No matter that the Dreadfuls likely still didn’t think too well of Brogan for having abandoned the organization, they united fully and quickly under the necessity of a desperate cause.
“We need to unravel the game from the top,” Fletcher said. “It’s the only way to stop both efforts with one blow.”
“It’d be easy enough to watch the street,” Martin said. “A few extra eyes’d make a difference. Sounding the alarm when needed, stopping assaults. Keeping a weather eye out for this mort”—he tipped his head in the direction of the drawing of “Clare”—“and see if we can’t thwart any roughs that come by to make trouble. We can set up a rotating watch of Dreadfuls. Might take a bit to organize it, but it can be done.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Brogan said.
“How do we stop the blackmail scheme when the documents are already at Lord Chelmsford’s house?” Doc asked.
“Can you warn him?” Elizabeth asked Brogan
He shook his head. “Not without implicating the other victims. And I’ve every reason to believe they’re being watched—the other victims, I mean. If they double-cross the Mastiff . . .” He let the sentence hang unfinished. They didn’t need to be told again how dangerous their greatest foe truly was.
“So steal ’em,” Stone said in his usual direct manner, bringing all eyes to him. “If the papers disappear when neither fella is anywhere near Chelmsford’s house, they can’t be blamed for it.”
“They’ll likely be in the man’s library.” Fletcher shook his head. It was a tall ask, for certain. “None of us is that stealthy.”
With a sigh, Hollis said, “Ana is.”
She’d had a long, impressive, and entirely secret career as the legendary sneak thief the Phantom Fox.
“Would she help?” Brogan asked. “’Tis a risky business, this.”
“I’d wager she’d be willing,” Hollis said, “but giving her information about this raises the possibility that she’ll sort out more of the DPS and our efforts. I’d guess she’s not far off the mark as it is.”
“We’ll be careful,” Fletcher said. “We’ve already lost one member over the weight of secrecy. We can’t afford to lose another.”
Vera caught herself staring off into nothing at odd times as she knocked about the shop. Papa was drowning in illegal and dangerous forgeries. Her neighbors were on edge and worried. She was as confused as ever about Brogan Donnelly. She had every reason to be worried as a toad, and yet she was frustrated with herself for being so entirely distracted.
“Ye’re full clutched today, Miss Vera,” Olly said. “What’s worrying you?”
“Nothing.”
“I ain’t bacon-brained.” Olly popped his fists on his hips. “You’re fretting, and I’d guess it’s to do with Mr. Donnelly.”
She’d had to explain to the children why the man they’d known as “Ganor” no longer worked at the shop. That he was, in addition to being dishonest, a murderer, she’d chosen not to spill into their ears.
“We’re well rid of him, and I’m not thinking on him at all,” Vera said.
“What a heap of bung,” Licorice said. “Not having him here ain’t helping nothing, and you’re thinking on him, sure as anything.” She looked toward the back room where Papa was passing the day. “Mr. Sorokin certainly ain’t in better spirits since Mr. Donnelly quit coming.”
If only the little ones knew why that was.
“Mr. Donnelly lied to you lot. Don’t that burn you?”
Olly shrugged. “He gave a wrong name. We’ve all done that.”
Licorice nodded. “You really think Bob’s Your Knuckle is that sprout’s true name?”
“You mean to simply forgive him?” Vera eyed the urchins, unsure which answer she wanted them to give.
“He saved me from being snatched off the street,” Licorice said. “And he never acted like I owed him anything for it, never held it over my head. He helped because that’s what he does. He may’ve lied about his name, but he didn’t lie about who he is.”
“The mad thing is,” Vera said, “I don’t think the two of you are entirely wrong about him.”
“Ain’t nothing mad about it,” Olly insisted. “Smart as whips, we are.”
She couldn’t help a smile. How she adored these two. On those days they spent time at the shop, they filled it with joy.
Sudden commotion out on the street pulled all their attention to the front windows. Voices shouting. What sounded like wood splintering. Thuds. Cracks. Crashes.
Outside was absolute chaos. Peter’s cart had been overturned, and men with clubs were smashing it to splinters. His produce was strewn throughout the street, being crushed underfoot and under carts. Anything salvageable was snatched up.
Vera rushed out. Others were running from their businesses toward the fray. With an elbow and shoulder thrown hard against one of the assailants, Vera managed to knock him down.
Rather than fight back, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He said it again and again, his tone fearful.
“Sorry for what?”
“Didn’t wanna do it.” The man rolled, getting to his feet. “We don’t have a choice. They make us.”
Even the assailants were being forced into this. More blackmail. More extortion.
The man grabbed the arm of the other apparently unwitting ruffian. “That’ll be enough. Cain’t fault us for that much.”
And they rushed off.
Peter was decidedly worse for wear. His lip was bleeding, and a bruise was quickly forming on his jaw. But the look on his face was more worrying than his physical state. Devastation. Absolute devastation.
“I didn’t obey the last note,” he whispered to Vera, looking at the shattered remains of his livelihood. “Wanted me to bust someone up. I wouldn’t do it.”
Mercy. “Bust ’em up like was just done to you?” Vera asked. “Instead of paying money?”
Peter sat on the pavement, slumped and defeated, the exact posture Mr. Overton had assumed when his business had burned. “We ain’t never gonna shake them, Miss Vera. Not ever.”
She’d done her best to help them all, including herself, and she’d failed. Again and again she’d failed.
“This has happened before?” Papa had arrived in the midst of the chaos.