task.
He bypassed the tavern. There was no time to waste, though Crump more than half suspected that his pigeon had already flown. He touched the paper in his pocket, a writ granted by Sir John for the apprehension of a murderer. The papers were full of the astonishing details of Lord Warwick’s death, and the London Apocalypse had gone so far as to poke fun at what it termed the plodding efforts of Bow Street. The Chief Magistrate heartily rued the day that the great Fielding had broken with tradition and admitted journalists into his court, thereby setting a precedent that many of his predecessors had ample cause to regret.
Even allowing for Sir John’s natural disgust with the backhanded blow Fate had dealt him—for Lord Warwick’s murderer could be none other than a woman whom the Chief Magistrate had personally escorted from Newgate only days before, a fact that was recalled with grave displeasure by Sir John’s superior, the Home Secretary—Crump felt that his own treatment had been grossly unfair. After hearing Simpkin’s tale of a violent quarrel between his master and Leda Langtry, and the valet’s further assertions that Leda herself had shot Warwick, Sir John had delivered himself of a scathing denunciation of Crump’s intelligence and demanded that the Runner make an immediate arrest.
The thief taker reached his destination, the shop that housed the Apocalypse, above which Leda had her home. It was not a bad neighborhood. These coffeehouses were far different from those Crump frequented, catering not to unwashed criminals and their whores but to wits and scholars, journalists and writers, who exchanged information no more damning than a clever bon mot. Adjusting his waistcoat, today buff satin with an open pattern in black velvet, Crump stepped into the shop.
The scene that greeted him was one of considerable chaos. Bustling about the small front room were at least five people, all of them talking at the same time. Leda sat on the dirty floor, sorting busily through a pile of wrapped newspapers, while a dark young man, his clothes an appalling mishmash of styles, bent over a large, odd-looking piece of machinery.
“High time!” he cried and swooped down upon the startled Runner. “You’ve come at last! As I’ve told Koenig, his steam press is of little use to us without an understanding of how the wretched thing works.” Crump’s arm was seized and he was dragged across the room. “Proceed!” cried the dark stranger, whose eyes were so pale they were almost colorless. “We shall watch in wide-eyed wonder as you perform a miracle.”
Crump stared at the monstrous chunk of machinery and thought he was more likely to pull a rabbit from his hat. Indeed, this strange young man with his narrow twitching nose and watery eyes rather looked like that small beast. Crump held up his hand. “You’ve made a mistake, my lad.”
“A mistake!” shrieked the young man, thereby attracting the attention of everyone in the room. “A mistake, you say! We have a paper to get out—four full pages with advertising, local news, political comment and vigorous leaders written by the editors and then embellished by the sapient observations of that brilliant commentator upon human folly, the Bystander!”
“Cut line, Willie,” said Leda calmly, from her spot upon the floor.
“Cut line, Leda?” cried Willie, eyebrows dancing frantically up and down. “Koenig swore his steam press could print eleven hundred copies of a single four-page sheet in one hour. Now this fellow says we have been taken in. Bubbled, in fact!”
Crump felt as if he’d stepped into a madhouse. It was obvious that someone must make a move to silence this extremely vocal young man. He did so with reluctance, aware that every person in that tiny chamber would regard him as the enemy. “Lord love you,” he said genially, touching the brace of pistols resting round his plump waist. “I don’t know anything about your steam presses,
He bypassed the tavern. There was no time to waste, though Crump more than half suspected that his pigeon had already flown. He touched the paper in his pocket, a writ granted by Sir John for the apprehension of a murderer. The papers were full of the astonishing details of Lord Warwick’s death, and the London Apocalypse had gone so far as to poke fun at what it termed the plodding efforts of Bow Street. The Chief Magistrate heartily rued the day that the great Fielding had broken with tradition and admitted journalists into his court, thereby setting a precedent that many of his predecessors had ample cause to regret.
Even allowing for Sir John’s natural disgust with the backhanded blow Fate had dealt him—for Lord Warwick’s murderer could be none other than a woman whom the Chief Magistrate had personally escorted from Newgate only days before, a fact that was recalled with grave displeasure by Sir John’s superior, the Home Secretary—Crump felt that his own treatment had been grossly unfair. After hearing Simpkin’s tale of a violent quarrel between his master and Leda Langtry, and the valet’s further assertions that Leda herself had shot Warwick, Sir John had delivered himself of a scathing denunciation of Crump’s intelligence and demanded that the Runner make an immediate arrest.
The thief taker reached his destination, the shop that housed the Apocalypse, above which Leda had her home. It was not a bad neighborhood. These coffeehouses were far different from those Crump frequented, catering not to unwashed criminals and their whores but to wits and scholars, journalists and writers, who exchanged information no more damning than a clever bon mot. Adjusting his waistcoat, today buff satin with an open pattern in black velvet, Crump stepped into the shop.
The scene that greeted him was one of considerable chaos. Bustling about the small front room were at least five people, all of them talking at the same time. Leda sat on the dirty floor, sorting busily through a pile of wrapped newspapers, while a dark young man, his clothes an appalling mishmash of styles, bent over a large, odd-looking piece of machinery.
“High time!” he cried and swooped down upon the startled Runner. “You’ve come at last! As I’ve told Koenig, his steam press is of little use to us without an understanding of how the wretched thing works.” Crump’s arm was seized and he was dragged across the room. “Proceed!” cried the dark stranger, whose eyes were so pale they were almost colorless. “We shall watch in wide-eyed wonder as you perform a miracle.”
Crump stared at the monstrous chunk of machinery and thought he was more likely to pull a rabbit from his hat. Indeed, this strange young man with his narrow twitching nose and watery eyes rather looked like that small beast. Crump held up his hand. “You’ve made a mistake, my lad.”
“A mistake!” shrieked the young man, thereby attracting the attention of everyone in the room. “A mistake, you say! We have a paper to get out—four full pages with advertising, local news, political comment and vigorous leaders written by the editors and then embellished by the sapient observations of that brilliant commentator upon human folly, the Bystander!”
“Cut line, Willie,” said Leda calmly, from her spot upon the floor.
“Cut line, Leda?” cried Willie, eyebrows dancing frantically up and down. “Koenig swore his steam press could print eleven hundred copies of a single four-page sheet in one hour. Now this fellow says we have been taken in. Bubbled, in fact!”
Crump felt as if he’d stepped into a madhouse. It was obvious that someone must make a move to silence this extremely vocal young man. He did so with reluctance, aware that every person in that tiny chamber would regard him as the enemy. “Lord love you,” he said genially, touching the brace of pistols resting round his plump waist. “I don’t know anything about your steam presses,
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