CHAPTER 12
Devil’s Horn Tavern, Whitechapel
Tomkin stepped off the folding step of the hired hackney and onto the cold wet cobble street. The stench of the poor instantly brought back hot memories of his past and transported him to a place of his youth. Hunger and poor smelled the same no matter where you were in this world.
He glanced around the perimeter for good measure. Normally, he’d hire a courier to send cryptic messages to his contact, but today, he didn’t want to risk it getting into the wrong hands.
The aroma of boiled beef and cabbage inundated him, along with the yammer and shouts of customers when he entered the flash house. Let’s get this over with. He quickly approached a barmaid.
“You,” he said to her. She looked up at him, her hand on her hips, dirty rag in the other hand. The woman’s brown curls hung loose from the cheap pin that held most of her hair from spilling over.
“Wot is it ye want?” the barmaid said, glaring at him, as if he was wasting her time to more important matters at hand.
“Fetch the owner. I need his assistance.” She looked at him as if to say who the hell are you? She threw him a glare at first, then looked him over again before she obliged. “Good, you’re not stupid after all,” he said as he watched her walk off to the back of the pub and up the narrow stairs.
No sooner, a fat tub of a man walked down the stairs and stepped up to him. “Wot can I do ye for?” He wiped his dirty hands on an even dirtier apron he wore.
Disgusting filth. “I’m here to pick up a letter from Jimmy.”
“Jimmy, ye say?” Tub looked him over, up and down. “Ye ain’t been here before.”
Of course, he hadn’t. Why the hell would he willingly come here? “Do you have the letter?”
Tub looked over the bar at the man who was filling up a customer’s pitcher with ale. “No, there ain’t no delivery today.”
“Perhaps you missed him,” Tomkin said impatiently. “Maybe one of your barmaids saw him?”
The owner shook his head. “I’ve been ’ere all day, old man. No delivery.”
Tomkin observed him, the half drunken men taking notice of them. While he had the mind to show him who was the boss, he didn’t want to draw more attention than necessary.
“Fine.” He tossed him two shiny coins. Money spoke volumes. “There’s a lot more where that came from if you deliver the letter to me as soon as you get it.” Tomkin pulled out a small notebook, tore a page from it, and wrote: Stephen’s Hotel, Bond Street. Handing him the piece of paper, he said, “Tell the clerk at the front desk it’s for a guest in Suite C.”
With that, Tomkin walked to the door and stepped outside. Shit. There was only one reason why he didn’t show. Both men he’d sent after Michael were most likely dead. Since they never knew who had hired them, there was nothing for them to reveal that would lead Michael to him.
If only Wellington and Prinny didn’t favor him so much, this task would have been so much simpler. He could be anywhere by now, as he was trained to move about like a ghost and disappear when he needed to. The damn useless American. He’d been told the former U.S. Marshall was the best. He’d been planning this since the emperor had been exiled. Shit, shit, shit!
At least Emma was with Michael which put his mind at ease. He was vulnerable with her by his side. She would be Michael’s downfall.
He turned the corner and walked deep into the alley, then suddenly stopped when he saw a little boy, no more than ten, digging through the rubbish as he sobbed, a sound that was very familiar. Something twisted in his gut and cut him deep, memories oozing out from the dark crevasse of his past.
A brute of a man suddenly came rushing out from the decrepit building. “Why the hell are ye still here? I told ye to come get me when ye got somein’ to show me.”
Tomkin looked at the bully, then at the frightened boy. Bloody brute!
The despot grabbed the boy by his arm and forced the child up to face him. “Do ye hear me? I said—”
“Get your filthy hands off him,” Tomkin said.
Pulling his gaze away from the boy, he looked at the stranger, eyes bulging and snarling like a rabid dog. “Or wot?” the man said, releasing the boy.
Men like this did not deserve to breathe the same air he did. To deliberately break the spirit of a young boy was a crime, one that he could not tolerate. He knew the feeling too well. To be picked on and bullied by those bigger and more powerful than he. Tomkin pulled out his pistol and cocked it. “I won’t hesitate to use it. Step away from the boy.”
Tomkin approached the brute. “Kneel.”
The swine didn’t.
“Kneel.”
He obliged.
Tomkin walked up to the bully and kicked him down. The idiot fell on his back. Keeping him down with his foot, he pointed the pistol at the swine. Mixed feelings stirred in him: Anger. Resentment. Fear. “As long as there are men like you—”
“Stop,” the boy called out, stepping up to Tomkin. “Please stop. Don’t hurt my papa.” The boy dropped to his knees and blocked the shot.
“Step away.”
“No.” There was an agonizing plea in the lad’s tone.
“Why are you defending him, boy?”
“Ye don’t understand,” the boy said, desperately pleading with him “He doesn’t mean any harm, ye see…look.” The boy’s gaze lowered to the man on the ground. “My papa is ill, mister. He can’t walk…he needs me, don’t ye see.”
Tomkin dropped his gaze and saw the man’s missing limb below the knee.
“He doesn’t mean it. He just can’t help it is all. Please mister, don’t hurt my papa.”
Horrified by the lack of control he’d perfected all these years, he took several steps back from them. When Tomkin’s rage slowly cooled, he looked at the terrified boy, then again at the lame man, lying on the ground.
Something in him stilled. Pulling out a shiny coin, he tossed it to the boy. “Get yourself something to eat. Do not let him bully you. You have to be smarter…work harder, if you want your belly full.” Just then, the tavern door slapped opened, men rushed out to see what the noise was about. For Tomkin, this boy’s plight hit too close to home. Too close. Time to go.