Chapter Four

Steven sat back, rubbing his neck. He’d been bent over the Bow Street Runners’ notes on the Peacock thefts all morning. And the whole of the day before. And the one before that. And… He let that thought trail off with a sigh. “We must be missing something.”

Where he sat across the table in the cramped, windowless room the Runners had allotted him, Sergeant Fletcher looked up. “I daresay we are. The product of incomplete information, I should not wonder. Which is why I sent two of our best back out, to do more complete interviews.” He shuffled through some papers. “Here is what they have come back with so far.” With a toss, the pages landed near Steven’s elbow.

Sergeant Fletcher returned his attention to the reports before him. Steven studied the sandy haired head. Fletcher, a decade or so Steven’s junior, presented a conundrum. A sergeant in the regulars, yet already retired, and Steven’s liaison with the Runners, Fletcher possessed the measured, precise annunciation of a member of the ton.

Members of the ton did not become Bow Street Runners. Nor did they generally join the regulars without purchasing a rank, which would have made Fletcher an ensign at the least. How was the man a retired sergeant at such a young age, and why leave the regulars to become a glorified parish constable?

“It puts one in mind of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave,” Fletcher added, not looking up. “We have only shadows of the truth.”

Steven continued to stare. Now the man would reference The Republic?

“You may ask,” Fletcher said, raising his head to meet Steven’s gaze.

With a wince, Steven hedged, “My curiosity is so acute, then?”

“Everyone asks.”

“Very well. How is it that you are a retired sergeant and a Bow Street Runner, Sergeant Fletcher?”

“Fletcher will do, and it is by choice. Second choice. My first choice was the regulars, but my parents, or rather my mother, were so opposed, they refused to buy me a rank. Obviously, I joined regardless.” He shrugged. “Then, when my father and eldest brother died, making me the spare, my mother badgered me, and used her family’s influence, to see me retired from service.” Fletcher sat back in his chair. “I am not an idle man, Mr. Hurst. Nor can I see myself as a clergyman. Joining the Bow Street Runners was my novel solution and, to answer your next question, yes, my upbringing is why I am stuck in this room with you. The others said I understand you ‘swells, bucks, and pinks,’ and that I could deal with you.”

“Splendid,” Steven muttered. “Dare I hope you have some idea what you are about, then?”

“I have every idea. I earned my rank in the regulars, and my place here. Do you think they wanted me when I applied?”

“Fair point,” Steven said, wishing he hadn’t voiced that doubt aloud. Silence heavy about him, he turned his attention to the reports Fletcher had tossed over.

The pages held lists of where the robbed widows had been on the day they presumed they’d been robbed, mostly as told by their staff, for most were not in town or refused to humor the Runners with renewed interviews. Ladies of the upper set, it seemed, were not often at home to Bow Street Runners. Steven could have helped there, were he allowed to mingle with his own set, but he’d been ordered not to compromise his position as Padgett’s asset. An order that made him nervous about this truly being his final assignment for the general.

Steven longed for his freedom.

Which he would be more likely to secure were he to succeed in the capture of the Peacock, so he pulled free a clean sheet of paper and readied a pen. The greatest link between the robberies, aside from the victims of the Peacock being widows, was their absence from home when they were robbed. Going through both old and new notes on the cases, he made a list of where the widows were when the Peacock called. Curiously, he also noted that three of the widows had reported broken windows. Not when they were robbed, but in the weeks before.

Had anyone looked into that?

“And you?” Fletcher asked.

Steven looked up. “Me what?”

“What is a gentleman like you doing working for the Crown’s secret division?”

“Oh.” Steven wished he hadn’t pried into Fletcher’s circumstances, for he’d no desire to share his. “I am, ah, working off my family’s debt to the crown.”

Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “I assume we mean a debt of honor.”

As his only other choices were to ignore the question or lie, Steven nodded.

“But not your debt. You said, ‘your family’s.’”

Steven attempted for a coldness he hoped would end the other man’s questioning. “My father’s and brother’s.”

“Hm,” Fletcher murmured and returned to reading.

Steven dropped his gaze to his list, then cleared his throat. “Look here. I have made a list of everywhere the Peacock’s victims say they were when he struck.”

“Yes. We did so as well. There is nothing common to all the cases.”

“There is not,” Steven agreed. He tapped his list. “We see only the shadow, though, as you said. We have incomplete information. There are cases where the valuables may not have been discovered missing immediately. There are undoubtedly others where every stop made on an outing was not recalled, by the ladies or their staff. Regardless, one location is mentioned more than the others. Madame Dentelle, a modiste.”

Fletcher looked up again, his frown thoughtful.

“And then there are the broken windows,” Steven added, encouraged when Fletcher didn’t immediately dismiss his words.

“The Peacock does not break windows.”

“No, but three of his victims reported broken windows. Two the month before being robbed, and one two weeks prior.”

“Three? We are speaking of sixteen robberies. Three hardly signifies.”

“Three who thought to mention as much.” The more he thought on the windows, the more Steven warmed to the idea. “And think about this, how many wealthy homes suffer broken windows a year? Even three seems too great a coincidence.”

“Put that way, it does seem significant, but of what?”

Steven’s excitement dimmed. “I am not certain.” He rallied to say, “But I do believe we should visit this Madame Dentelle.”

“We? I thought you were meant to go unseen.”

“I am meant to go unrecognized.” Steven stood, rolling back cramped shoulders. “My wife does not patronize Madame Dentelle.” Because Steven could not afford for Louisa to do so, though she had visited in the company of her younger sister, Miss Caroline Bingley, on rare occasion. “You can enter first, if you like, to ensure there are no ladies inside, but the hour is early for visits to the modiste.”

Fletcher offered a sudden grin. “Anything to get out of this room, eh?”

Steven could only grin back.

Soon enough, they rode through London’s streets, two unremarkable gentlemen on unremarkable mounts. Tradesmen and women dotted the lanes down which they walked their horses, but, as Steven predicted, the hour was early still for the ladies and gentlemen of his set. By the time they arrived at Madame Dentelle’s, Steven had no fear he’d been seen by anyone who might know him, let alone recall him.

They gave a couple halfpennies to a lad who scurried up with an offer to mind their mounts, and, in what Steven felt to be an overabundance of caution, Fletcher entered first. He appeared a few moments later, gesturing Steven in.

The shop proved stuffed with all manner of cloth, lace, beads, ribbons, and the like. Moreover, not only deserted of patronesses at that pre-noon hour, but of a single person other than the two of them. Steven cast Fletcher an enquiring look.

“I called out and was answered from behind that curtain.” Fletcher pointed to a doorway which led into the back of the shop. “I was told to wait.”

Steven nodded. Fletcher began to walk about, even examining a bit of fabric here, or lace there. Steven took up a position before the counter. He doubted he could afford to accidentally spoil any of Madame Dentelle’s wares. Behind the curtain, faint movement could be heard.

The entire place reeked of overly floral perfume, making Steven worry the scent would stick. What would Louisa make of that? Several minutes passed, during which he tried to breathe as little as possible. Finally, turning to where Fletcher examined a row of dyed ostrich feathers, Steven asked, “Did you identify yourself?”

“I did.”

Another minute passed, and another.

Was that the sound of whispering behind the screen?

Suspicion wriggled in Steven’s gut. “I am going back there.”

Fletcher turned a surprised look his way. “There are ladies back there.”

“Patrons?”

“Well, no. They said the shop was at our disposal. The ladies who work here.”

His suspicion amplifying, Steven raised his voice to call, “I am coming back there.”

As Fletcher started across the room to join him, Steven pushed the curtain aside.

To the sight of the most unfortunate looking women he had ever seen. She froze, her foot up on a stool as she worked to secure her stocking, then let out a startled squeak and dropped the hem of her gown over her leg. She glared at Steven from beneath a dark brow that cut across her entire forehead, impossibly large. One of her eyes squinted closed, a large, hairy mole beneath it. From under her cap, morose black curls hung in frizzy, limp disarray. Her face was painted, both overly white and with too much rouge on her cheeks and lips, and the form beneath her gown lumpy.

“Messieurs, whatever are you doing?” demanded a heavily French accented voice.

Steven turned to find another capped, black haired woman, equally lumpy, painted, and unfortunate looking as the first. They could only be sisters. “Ah, we seek Madame Dentelle.”

“We are aware, monsieur, but our mother is out, and my sister was standing in for a lady, being fitted in her gown, and has only now redonned her own. You nearly saw her in her undress, monsieur.”

Heat raced up the back of Steven’s neck. “I, ah, apologize greatly, mademoiselle.”

“We will wait out front,” Fletcher added from behind Steven.

Wincing at his error, Steven pivoted.

The dull gleam of iron caught his gaze. Shoved into a corner and draped by a thick, rough cloth, but definitely a leather tool pouch, tools protruding from the top. Large tools of a sort Steven had never known anyone to use for sewing. He strode over and reached for the edge of the cloth, hoping he wasn’t about to be further embarrassed.

“What do you do, monsieur?” one of the women demanded.

Steven yanked, revealing a hammer, chisels, glazing knife, and various other tools he suspected strongly were employed in the repair of windows. “What is this?”

The first of the two he’d seen, the one with the mole directly below her squinted eye, rushed over. “Oh, monsieur, those belong to my beau.” She drew her shoulders back, chin up, and added with pride, “He is a tradesman, monsieur. Very skilled.”

“Very skilled, is he?” Steven looked up at Fletcher, who had come closer. “Window repair, is it?”

“La, I know not, monsieur.” The woman giggled, making the hairs sticking out of her mole waggle at Steven like grasping fingers. “He does not care to speak of his work with me. I am for other pursuits.” She smacked her lips.

“Oh, Esme, what will you have these English think of us, saying such about your beau,” the other sister cried.

“I do not mind what they think, so long as they know I am not a woman no English wants.” Esme tossed her curls, flinging more perfumed air Steven’s way.

Which Steven endeavored to ignore, his mind racing. “Your beau, does he ever look at your appointment books?”

The two sisters exchanged a look.

“Why would he, monsieur?”

“That would make our mère quite cross, monsieur.”

Steven could read the guilt on their faces, even through the haze of perfume and layers of paint.

“But you do let him, do you not?” Fletcher asked in a kind tone, apparently agreeing with Steven’s assessment.

“Oui, monsieur, she does.”

Esme cast her sister a glare. “Why do you say this, Margot?”

“Because you do.”

The two exchanged frowns that made their giant brows into sinister Vs.

Finally, Esme dropped her gaze with a gusty sigh. “My beau, he reads the books so he may find new clients, monsieur. It is no harm, but would make our mère very cross.”

Margot came forward to pat Esme on the shoulder. “Do not fear. She will not know.” She looked up, meeting Steven’s gaze with surprisingly clear blue eyes. “You will not tell our mère, will you?”

Trying not to reveal his excitement, Steven shook his head. “I do not believe that will be required, but we would be very interested in speaking to your beau. Does he call often?”

Esme clamped her lips closed.

Perfectly nice lips, really, if she did not apply her paint so terribly. Fuller than they appeared at first glance, with so much white on them and so little red. Steven couldn’t imagine why the two, already unfortunate in appearance, thought so much paint improved them. But then, who knew the state of their skin beneath. The paint was so thick, they could be pock marked for all he could tell.

“Does he have a name?” Fletcher pressed.

Esme shook her head, mulish.

“Mon Dieu!” Margot exclaimed. “If you do not tell them, then I will. These men are of the constabulary. La Gendarmerie! It is so obvious, your beau is a cad. A scofflaw. A criminal.”

Esme stared at her sister for a moment, then her face crumpled. She gave a loud sob. “He does not call often, no, messieurs. P-perhaps one or two times each month. W-when he has the coin, you understand? When he has the money to treat me well, with flowers and confections.”

Steven exchanged a look with Fletcher, betting the other man thought the same thing. The Peacock likely had several women he called on, using charm and a few gifts to find ready locations to hide the tools of his trade, and looking in their books for when wealthy widows would be in their shops. He likely had a milliner, a shoemaker, and more on whom he called. Steven felt a well of sympathy for this woman who, like as not, had never had the attention of any other man.

“And his name,” Fletcher asked gentle as Esme continued to sob.

Margot yanked a handkerchief from the neck of her gown and pressed it on her sister before turning back to them. “He is Monsieur Paon.”

Esme sobbed harder.

“And where can we find this Monsieur Paon?” A shock of worry ran through Steven. “How do you contact him? Has he called recently?” It wouldn’t do to have Esme warn her beau that they knew of him, out of misguided affection.

“He c-called Tuesday last,” Esme managed through her tears. “I will not see him again for weeks. I must always wait for him to call. I c-cannot even w-wright to him.” She raised a face streaked with tears, the coal around her eyes running together with her white and pink paint in a muddle of flesh-toned gray. “I have been a fool,” she wailed. She dropped her piebald face to her handkerchief filled palms.

Margot patted her sister on the shoulder, worry drawing down her brow. “He lunches, does he not, Esme?” Margot said. “I think he has mentioned the Hind and Hound once.”

Esme nodded, not looking up.       

Excitement thrilled through Steven. They might actually have done it. He and Fletcher might be days away from apprehending the Peacock. Steven would be free. He would have his life back. Time for Louisa, to mend the harm he’d done their union with his constant unexplained absences. His sneaking out.

“Can you describe Mr. Paon for us?” Fletcher asked.

Margot looked at her sobbing sister. “Esme?” After a moment, Margot shrugged and turned back to them. “He is so high.” She held her hand up to a height a bit taller than Steven. Closer to Fletcher. “His hair, it is dark. Not black, no, but nearly. His eyes are light. I think you English say hazel? Slender. Like a whip, no? With the large hands. He has a scar here.” She touched under her right eye. “He said from his work, the glass fixing.”

“Is he French?” Steven asked when she added no more.

Margot shook her head. “English, Esme?”

“He is Welsh,” Esme mumbled into her handkerchief.

“Welsh?” Fletcher repeated slowly. “Paon does not sound Welsh.”

Margot shrugged again. “Perhaps he lies. It seems he lies about much, no?”

Esme made a choking sound.

“We must ask you to make no effort to contact Mr. Paon,” Fletcher said, stern now. “He is quite possibly a criminal. If he is not, he has nothing to fear and will certainly call on you again soon. If he is, you do not want to know him, do you? Especially not being French, as you are. We do not take kindly to émigrés who do not obey our laws. I am afraid that if you have any contact with Mr. Paon before we do, we will be forced to send your entire family back to France.”

Esme looked up at that. Two sets of wide, frightened eyes fixed on Fletcher.

“Am I clear?” he pressed.

“I will not permit her to see him,” Margot said firmly.

“I do not wish to see him,” Esme whispered.

“If you require any assistance, or if he does call, contact me immediately.” Fletcher pulled out a card and proffered it to Margot.

“Merci, monsieur.”

“Thank you, mademoiselles.”

Steven bowed along with Fletcher, struggling to hide his excitement. He kept silent as they went back past the curtain, and through the shop.

Outside, he handed the boy another penny, and didn’t speak as they rode away from the modiste’s. Finally, as they drew in sight of the Runners’ headquarters, Steven turned to Fletcher with a grin. “We might have him.”

Fletcher nodded, his eyes bright. “We very well may.”

“Should you put a watch on Madame Dentelle’s?”

After frowning in through for a moment, Fletcher shook his head. “It does not sound as if he will return there anytime soon. The Peacock is cunning, though. He may have the shop watched. We do not want him on to us.”

“And if they try to find him?” Nothing kept Esme from going to the Hind & Hound, after all.

“They appeared genuinely afraid to me, when I mentioned sending them back to France. I do not believe they will go. I believe that, starting today, we will keep a discreet presence in the Hind and Hound, however, both to apprehend the Peacock and in case Mademoiselle Esme has a change of heart.”

Steven nodded. It would be much easier to hide a few Runners in plain clothes at the Hind & Hound than to make men watching Madame Dentelle’s inconspicuous.

“I just wish my French were better,” Fletcher added.

“Your French?” Steven sought back. Had either of the women said anything important in French? Not that he knew much French either.

“Paon.” Fletcher shook his head. “Sounds French.”

Steven shrugged. “Likely their accents. Everything they said sounded French.” Fletcher nodded and they turned their mounts down the street that housed the Runners’ headquarters.