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Having learned of Hugh Toole’s heavy involvement in Payne’s case, Mr. Hadford had suggested that they stop at Bow Street to enlist his help. Adam had readily agreed. Toole would be an invaluable ally at the bank—so long as he was in town.
Adam let himself out of the carriage and hurried up the steps to the black door leading to the magistrate’s office. Reaching for the brass knocker, he let it fall twice. He waited. It was not long before heavy footsteps reached him through the door and the sound of the bolt being drawn back was quickly followed by the squeak of the door’s hinges.
“Good morning, Albert.” Adam refused to dwell upon the fact that he had visited this place in the dark often enough to know the night watchman by name.
“Morning, m’ lord. How can I ’elp you?”
“I have a message for Mr. Toole. Is he expected in today?”
“As far as I know. But Mr. Toole don’t always let us know ’is plans till they’re over.”
Adam’s chest tightened. If there was one day Toole needed to show up, it was today. “Can you reach him at home—before office hours?”
“Not officially.”
Adam bit back a smile. Perhaps there was an advantage to knowing the night watchman after all.
“I see. Well, should you know of anyone willing to take an unofficial walk—or even a run—to Mr. Toole’s lodgings within the next half an hour, have them tell the gentleman that Lord Dunsbourne expects Freddie Payne to be at the bank on Threadneedle Street when it opens this morning.”
Albert’s eyebrows shot up. One could not work for the Bow Street runners without recognizing certain names.
“The bank on Threadneedle Street, first thing this morning,” Albert repeated. “It seems like there might be someone ’round ’ere needing some exercise in the next few minutes. I daresay I can steer ’im in the right direction.”
“Thank you, Albert.”
“Good day, m’ lord.”
Adam returned to the carriage, and Mr. Hadford wasted no time.
“What news?”
“Someone will get word to Toole. He will be there before the bank opens.”
Mr. Hadford consulted his pocket watch. “That is in less than an hour, and the man has yet to be reached.”
“We are dealing with runners,” Adam reminded him.
The carriage started moving again, and Mr. Hadford remained silent, tension obvious in the lines on his face. “I cannot afford to lose five hundred pounds, Dunsbourne.”
“I understand.” This was not the time to tell the gentleman how much greater his father’s loss had been. “When we reach the bank, your priority will be to have the manager freeze all payments on checks written against your account. Mine will be to connect with Toole and watch for our criminal.”
“Payne is outnumbered, and we have surprise on our side.” Mr. Hadford spoke as though he were trying to convince himself that the odds were in their favor. In theory, they were. Unfortunately, Freddie Payne was not known for conforming to theories.
Freddie took one last look in the mirror. He had made good use of the hour he’d had since returning his rented carriage and walking the short distance to his London lodgings. All trace of face powder and paint was gone, along with the white wig and beauty patch. His natural hair—a useful, nondescript brown color—fell to his shoulders, and his black jacket and tan breeches were unremarkable enough to avoid attention. He straightened his cravat and gave his reflection a satisfied nod. It was time.
He opened a large trunk in the corner of the room and set his oversized red coat and eye patch on top of the other costumes folded within. A quick glance around the room satisfied him that all evidence of Edward Trevors’s existence was safely hidden away, so he pressed the lid closed and locked the trunk. He tucked the small key into his pocket beside Hadford’s check, and then he picked up his hat and gloves. Pressing his hat onto his head so the wide brim kept his eyes in shadow, he left his rooms and set off on foot for Threadneedle Street.
The sounds of an awakening city greeted him: the trundle of wagon wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the call of street vendors and merchants—all punctuated by the occasional bark of a dog or cry of a seagull. Freddie inhaled deeply. He loved the sooty smell of the city. It meant people—lots of people—and that opened up a world of possibilities for someone like him.
The bells of St. Stephen’s rang, marking the nine o’clock hour and the beginning of another day of business. Freddie quickened his pace and turned the corner onto Threadneedle Street. As far as he was concerned, every worthwhile business day began with a large withdrawal from someone else’s bank account.
Maintaining a neutral expression and an unhurried stride, he joined the steady stream of people filing up the steps and through the arched doorway into the bank. Inside, the floor was tiled, and the vaulted ceiling made the lobby appear cavernous. Bankers sat in a row along the length of the room, their faces distorted by the wooden grill separating them from their customers. Despite the early hour, men and women milled around the room, some of them moving purposefully, others standing, waiting their turn to speak with someone.
Freddie paused long enough to scan the row of bankers. The most youthful, inexperienced teller was always his first choice. A young man with round spectacles perched on the end of his pimpled nose caught his attention. He was currently helping a woman with a little boy at her side, and although he was sitting between two white-haired gentlemen, he had yet to confer with either of them. Perfect. New but not so new as to need assistance. Freddie moved to stand across from the young banker and prepared to wait his turn.
The sensation that he was being watched began as an inkling and quickly mushroomed into a certainty. Keeping his head low, he twisted to the right and scanned that side of the room. An elderly lady stood beside the main doors, her gaze directed his way. A dark-haired gentleman dressed in a blue jacket stood beside one of the pillars. His attention was directed elsewhere, but there was something uncomfortably familiar about his stance. Freddie searched his memory but could not place him.
Adjusting his position so he could survey the left side of the room, he noted a group of three gentlemen talking together. Occasionally, one of them would look in his direction, but none of them showed undue interest. Behind them, another man was partially blocked by a second pillar. Freddie’s unease grew. Did the gentleman not wish to be seen?
