I held up my hand to keep Brewster from bodily stopping the man. “Is something amiss?” I asked.
Creasey’s eyes, changed from cold steel to white-hot anger, regarded me over the box’s lid. “Do you mock me, sir?”
“I can hardly mock you. I have no idea what that piece is for or what it means.”
Creasey lifted the queen with a trembling hand. He held it up to the light, as I had, but he obviously read more into it.
“It means, I can kill you where you stand.” Creasey flicked his hard gaze back to me.
“Steady on,” Eden said. “You cannot threaten an officer of the King’s army. We’d be within our rights to kill you, if you try. Do not think we are unarmed.”
My walking stick had within its shaft a stout sword. Eden carried no obvious weapon, but he’d likely have a knife or dagger under his coat. Brewster, I knew from experience, carried several small weapons about his person.
Creasey’s tiny smile returned. “But I would be foolish to do so.” He laid the white queen onto the velvet with care and clicked the box closed. “Please convey to Mr. Denis that I have received and I understand his message.”
I was damned if I knew what message, but I hardly wanted to admit this. “I will.”
“Under the circumstances, gentlemen, I suggest you depart.” Creasey set the box to one side, where it would soon become so much flotsam on the desk’s surface. “You are stout fellows, and as you say, armed, but the men I can summon would not fear you or mind that you are of the King’s army. I bid you good day.”
Brewster, who remained at the shoulder of Creasey’s lackey, stood silently, not offering his opinion. I knew what it would be, however.
I rose. “I believe you are correct. Good day, Mr. Creasey.”
Eden did not bother with a polite farewell. He bowed frostily, strode to the door, and flung it open, as though ready to face any horde Creasey could summon. No one was on the other side.
Brewster pointedly waited for me to precede him. I started after Eden, and Brewster, without a word, fell in behind me, close enough that any weapon fired or thrown would hit him first.
“Captain Lacey.”
Creasey’s smooth tones made me turn back. This annoyed Brewster, who scowled at me as I craned around him. “Sir?”
“Do you play?” Creasey gestured at the chessboard.
I hesitated. “I … have played. In the army. Not much lately.”
Creasey waved a hand. “No matter. If you fancy a game of an evening, I would welcome the diversion. Under a flag of truce, of course.”
An interesting invitation. I nodded at him. “I will consider it.”
“Please do. Good day, Captain.”
I nodded then turned and resumed my departure.
The lackey did not accompany us this time. He gave us a belligerent stare as we passed, then slammed the office door as soon as we were through, leaving us alone. I heard a key turn in the lock.
“Cheek,” Eden declared. “I suppose we know the way out.”
“Sooner the better,” Brewster growled. He herded me on, again placing himself so that he could protect my back.
Once we were in the enclosed stairwell, Brewster asked, “Why did ye tell him ye’d play chess with him? You come here again, I doubt you’ll leave alive.”
“If you recall my words, I said I would consider it.” I grimaced as my hand landed on a slimy substance, completing the ruin of my gloves.
“But you’re a man of your word,” Brewster said. “If you decide to play, you’ll come back. And it’s me what has to follow you and make sure you stay alive, even if I don’t. I have a wife, you know, what depends on me.”
“I’d not put you into danger from this man, Brewster,” I assured him.
“You already have. He’ll not forget me face. Ah well.” He heaved an aggrieved sigh. “I knew what hell it would be when I agreed to work for ye.”
Eden said not a word until we were on the ground floor, making for the outer door and freedom. The fogged-in lane outside would be a pleasant garden compared to the chill menace of this warehouse.
“What did he mean about a message?” Eden pulled back the bolt on the door, which thankfully opened easily. “He seemed to believe you’d understand.”
“I do not.” I caught the door and followed him out, Brewster behind us. “I am as mystified as you are. Brewster?”
Brewster stepped into the lane and let the door slam behind him. “No idea, guv.”
He wouldn’t look at me as he said the words, and I could not decide if he knew what the queen meant or not. Brewster rarely lied deliberately to me, but he could be frugal with the truth.
Eden accepted Brewster’s answer without question, and we strode at a quick pace back to Lower Thames Street.
The road, with its carts and shouting men, the masts of ships rising above the wharves, was soothingly normal. The lane with its strange warehouse faded into the mists behind us.
“Major Miles Eden.”
A voice I knew boomed through the fog. Behind it came a large man with thick blond hair, his blue eyes twinkling as he bore down on us. The man wore a black suit that barely fit his bulk, but it did nothing to hamper his boisterous pace.
“Pomeroy?” I greeted him in surprise. Milton Pomeroy had been my sergeant in the Thirty-Fifth Light and had become an elite Bow Street Runner once he’d returned to civilian life. “What brings you to the Custom House?”
“He does.” Pomeroy pointed to Eden, whose color had risen until he was scarlet. “Major Miles Eden, I am arresting you in the King’s name for the murder of Mr. George Warrilow. Will you come along like a good fellow, or will I have to wrestle you down? Hate to embarrass such a fine officer, so I suggest you walk quietly beside me, and nothing of the sort has to happen.”
CHAPTER 3
P omeroy tried to dissuade me from accompanying Eden to Bow Street. “Not your business, Captain,” he said in his cheerful manner.
He had a point—I hadn’t seen Eden in years, and while I believed him to be an honorable fellow, which of us hadn’t changed since the Peninsula? He’d gone to Antigua, with its heat, blood-sucking insects, and slavery. Who could say what he’d done there?
But Eden had gallantly walked with me into the dark lane and the warehouse of Mr. Creasey, when it was clear I headed into potential danger, and I could not now abandon him when he was in trouble.
I waved to Hagen, who’d waited down by the wharf, and the carriage moved slowly toward us.
“Are you certain of this, Pomeroy?” I asked. “You know Captain—I mean, Major—Eden.”
“I do indeed. Never saw a braver man on the battlefield, sir, except for you. But you’re a wanted man, Major. Only doing me duty.”
Pomeroy opened a paper and held it up with a dramatic flair. It was a handbill of a sort the Runners printed when they hunted a suspect. The person’s description would be put into the Hue and Cry newspaper sent to constabularies all over Britain, and flyers like this one posted.
Major Miles Eden, late of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons, wanted in connection with the murder of a passenger from the ship Dusty Rose out of Antigua. Major Eden is a tall man with light-brown hair and brown eyes, a thin scar on his right cheek. Will likely be armed. Consider him dangerous.