“Where are you taking me?” said Ian as Derek darted past half a dozen smartly dressed soldiers on matching black stallions, their white belts gleaming on their scarlet uniforms, their high fur hats making them appear even taller upon their mounts.
Ignoring the question, the boy led him past a row of low stables being mucked out by sleepy-looking attendants in thick barn coats and knee-high green Wellies. The sweet, musty aroma of hay and horse sweat permeated the air as Ian followed the boy to the rear of a row of stalls. The horses regarded him with wide, mild eyes as he passed, snorting softly, their breath misting in the chill air. A small black mare nipped playfully at Ian’s shoulder, shaking her head so that her long dark mane flopped over one eye. Ian liked horses, though he had not as much skill around them as Derek—another of the boy’s unexpected abilities. Derek pointed to a small booth near the back of the stalls, evidently a place for grooms and stable hands to eat or play cards while on duty.
“How did you find this place?” said Ian.
“One a’ the stable hands owes me a favor,” the boy replied as they turned the corner to reveal the single occupant of the booth.
To Ian’s surprise, sitting at the booth, dressed in a trim black waistcoat and matching cravat, was Terrance McNee, a.k.a. Rat Face—pickpocket, cardsharp, con man, and general miscreant. At their first meeting some six months ago, Ian had trounced his brawny companion, Jimmy Snead, in a bar fight, which unexpectedly caused the big man to become Ian’s devoted ally. Both Snead and McNee had helped him greatly with the case he was working on at the time, but he had seen little of either of them in the months that followed.
McNee’s sharp face broke into a smile when he saw Ian.
“Good to see you again, Detective. I trust you’ve been well.”
“And I trust you’ve been keeping out of trouble.”
“Please, have a seat. You look surprised to see me.”
“I confess I am,” Ian admitted, sliding into the bench opposite him. Derek perched himself upon a wooden chair next to them, chewing on a sprig of straw. Ian thought about cautioning him about his choice of refreshment, but figured the boy had ingested much worse in his life on the streets. He turned to Rat Face, who was idly shuffling a dog-eared pack of cards, sliding each one through his long fingers with mesmerizing dexterity.
“Why didn’t you just come to me yourself?” said Ian. “Why all this cloak-and-dagger business?”
“If I were seen speaking with you, it might not go well for me,” Rat Face replied, stroking his neatly trimmed mustache. The small goatee he had grown since Ian last saw him failed to hide his weak chin, which, along with his long, pointed nose, were plainly the reason for his nickname.
“If you’re willing to risk it, there must be something in it for you,” said Ian.
“That depends rather on your generosity,” his companion replied, his small black eyes focused on the deck of cards.
Derek rose from his chair. “Why don’ I jes keep an eye out t’make sure the coast is clear?”
“If necessary, there is a back entrance we can slip out of,” said Rat Face.
“You seem prepared for any eventuality,” Ian remarked as Derek sauntered toward the stable’s front entrance.
“I find it advisable to always have an escape plan.”
Ian leaned back in the wooden booth. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”
His companion lowered his voice. “I understand you are making inquiries regarding the fire that killed your parents.”
“How do you—”
Rat Face dismissed his question with a wave of his hand. “It is my business to know things.”
“Do you have information?”
“The question is whether or not it is useful to you.” Digging deep into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out a small, crumpled black bag. It appeared to be made of black velvet, though in the dim light it was hard to tell. Reaching inside, he carefully extracted a pair of teardrop pearl earrings and placed them on the table.
“Do you recognize these?”
Ian stared at the earrings. A blackness threatened to engulf him, as his mind struggled to comprehend the meaning of this. His vision suddenly felt surrounded by darkness on all sides, as if he were inside a tunnel; his mouth dried up, and sweat beaded on his upper lip. Saliva suddenly spurted into his mouth, and he felt he was going to be sick.
“I see that you do,” Rat Face said rather more gently.
“They belonged to my mother. Where did you get them?”
“I won them in a card game from a particularly unsavory specimen of humanity. A surly little petty thief by the name of Nate Crippen. Specializes in burglary, though he’ll turn his hand to any nasty job—for the right price.”
“And he got them—?”
Rat Face leaned into him, and Ian could smell the tobacco on his breath. His teeth were yellow and pointed, like those of the animal that had inspired his nickname. “The thrawn puggy was deep into his cups by that time—I didn’t know whether or not to believe him when he told me.”
“Told you what?”
“He’s a meater, you see,” he said, using the street term for coward. “So I wasn’t sure—”
“What did he tell you?” Ian rasped, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“He was given them to do a job—nasty sort of work.”
“Which was—?”
“He claimed he was paid to set a fire.”
“When?”
“Some years ago. He wasn’t very clear on the exact details.”
“Who paid him?”
“He was either unwilling or too drunk to share that information. But he was babbling about it being a policeman’s house.”
Ian picked up one of the earrings and held it between his fingers. The pearl glistened with the mysterious beauty of the sea, pink and ivory with touches of aquamarine at the edges. So perfect, this by-product of the lowly oyster, a creature that had neither sight nor reason yet could produce such beauty that men would risk their lives for it.
“What do you want for these?”
Rat Face shrugged. “We can discuss the matter of my expenses later.”
Ian placed the earrings back on the table and locked eyes with Terrance McNee.
“Take me to this person.”
“I’ll be in touch,” said Rat Face, rising smoothly from his seat. In one graceful move, he slipped out of the booth, passed the last stall, and disappeared. Caught flat-footed, Ian snatched up the earrings and stumbled after him. Seeing a narrow door at the back of the building, he went through it, but when he entered the alley behind the building, there was no sight of the man. Ian stood, blinking in the glare of the overcast sky, but Rat Face had vanished.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He found Derek McNair leaning on the stall of a muscular gray gelding, running his fingers through the horse’s coarse mane. The animal snorted softly as Ian approached, the breath from its nostrils misting in the cold air.
“What did you know of this?” Ian said.
The boy petted the horse’s velvety muzzle and shrugged. “Not much, Guv. It weren’t my place t’inquire wha’ the meetin’ were about. I reckoned it were related to one a’ yer cases, right?”