“Explaining that requires I tell you what I’ve discovered about Clare.”
“What did you discover?”
“I’ve a friend who knows her, but as ‘Serena.’”
Another person with a false name?
“Serena works—or worked—as a housekeeper for a man known as the Mastiff, a criminal mastermind with connections throughout London. He’s beyond dangerous. Even the police are afraid of him.”
That was not the sort of discovery to put a person’s mind at ease.
“She might very well work for him still,” Brogan continued. “One of the Mastiff’s cronies, Four-Finger Mike, has a taste for arson.”
“Four-Finger Mike?” Mercy. “Albie, at the embassy, mentioned one of the men didn’t have all his fingers.”
Brogan nodded. “I’m certain it’s the same man. The same men. The Protector is likely part of their criminal circle.”
“Laws,” she muttered. “The extortion here is connected to the forgeries and blackmail.”
“Seems that way.”
Vera pressed her fingertips against her temples. “I may have just sent my neighbors into a battle we cannot win.”
Brogan set a hand gently on her arm. “I think Clare is right about one important thing: we’ve a good chance of beating him in this. ’Twon’t solve every problem in London, not even all the ones he’s causing. But you will have assembled an army of eyes and ears on the streets. That is the best defense.”
With a sigh, she motioned to Brogan’s pocket. Though she weren’t eager to hear the latest demand, she knew better than to ignore it. “What’s the note say?”
Brogan pulled it out and unfolded it. “The children are too often alone,” he read aloud. His brow jumped skyward just as the reality of what the note meant struck her with horror.
They both turned toward the shop in near-perfect unison. He called out “Licorice!” just as she shouted “Olly!” They rushed inside.
Both children were huddled over a copy of Mr. King’s latest installment and looked up with confusion and a touch of annoyance at the interruption. Even seeing them safe didn’t set Vera’s heart at ease. They were in danger. There was no doubt they were. Even if she vowed never to take her eyes off them, that wouldn’t guarantee they’d not momentarily slip from view. Another mess like they’d had that day would create enough confusion that she’d easily lose sight of them. What if more ruffians came around? Maybe even armed?
“We can hide them,” Brogan said.
“They’re born and raised on the streets.” Vera pushed out a breath. “They’d shrivel up if forced into hiding.”
“It’d only be temporary. And it’d safeguard them.”
“No one can be protected from a storm this large.”
Papa stepped up beside Brogan. He didn’t speak a word, but simply snatched the note from Brogan’s hand and silently read it. Papa’d shown himself all-too-willing to relent in matters of the Mastiff’s blackmail. He might regret the children being pulled into the trouble, but she weren’t at all certain he’d intervene.
He readjusted his glasses, then placed the paper back in Brogan’s hand. He looked only at the children. “Licorice. Olly. Fetch your coats and scarves.”
His was not a tone that allowed for debate. The children didn’t attempt any.
“Pápochka?”
With little ears out of earshot, he spoke quickly and forcefully. “Lead your army, kotik.” To Brogan he said, “Help her.” To them both, “I will keep the children safe. The sender of these notes will have no idea where we are.”
“You can disappear so quickly? So entirely?” Brogan asked.
With set jaw, he said, “I’ve done it before. The tsar himself couldn’t find the people I’ve hidden, people who are living full lives, not cowering in corners or caves. The children will be safe. I swear to you.”
“What do you mean you’ve hidden people?” she asked. “Hidden them from the tsar?”
“The Circle, Vera. I hid members of the Circle.”
“The people who betrayed you?” They’d always spoken of that part of their lives in whispers. She did so now.
“I was not falsely accused by them; I was one of them.”
Shock silenced her.
“I gave a number of them forged identification papers, which allowed them to escape, to hide, to never be discovered. They, and the exiles I have hidden since, have never been uncovered by their enemies.”
“But why—you said—” She shook her head, unable to make sense of it. This wasn’t what she’d always been told of their past.
“That I was connected with them was known, and that connection was strongest in the area of their writings, which I printed.” Papa ran a hand down his beard. “Shaking off all suspicion depended upon a reputation for distrusting, disliking, and even being disgusted by writers in particular.”
“It was a lie?”
“An absolutely necessary one,” he said. “I was hiding us as well.”
“You were one of them?” She could not reconcile it.
“The Circle was a varied group. Writers. Revolutionaries. Intellectuals. Even printers.”
For years, he had left off this part of his explanations. “But your name does not appear on the lists of the members.”
“It does,” he said firmly. “After a manner.”
“Oh, saints.” The words whooshed from Brogan. “Sorokin isn’t your true surname.”
Papa adjusted his spectacles. “The less said on that the better.”
Criminy. Vera was almost too overwhelmed to think, to understand what was being said.
“The Circle aren’t the only ones I’ve hidden away. Didn’t you ever wonder how it was I had so many printing consultations, but the shop was still struggling?”
“They weren’t customers.” She realized the truth even as she spoke it.
The children emerged from the back room, their coats on, and the scarves Brogan had gifted them wrapped around their necks.
“I’ll keep the little ones safe,” Papa promised once more. “Save our neighbors.” He looked to Brogan. “And, whatever you do, get the letter and the list out of Chelmsford’s house. That scheme must be stopped.”
On that shocking last request, Papa took a child’s hand in each of his and left without another word or glance.