“Easy work,” the big man grunted. He stood, wiping the blade on his dirty coat. He was very tall, very broad in the chest and had the scarred knuckles of a pugilist. His face was pitted with pox scars, his nose had been broken and ill set at least once, and his eyes were like stones. Everything about him declared that he was from as low a gutter as could bear life and just to look at him was to be glad that the gallows stood tall outside Newgate Prison.
“He’s still alive.” Lavisser frowned at Willsen.
“Not for long, he ain’t,” the big man said, then stamped hard on Willsen’s chest. “Not now, he ain’t.”
“You are an example to us all, Barker,” Lavisser said, then stepped close to the lifeless Willsen. “He was a very dull man, probably a Lutheran. You’ll take his cash? Make it look like a robbery?”
Barker had already begun cutting the dead man’s pockets open. “You think they’ll find another bugger to go with us?” he asked.
“They seem tediously intent on giving me company,” Lavisser said airily, “but time is short now, very short, and I doubt they’ll find anyone. But if they do, Barker, then you must deal with the new man just as you dealt with this one.” Lavisser seemed fascinated by the dead Willsen, for he could not take his eyes from him. “You are a great comfort to me, Barker, and you will like it in Denmark.”
“I will, sir?”
“They are a very trusting people,” Lavisser said, still unable to take his gaze from Willsen’s body. “We shall be as ravening wolves among the woolliest of baa-lambs.” He finally managed to look away from the corpse, raised a languid hand and edged past the handcart. He made bleating noises as he went down the alley.
The rain fell harder. It was the end of July 1807, yet it felt more like March. It would be a poor harvest, there was a new widow in Kent and the Honorable John Lavisser went to Almack’s where he lost considerably more than a thousand guineas, but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered now. He left worthless notes of hand promising to pay his debts and walked away. He was on his way to glory.
Mister Brown and Mister Belling, the one fat and the other thin, sat side by side and stared solemnly at the green-jacketed army officer across the table. Neither Mister Belling nor Mister Brown liked what they saw. Their visitor-he was not exactly a client-was a tall man with black hair, a hard face and a scar on his cheek and, ominously, he looked like a man who was no stranger to scars. Mister Brown sighed and turned to stare at the rain falling on London’s Eastcheap. “It will be a bad harvest, Mister Belling,” he said heavily.
“I fear so, Mister Brown.”
“July!” Brown said. “July indeed! Yet it’s more like March!”
“A fire in July!” Mister Belling said. “Unheard of!”
The fire, a mean heap of sullen coals, burned in a blackened hearth above which hung a cavalry saber. It was the only decoration in the paneled room and hinted at the office’s military nature. Messrs Belling and Brown of Cheapside were army agents and their business was to look after the finances of officers who served abroad. They also acted as brokers for men wanting to buy or sell commissions, but this wet, chill July afternoon was bringing them no fees. “Alas!” Mister Brown spread his hands. His fingers were very white, plump and beautifully manicured. He flexed them as though he was about to play a harpsichord. “Alas,” he said again, looking at the green-jacketed officer who glowered from the opposite side of the table.
“It is the nature of your commission,” Mister Belling explained.
“Indeed it is,” Mister Brown intervened, “the nature, so to speak, of your commission.” He smiled ruefully.
“It’s as good as anyone else’s commission,” the officer said belligerently.
“Oh, better!” Mister Brown said cheerfully. “Would you not agree, Mister Belling?”
“Far better,” Mister Belling said enthusiastically. “A battlefield commission, Mister Sharpe? `Pon my soul, but that’s a rare thing. Rare!”