The Course of All Treasons by Suzanne M. Wolfe

Author:Suzanne M. Wolfe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

CHAPTER 15

City of London

Over breakfast the next day, Nick and John discussed how to best go about finding del Toro in a town as large as London.

“It will take at least a week to inquire at every inn in the city,” Nick said. “And, for all we know, he is being sheltered by someone in their home. Then we’ll never find him. What we need to do is have someone lead us to him.”

“One of Essex’s people?”

“Possibly,” Nick replied. “If it doesn’t work, then at least we’ll know they are in the clear. The important thing is for you to keep in the shadows. I don’t want them to know there are two sets of eyes on them.”

“Sounds more like fishing than hunting,” John grumbled.

They both put on dark cloaks, the better to remain undetected from recessed doorways. Luckily, it was raining again, so they would not appear suspicious with their hoods up. Both men were dressed in dark clothing, and both were armed with sword and dagger.

“Sorry, old man,” Nick told Hector. “You have to stay here today.”

The last thing he wanted was to advertise his identity by the presence of his distinctive dog.

Hector gave a sad whine but obediently lay down on the floor, his nose toward the door, to await his master’s return.

* * *

Leicester House

While Nick and John leaned against a yew tree in St. Clement’s churchyard across the Strand from Leicester House, they paid a lad loitering outside The Angel—in the hope that someone would buy him ale—to give a message to Essex. He was to tell Essex and anyone else within hearing that Nick was on the track of the assassin who was killing off agents. The lad was to act stupid—not a difficult thing for him to do, Nick concluded, judging from his sleepy-eyed look—when asked exactly where Nick had gone. Only someone who already knew where del Toro was hiding would know where to go. From what Nick had observed, Essex himself did not seem to know about del Toro’s existence.

At the mention of agents, the lad’s eyes grew round. He swiped at his runny nose with a dirty sleeve. “Are you one of them, then?” he asked. “A secret agent?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Nick said with a straight face.

The boy took a step back.

“If you do it right, you’ll make enough money to buy all the ale you can drink,” Nick said, relenting. “So be off with you.”

When he had gone, John looked at him. “Threats followed by an appeal to his baser instincts?”

“Did I leave anything out?” Nick asked.

“Nope. You pretty much covered the totality of human venality.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The lad was gone for some time. When he returned and reported that he had told the “posh gent” (Essex), the “hot wench” (Annie), and a man who looked like “a right hard bastard” (Henry Gavell, no doubt), Nick tossed him a shilling, well satisfied that he had put the cat among the pigeons.

They didn’t have long to wait.

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