With respect to a suitable venue for said discussion, when appealed to, Tom suggested the Queen’s Head, which proved to be a snug public house at the corner of Queen Street and Rosemary Lane, literally in the shadow of the Tower. Michael instructed Tom to pull up in the tiny stable yard and consign the horses and carriage into the care of the ostlers; leaving Tom to take his meal in the taproom, Michael ushered Cleo to a table in the dining room.

The inn wife bustled up, beaming and ready to take their order. They both opted for portions of venison stew, and Cleo ordered a glass of cider, while Michael settled for a pint of ale.

After the inn wife left them, Michael studied Cleo’s face. He wasn’t at all happy with what they’d found—what it suggested; when she looked up as if to speak, he shook his head. “Let’s wait until she comes back with the food.”

Cleo nodded, apparently as ready as he to delay putting the inevitable conclusion into words.

But eventually, serving girls brought out their plates and drinks, set everything down, and left them in peace.

Michael quickly spoke first; if he could steer the conversation, so much the better. “Given Doolan and his apprentice left London on Tuesday afternoon supposedly on a job, then I believe we can safely conclude that they are the ones who traveled down to Kent, loaded up the ten barrels of gunpowder from the cave under Ennis’s land, almost certainly meeting Connell Boyne in the process, then—as far as we can tell—they transported those barrels into London, presumably arriving sometime on Wednesday morning.”

Her head bent, Cleo raised a mouthful of stew to her lips. She chewed, swallowed, then said, “Why did he—Doolan—take his apprentice? Did he always do that, or was it because he needed two drivers?”

“I imagine the latter, because of the ten barrels. Given their size, even if they’d been filled with sawdust, I don’t think they would have fitted in one cart. So Doolan needed two carts, and he therefore needed Johnny to drive the second, and as we just heard, Johnny was registered to drive such carts.” He frowned. “Do any of the other carters have apprentices? I wonder if that was behind Doolan being chosen for this job, rather than that he was Irish and might have been drawn in as a Young Irelander sympathizer.”

Cleo drew out the list again; it was getting distinctly creased and worn. She ran her eyes down it. “Now I know that these subsidiary names are apprentices…” She reached the end of the list, then looked up. “Only one other carter—a Mike Oldham, who we’ve yet to speak with—has an officially listed apprentice.”

“Hmm. Well, we can check whether Oldham was approached, but for my money, Doolan was most likely chosen because he was Irish, and whoever is behind the organization of this plot had reason to suppose he would work for the cause.” Michael grimaced and reached for his ale. “That would fit with the plotters’ methods thus far.”

“What I would like to know,” Cleo said, poking at the remnants of her stew, “is where Doolan got the second cart—the one for Johnny to drive. Doolan was, by all accounts, a guildsman through and through—he even trained apprentices. He wouldn’t have broken the rules”—she met Michael’s eyes—“so he would have borrowed a properly registered cart from one of the other gunpowder carters, wouldn’t he?”

Slowly, Michael nodded. “You’re right. And as we’ve asked all the carters we’ve spoken with whether they’ve loaned their cart to anyone recently and thus far drawn a blank, then the carter who loaned a cart to Doolan on Tuesday must be one of the four on the list that we’ve yet to interview.”

Cleo glanced at the list, then tucked it back into her reticule. “It must be one of them, and presumably that other carter who has an apprentice—Mike Oldham—will know what a carter with an apprentice would do. Who he would turn to for an extra cart.”

“We’ll ask when we get to him, if we haven’t already found out.”

Cleo nudged her plate aside and reached for her glass. They’d danced around the subject long enough. “I understand what Doolan and Johnny Dibney must have done, and that as far as we can tell and must presume, they returned to London, but why are they missing?”

Michael raised his gaze to her face, hesitated for a moment, then he looked at his plate, slowly set down his cutlery, and pushed the plate aside.

Debating just how much to tell her; Cleo waited, wondering if he would come to the correct conclusion.

Somewhat to her surprise, he did; he raised his gaze and, across the table, met her eyes. “In your office, when I first told you of the plot, I mentioned that three people—two gentlemen and a lady—had already been killed because of it. Connell Boyne—the Irishman who arranged for the gunpowder to be shipped to London and stored in a cave on his brother, Lord Ennis’s estate—killed his brother and sister-in-law after learning that Ennis planned to tell Drake of the plot. Subsequently, however, Boyne himself was slain—by whoever he had been working with.”

Michael watched her take that in; murder was a gruesome subject at any time—generally considered unfit for a lady’s ears—and in this case, there were overtones of betrayal as well, but better she know and appreciate the true dangers inherent in the mission.

Eventually, she tilted her head—something he’d noticed she did when especially curious or puzzled; her gaze on his face, she asked, “Why do you—and Winchelsea—think Connell Boyne was killed?”

“We had two reasons, not necessarily mutually exclusive. One, that because Boyne had murdered his brother and sister-in-law and was being actively pursued by the authorities, he had become too much of a liability. However, it’s also possible that Boyne was killed on the principle that, as Drake puts it, dead men tell no tales.” He paused, then continued, even as he followed the thoughts in his head, “Originally, why Boyne was killed didn’t really matter—he was dead. However, with these latest disappearances…”

After a moment, she quietly filled in, “You think Doolan and Johnny Dibney have met with a similar fate.”

He grimaced, then looked at her—took in the delicacy of her strawberry-blond, peaches-and-cream beauty, the fragility of her fine-boned frame, and felt protectiveness, deeper and more powerful than he’d ever felt before, rise and flow like a wave through him. “I can’t see any other reason for them to have disappeared.”

Her own gaze steady, she returned his regard, but after a moment, her gaze grew distant, and a frown gradually formed in her eyes. “That seems an odd way to manage a plot.” She refocused on him. “Killing those who assist.”

He nodded; even as he did, memory bloomed, and after a second’s pause, he stated, “It’s unusual, yes, but if there’s something about this plot that those who are ultimately in charge of it want to—perhaps need to—keep from all those helping them, then killing people once their individual tasks are completed makes sense.”

She frowned more definitely. “You mean, for instance, concealing from Connell Boyne that the plot isn’t actually a Young Irelander plot?”

“That, too, but taking it a step further”—he recalled the possibility Drake had aired—“what if the true target of the plot, whatever they’re planning to blow up, isn’t something the Young Irelanders or any of those who’ve helped them, like Doolan and Johnny, would agree with? What if the target was something those people wouldn’t support—wouldn’t stand for to the point of going to the authorities?”

“That’s…” She paused, then concluded, “Rather diabolical. If, through guile, you use someone to attack something that someone wouldn’t want attacked at all…” She shivered slightly. “Only an astoundingly manipulative mind would think like that.”

“Much less put a plot like that into action. But so far, this plot has all the hallmarks of a Young Irelander plot—even Doolan fits that bill—yet Drake has proved the plot has absolutely nothing to do with the movement. The Young Irelanders are being used—ruthlessly used. Not only are their sympathizers being drawn in and then killed off, had it been anyone other than Drake investigating, the Young Irelander movement would very likely be blamed for whatever the end result of the plot actually is, and they would suffer whatever retribution the authorities mete out.” He paused, then went on, “And if the target is something sufficiently unthinkable that Young Irelander sympathizers would balk, then that retribution will be…dramatic.”

She looked pensive. “It appears that whoever is behind this plot is no friend of the Young Irelander movement.”

He blinked, then raised his brows. “Good point.” He thought, then added, “I’d be prepared to lay odds that despite the latest rumors that Drake’s off investigating, it won’t be the Chartists behind it, either.”

“Perhaps the Chartists are another group those behind this—the true perpetrators—want to damage.”

He nodded, then restlessly stirred. “We’ll know more once Drake gets back. Meanwhile”—he looked at where she’d set her reticule on the chair beside her—“I suggest we interview the final four carters. One of them must have loaned Terry Doolan his cart, and, pray God, Doolan might have said something that will give us some inkling of who he was dealing with.”

“Indeed.” She picked up her reticule and rose. “Let’s forge on and see what we can learn.”

He ushered her out of the dining room, summoned Tom with a look, and together, the three of them walked out to the carriage.

---

They found the next carter on their list at home in a house on a narrow lane off Lambert Street.

Although it was Cleo who stood before the door when it opened, Michael took one look at the dour-faced, heavyset man who filled the doorway, stepped forward to stand by Cleo’s shoulder, and stated, “This is Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company. We are attempting to trace…”

Understanding her new role, Cleo did her best to appear haughtily superior as Michael went on, using her approach, but speaking in her name; she might have been inclined to take umbrage, except that she had a sneaking suspicion that if she had done the talking, even as Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company, even with Michael at her back, this brute would have dismissed her.

As it was, he listened long enough to growl, “Don’t know anything about any job Doolan did in Kent. More than enough work for me hereabouts without going gadding into the country.”

He reached for the door, and Michael asked, “One thing—if ten barrels had to be transported, would it require two carts?”

The man scowled, but nodded. “Aye. We can do up to six barrels per load, but no more. Not even our reinforced axles will take more’n six for long. So yeah, for ten, you’d need two carts or two trips. No one crams or stacks gunpowder, not even in good solid oak.”

“And just supposing,” Michael went on, “that a job was such that you had to use two carts, where would you get the second cart and driver?”

The man grunted; he fell silent, but appeared to be thinking. Eventually, he said, “If there was no other way than to run a second cart…I reckon I’d hire Terry Doolan’s apprentice for the day and convince Terry to lend me his cart.” The man looked at them and paused, studying them, then unbent enough to volunteer, “It has to be one o’ the gunpowder carters’ rigs, all registered proper with the guild, and one of the drivers the guild licenses to drive those rigs. There’s only fourteen of us and the two apprentices that the guild’s given the nod to, see?”

Michael glanced at Cleo, then said, “Thank you for your time.” He held out half a crown. “Have your next ale on us.”

The dour carter almost smiled. He took the coin and managed a bob that might, at a severe stretch, pass for a bow. “Happy to help you folks. Miss Hendon.”

Clinging to her haughty role, Cleo inclined her head regally and allowed Michael to take her arm and lead her away.

Once they’d turned the corner, she let her spine and shoulders relax. “Well! It seems as if our thinking was correct. Doolan must have borrowed a cart from one of the other gunpowder carters, and there are only three to whom we haven’t spoken.” Drawing forth the list, she scanned it, then looked up at the surrounding houses. “According to Tom, our next carter”—she pointed to a small lane, little more than an alley, just ahead—“lives along there.”

---

The twelfth carter on their list knew nothing. The thirteenth, Mike Oldham, was the only other carter besides Doolan with a listed apprentice. Oldham lived in a tiny house in a lane stretching between Leman Street and Mill Lane.

Oldham’s wife answered the door. When told of their errand, she pointed west. “He’s gone to our daughter’s to play with her two boys, but I can tell you where he’ll be. Look for the bench near the chestnut tree in the fields—he’ll be sitting there watching the young’uns play.”

The “fields” to which she was referring had to be Goodman Fields, a large, parklike square surrounded by houses, shops, churches, and even a theater, which lay not far away.

“Thank you. We’ll look for him there.” Cleo glanced at Michael. He offered his arm, and she took it. Together they walked briskly back into Leman Street.

Goodman Fields was only a hundred yards or so north. They walked through a wide gap between two houses, and the expanse opened up before them.

They crossed a cobbled street and entered the park. Cleo looked around at the trees and eventually spotted a tall chestnut standing guard over a bench along a side path. “There.” She pointed. Michael looked, and they turned their feet in that direction.

Sure enough, a grizzled older man with a flat cap similar to that favored by several of the other carters they’d interviewed was settled on the bench, his expression relaxed, unconsciously smiling as he watched two young boys of about six or seven kicking a round ball back and forth.

Cleo considered Oldham, then glanced at Michael. “You lead—I’ll corroborate if necessary.”

Michael shot her a faintly surprised look, but they were nearing the bench, and he had to face forward.

He halted them by the side of the bench, two feet from Oldham, who noticed and glanced up at them.

“Mr. Oldham?”

Oldham frowned. “Aye—who’s asking?”

Michael smiled easily; he gestured to Cleo, who also smiled reassuringly. “This is Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company. We were wondering if Terrance Doolan borrowed your cart last Tuesday?”

Oldham’s gaze was steady; his expression gave nothing away. After several seconds, he asked, “Why would you want to know that?”

Smoothly, Michael replied, “We’re attempting to locate ten barrels of gunpowder brought into London, we believe by Terrance Doolan, on Wednesday morning, and we were wondering if Doolan, needing two carts for a cargo of that size, had borrowed your cart for the purpose.”

Oldham studied them again, as if weighing them up; Cleo saw in his eyes when he decided to cooperate—not least, she suspected, because he was curious as to what was going on.

“Aye.” Oldham slowly nodded. “Terry did borrow my cart for Tuesday night. And it was more than a little odd that it was a night he wanted it for, but that suited me as it meant there was less of a loss of business for me. Anyway, the two of us had an understanding—when Terry needed a second cart for his apprentice, Johnny, to drive, if possible, I’d let him have mine, and then when I got the sort of job where I needed a cart for my apprentice to drive, Terry would loan me his. Tit for tat. It’s worked for us for some years.”

Michael shifted fractionally; through their linked arms, Cleo sensed his increased focus, although nothing of that showed in his expression or his equable tone when he asked, “So you and Terry are mates?”

Oldham shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I wouldn’t exactly say mates—we don’t share a local—but we’ve both been in the business for a long time, and like I said, we had our understanding.”

Michael inclined his head, accepting the qualification, but his gaze didn’t leave Oldham’s face. “Did Terry say anything at all about this job that required two carts?”

Oldham frowned slightly, his gaze growing distant as if recalling. “He said as he had a big commission to fetch barrels up from Kent and was being paid a nice slice extra to do it on the quiet-like…we both assumed the people hiring wanted to avoid the excise. Blood—” Oldham broke off and colored. He bobbed his head to Cleo. “Beg pardon, Miss Hendon. Very big lump of excise on gunpowder, and there were ten barrels after all…” Suddenly, Oldham looked up at them. His frown deepened. “But why aren’t you asking Terry all this?”

Michael glanced at Cleo, then looked back at Oldham. “We would if we could, but Doolan hasn’t returned to his lodgings since leaving there on Tuesday afternoon.”

Oldham’s face fell. He paled. “He never came back?”

“His landlady says not.”

Cleo glanced at Michael, then softly said, “Mr. Doolan’s apprentice, Johnny Dibney, hasn’t returned to his lodgings, either.”

Oldham swore beneath his breath. “Begging your pardon an’ all, miss, but I thought there was something havey-cavey about that job.”

“Can you think back?” she prompted. “Did Terry mention anything at all about who hired him or where he was taking the barrels?”

Oldham passed a hand over his mouth and stared unseeing across the grass. “He didn’t say a word about who hired him, but as to where he was taking those barrels…” Oldham screwed up his face as if cudgeling his brains. “He did mention where he was headed—if only I can remember. I know it didn’t sound odd—seemed a normal sort of run—which is why it hasn’t stuck in me mind.” He paused, then, jaw firming, continued, “Let’s come at it another way. There’s only so many places he’d be delivering to, and given it was on the sly, it wouldn’t be to any of the munitions factories—tight as a drum, they are—and that goes for the explosives factories, too. So most likely he was delivering to one of the warehouses that supply the manufacturers…”

Abruptly, Oldham sat up. “That’s it! I remember now. He was grumbling about having to get through the streets south of the river, about Johnny getting experience having to navigate a full load through the tight turns down there—because they’d be unloading in Morgan’s Lane.” Oldham looked at Cleo and Michael. “There’s three firework supply warehouses in Morgan’s Lane. I’d take an oath Terry was—or at least, thought he would be—delivering to one of them.”

“Thank you.” Cleo couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. At last, they had a trail to follow. “We’ll check with the warehouses.” She looked at Michael.

He met her gaze briefly, then looked at Oldham, who still seemed badly shaken. “One last point—can you tell us when Doolan asked to borrow your cart?”

Oldham glanced up; his gaze grew bleak. “He came around Monday afternoon after we’d knocked off. Asked if he could have the cart Tuesday at four o’clock and keep it overnight. Said he’d get it back to me by midday or just after. I agreed. He turned up in his cart Tuesday afternoon with Johnny beside him. Johnny took my rig, and they drove off.”

Michael gentled his voice. “And that was the last you saw of them?”

Staring across the lawn, Oldham nodded heavily. “Aye.”

“But you got your cart back?”

“I did.” Oldham looked up. “And that was odd, too.” His lips twisted, and he looked away. “I should’a known it wasn’t Terry that left it.”

“Why do you say that?”

Oldham heaved a weighty sigh. “Firstly, because I wasn’t expecting to have the rig again until after lunchtime, but the missus saw it in the lane a few doors down when she came back from market—around eleven o’clock that was. I went and brought the cart an’ horses into the mews—I couldn’t fathom why Doolan had left ’em in the lane like that. Then when I got m’rig into the stable and unhitched the team, I found a packet of notes tucked under the seat. Well, that wasn’t our usual way. We traded the use of the carts, and not to speak ill of the dead, but Terry was as tightfisted an Irishman as you’d ever find. Not that I wasn’t grateful for the blunt, mind. I thought he must’ve come into a windfall with that load…” Oldham stopped, swallowed. His voice was smaller when he said, “I was thinking to meet up with Terry and stand him a round…guess that won’t happen now.”

Oldham suddenly looked up. “They’re dead, aren’t they? Terry, and Johnny, too?”

Michael met Oldham’s eyes, hesitated, then said, “We don’t know for certain that they’re dead, but…” He didn’t know what else to say.

Oldham looked away. With his hands clasped tightly between his knees, he stared across the grass.

After a moment, Michael glanced at Cleo, then murmured, “Thank you for your help. If we learn anything about Doolan’s or Johnny’s fates, I’ll let you know.”

Oldham cleared his throat and, without looking at them, gruffly replied, “Thank ye.”

Michael felt Cleo’s fingers tighten on his sleeve. He covered her hand with his, stepped away from the bench, and turned them back along the path.

They’d gone ten yards when Cleo raised her head and halted. She stared along the path for an instant, then glanced at him. “One moment.”

She released his arm, turned, and walked briskly back to where Oldham still sat on the bench. His grandsons had returned to him, and he was trying his best to smile and laugh and respond normally to their chatter.

Having turned to observe Cleo, Michael strolled after her. He caught up with her as she halted at the end of the bench and smiled reassuringly at the boys as, surprised, they stared up at her.

Then she shifted her gaze to Oldham’s face. “In light of what we fear has befallen Mr. Doolan and his apprentice, you might want to let the other gunpowder carters know that whoever has those ten barrels might want to move them again—but those hiring for that job, no matter how much they offer, are clearly not to be trusted.”

Oldham held her gaze as he sorted through her words, then his features hardened, and he nodded. “Indeed, miss. I’ll pass the word.”

Cleo managed another commiserating smile, then turned.

Michael offered his arm, and she took it, and they walked away. As they passed out of the fields, he murmured, “That was a stroke of genius—making certain none of the gunpowder carters assist in moving those barrels again.”

Cleo grimaced. “I didn’t think of that—I did it because this nonsensical killing of gullible innocents has to stop.” She glanced at him. “And we’ve met virtually all the other gunpowder carters, and I don’t want any of them to be hurt.”