What Cannot Be Said by Harris C. S

Author:Harris, C. S. [Harris, C. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Historical, Crime
ISBN: 9780593639184
Amazon: 0593639189
Goodreads: 192724301
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2024-04-16T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

That afternoon, Sebastian was staring thoughtfully at a map of Richmond Park and the surrounding area when he heard a door slam in the distance, followed by the pounding of running feet and Morey’s annoyed hiss.

“Gov’nor! Gov’nor!” shouted Tom, sliding to a halt as he came through the library door, one hand flying up to catch his cap. “Wait till ye ’ear what I found out about that there fencing master yer interested in!”

* * *

Sebastian found Damion Pitcairn sitting by himself at a quiet table, drinking a tankard of porter in a public house in Soho known as the Cock.

A tidy brick inn dating to the previous century, the Cock was popular with the fading area’s population of artisans, day laborers, small shop owners, and tradesmen. The atmosphere was thick with the scents of tobacco, roasting meat, spilled beer, and hardworking men’s sweat; the clatter of tankards and heavy ironstone plates punctuated the roar of rough voices and laughter. When Sebastian walked up to him, the fencing master raised his tankard to his lips and took a deep swallow before saying, “I gather you’re here to see me?”

Someone nearby cracked a lewd joke, and the half dozen men grouped around the table with him roared with laughter. Sebastian threw a significant glance toward the door to the street. “It might be a good idea to go for a walk.”

Pitcairn stared up at him for a moment, then set aside his tankard with a dull thump and rose.

They walked down Dean Street, toward the Haymarket. This was an area of older houses and shops some two and three stories tall, interspersed with blacksmiths and stables and an extraordinary number of pubs. “You didn’t tell me you’re a Spencean,” said Sebastian, dodging a puddle in the broken pavement.

Pitcairn’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t deny it. “Why the bloody hell would I? What difference could it possibly make to anything?”

“Perhaps none,” said Sebastian. “Did you know Thomas Spence?”

“I did. He was an admirable man. Spent more than twenty years in and out of prison for daring to believe—and say—that all men are created equal, slavery is an abomination, all men and women should have the right to vote, and children have a right to live free from abuse and poverty.”

“Not to mention that the aristocracy should be abolished and all land held in common.”

Pitcairn looked over at him and grinned. “That, too.”

“I assume Sir Ivo was ignorant of your philosophical leanings when he hired you to improve his son’s fencing?”

The man’s smile faded and he looked away. “I don’t exactly go around advertising my beliefs, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll be the first to admit I lack Thomas Spence’s courage.”

“And yet you drink at the Cock.”

“So?”

Sebastian studied the other man’s taut profile. He was brilliant and unbelievably talented and wise beyond his years, but he was still young—so very, very young. “Ever hear of a man named John Stafford?”

Pitcairn shook his head.

“He’s a nasty, officious little clerk in Bow Street who basically functions as the domestic spymaster for the Home Office.

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