” said Connor with a puzzled look.

“I have a plan to get the hell back and this time it’s going to work!’ He glared at Connor.

Connor flushed. “It wasn’t my fault Diana smelled a rat. I did warn you she wouldn’t fall for it.”

Garmon got up from his desk and paced to the window and back, too restless to sit still. Just thinking about that devil Mowbray and his wretched little ungrateful witch of a wife made his blood boil.

“So, what is the plan?” asked Connor.

With his back still to the room Garmon said, “I plan to lure Diana to the hell ostensibly to meet me. Instead, I want you to kidnap her. We will hold her to ransom until Mowbray surrenders the title deeds to the hell. He dotes on her; he’ll do anything to get her back.”

“No.”

Garmon rounded on Connor. “What do you mean, no?” His heart thudded in his chest, two parts fury to one part anguish at this betrayal.

Connor looked at him steadily. “I mean no. I won’t do it. I’ll do a lot of things for you Garmon, I’ve even killed for you. But I won’t do this. She’s your niece for fucks sake!”

Garmon strode over to the desk and pounded on it with his fist to stop himself hitting Connor with it. “Yes, my treacherous, ungrateful niece! The little bitch betrayed me!” He breathed hard, his vision blurring.

“She’s happy Garmon. After everything she went through I’d’ve thought you of all people would be happy for her. God, have you got no heart? I thought you cared for her!”

“Clearly you do!” Garmon’s eyes narrowed.

Connor flushed. “Yes, I do, and there’s no need to glare at me like that, it never went further than the odd kiss, she wasn’t interested in me and whatever you might think of me I don’t force myself on unwilling women!”

Garmon’s shoulders twitched and a pang from the bullet wound made him wince. “So, I should fucking hope. You knew what my rules were about Diana, no one was to touch her and that included you! If I’d known, I’d’ve, had you fucking flogged!”

Connor’s face twisted into a grimace. “Yes, you always hide behind your bully boy’s, don’t you?” Connor shook his head, turning away. “Since you lost the hell, you’ve lost your mind! I’ve about had enough of your obsessive madness.” He turned back. “I won’t let you hurt Diana anymore. Find another way to get the hell back, but don’t use her to get it!”

“I’ll do as I see fit, and you’ll do as you’re told!” snapped Garmon.

Connor smiled and it wasn’t pretty. “I’m not eight years old any more Garmon, you can’t beat me into submission. Get someone else to do your dirty work from now on. I’m out!” he turned and slammed out of the room, his booted feet loud on the wooden stairs. The bang of the back door slamming out into the street left Garmon shaking with rage. He almost went after him, but pride held him in place. He’d be back. Connor wouldn’t leave him. Connor was loyal.

He swallowed the hard lump in his throat and went to the locked cupboard against the back wall, taking out a key with hands that shook, he fetched out a bottle of whisky and a glass, poured himself a generous tot and tossed it off in a swallow. Connor’s voice echoed in his head: since you lost the hell you’ve lost your mind.

It was true he hadn’t been himself since then. He had lost a piece of himself. He wasn’t whole without the hell. It was his identity. Fuck!

A shudder, remnant of the old fear ran through him, and he reached for the bottle. A second glass steadied his nerves and he put both the bottle and glass back and relocked the cupboard.