Are you sure?”
Sotheby paused for a moment, allowing William to remember that he had already said the name twice. “That is what the child reported, sir.”
William dashed back to the coach and repeated the address Sotheby had given him to the driver. What could possibly have possessed Sanderson to take a job for his uncle ? No wonder this previously moribund affair seemed to be rising again, like a phoenix from the ashes.
John Archer may have recognized Sanderson— who apparently didn’t have enough sense to change his name. And now, Archer was trying to murder him. As he settled into the worn seat, he glanced outside. A man on foot walked briskly past the slow-moving coach.
“Hurry!” he bellowed through the window.
Good God, it's a wonder the lad is still alive. He hasn't a particle of sense behind those gray eyes.
The carriage moved sluggishly along, rattling over the cobbles. The streets around Portman Square thronged with men and woman who apparently had nothing better to do than impede the already tortoise-like progress of William’s hackney. A block away, his patience shattered.
“Stop!” He thumped his booted foot against the side of the carriage.
Climbing down, he tossed a sovereign to the driver, ignoring the coachman’s protests that the gold piece far exceeded the fare due him.
He made better progress on foot. He soon stopped opposite the staid, red brick townhouse purportedly inhabited by the Archers. The door was painted a brilliant red, trimmed with a black frame that matched the glossy black shutters adorning each window. Scanning the crowds, William didn’t see anyone unusual loitering about, except the usual gangs of urchins and merchants hoping to catch a coin dropped by the gentry.
Through the shadows of a narrow alley running between the right side of the Archer’s townhouse and the neighboring establishment, William could see movement. Glancing up to make sure no maid chose that moment to fling open a window and empty a chamber pot, William strode through the short passageway. He turned sharply left through an old iron gate into the area behind the townhouse.
A tangle of workmen labored over the construction of a brick wall. The half-built edifice encircled a square garden plot, already dotted with a few perennial herbs. William hurriedly scanned the men. He recognized Sanderson aligning a brick along the top of the wall.
William relaxed a bit and took a step forward, gazing around the small yard. There was the usual collection of outbuildings, including a carriage house and adjoining stable, shed for gardening implements, and a dovecot. He glanced uneasily at the windows overlooking the back. Not only did Archer’s house have several vantage points, but anyone could spy on the workmen from the townhouses on either side of Archers, or from the rear.
As he studied the situation, he noted several other gentlemen. They idly walked down the alley to view the work before sauntering away.
“Sir, can I be of assistance?” a large man asked as he dusted off his hands on his smock. He moved in front of William, blocking his view of Sanderson.
“No, just curious. Is this the work of the Hawkins and Hawkins firm?”
A broad smile grew across the man’s face. He stuck out a meaty hand and grabbed William’s hand, pumping it mightily. “Yes, sir. That we are, sir. You’ve heard of us, then?”
“Yes. Are you by any chance the owner? Mr. Hawkins?”
“That I am!” His doughy face turned pink with pleasure. He waved a hand toward the laborers building up the wall behind him. “Mr. Hawkins, at your service, sir. Have you an interest in brickwork, then?”
“Possibly.”
“And your name, sir? If I may be so bold?”
William transferred his gaze to Hawkins’s small black eyes. In less than two heartbeats, Hawkins glanced away.
“Never, mind, sir,” Hawkins sputtered, realizing the impertinence of his question. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, sir. Watch as long as you
Sotheby paused for a moment, allowing William to remember that he had already said the name twice. “That is what the child reported, sir.”
William dashed back to the coach and repeated the address Sotheby had given him to the driver. What could possibly have possessed Sanderson to take a job for his uncle ? No wonder this previously moribund affair seemed to be rising again, like a phoenix from the ashes.
John Archer may have recognized Sanderson— who apparently didn’t have enough sense to change his name. And now, Archer was trying to murder him. As he settled into the worn seat, he glanced outside. A man on foot walked briskly past the slow-moving coach.
“Hurry!” he bellowed through the window.
Good God, it's a wonder the lad is still alive. He hasn't a particle of sense behind those gray eyes.
The carriage moved sluggishly along, rattling over the cobbles. The streets around Portman Square thronged with men and woman who apparently had nothing better to do than impede the already tortoise-like progress of William’s hackney. A block away, his patience shattered.
“Stop!” He thumped his booted foot against the side of the carriage.
Climbing down, he tossed a sovereign to the driver, ignoring the coachman’s protests that the gold piece far exceeded the fare due him.
He made better progress on foot. He soon stopped opposite the staid, red brick townhouse purportedly inhabited by the Archers. The door was painted a brilliant red, trimmed with a black frame that matched the glossy black shutters adorning each window. Scanning the crowds, William didn’t see anyone unusual loitering about, except the usual gangs of urchins and merchants hoping to catch a coin dropped by the gentry.
Through the shadows of a narrow alley running between the right side of the Archer’s townhouse and the neighboring establishment, William could see movement. Glancing up to make sure no maid chose that moment to fling open a window and empty a chamber pot, William strode through the short passageway. He turned sharply left through an old iron gate into the area behind the townhouse.
A tangle of workmen labored over the construction of a brick wall. The half-built edifice encircled a square garden plot, already dotted with a few perennial herbs. William hurriedly scanned the men. He recognized Sanderson aligning a brick along the top of the wall.
William relaxed a bit and took a step forward, gazing around the small yard. There was the usual collection of outbuildings, including a carriage house and adjoining stable, shed for gardening implements, and a dovecot. He glanced uneasily at the windows overlooking the back. Not only did Archer’s house have several vantage points, but anyone could spy on the workmen from the townhouses on either side of Archers, or from the rear.
As he studied the situation, he noted several other gentlemen. They idly walked down the alley to view the work before sauntering away.
“Sir, can I be of assistance?” a large man asked as he dusted off his hands on his smock. He moved in front of William, blocking his view of Sanderson.
“No, just curious. Is this the work of the Hawkins and Hawkins firm?”
A broad smile grew across the man’s face. He stuck out a meaty hand and grabbed William’s hand, pumping it mightily. “Yes, sir. That we are, sir. You’ve heard of us, then?”
“Yes. Are you by any chance the owner? Mr. Hawkins?”
“That I am!” His doughy face turned pink with pleasure. He waved a hand toward the laborers building up the wall behind him. “Mr. Hawkins, at your service, sir. Have you an interest in brickwork, then?”
“Possibly.”
“And your name, sir? If I may be so bold?”
William transferred his gaze to Hawkins’s small black eyes. In less than two heartbeats, Hawkins glanced away.
“Never, mind, sir,” Hawkins sputtered, realizing the impertinence of his question. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, sir. Watch as long as you
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