suppose that the child could very well be Hayes’s son. And if he’s legitimate . . .”
Lovejoy stared at him. “Merciful heavens.” He was silent for a moment, absorbing the various implications of this possibility. Then he said it again. “Merciful heavens.”
The ancient, winding street known as Warwick Lane ran south from Newgate Street toward St. Paul’s Cathedral. Dominated by the fine octagonal dome of Wren’s famous Royal College of Physicians, this was an area frequented by booksellers from Paternoster Row and busy with traffic going to and from the Warrick Arms, a famous coaching inn. But the looming nearby presence of Newgate Prison and the law courts of the Old Bailey cast something of a pall over the district—that, and the pervasive stench of raw meat from Newgate Market.
The Bell Inn was built around a narrow yard reached through an archway opposite Warwick Square. Dating to the time of Charles II, it was a small but reasonably respectable hostelry, with stables that stretched along the yard’s eastern side. Titus Poole himself was in the yard talking to a coal monger when Sebastian walked up to him.
A balding man in his late thirties, the former Bow Street Runner was a good four inches taller than Sebastian and big boned, with a slablike face and small dark eyes that narrowed at Sebastian’s approach. “I know who ye are,” said Poole, turning away from the coal man. “Yer that viscount. Devlin, ain’t it?”
“That’s right. You’re Titus Poole?”
Poole used his tongue to poke at the wad of chewing tobacco distending one cheek. “And if I am?”
“I’d like to know how you came to be following Nicholas Hayes.”
“What makes ye think I was?”
“You were seen.”
“Ah.” Poole shifted the tobacco from one cheek to the other. “Just so happens I spotted him in Smithfield Market. Thought I recognized him, so I followed him.”
“Why not simply notify the authorities?”
“I wasn’t sure it was him.”
“No?”
“No.”
“For whom are you working at the moment?”
“No one.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Poole gave a scoffing exhalation of air. “I don’t rightly care what ye believe.”
Sebastian watched a towheaded little girl bounce a ball against a nearby brick wall. “So what was Hayes doing when you just happened to see him?”
“Nothin’ of interest. Just walkin’.”
“When was this?”
“A week or more ago. Don’t recollect precisely.”
“And you were still following him this past Tuesday or Wednesday?”
Poole’s eyes narrowed. “Who says I was?”
“The person who saw you.”
Poole gave a dismissive twitch of one shoulder. “Told ye I didn’t recollect exactly.”
“Have you ever worked for the Count de Compans?”
“Don’t think so. Don’t hold with workin’ for foreigners—especially Frogs. M’brother died in Holland, he did.”
“What about the Earl of Seaforth? Ever work for him?”
“Not so’s I recall.”
Sebastian watched the little girl chase after her ball as it rolled away toward the arch. “You seem to have a shockingly poor memory for a former Bow Street Runner.”
Poole set his jaw. “I pay attention when I need to.”
“For whom are you working now?” Sebastian asked again.
“Ain’t none o’ yer business, is it?” said the man.
Which was a slightly different answer, Sebastian noticed, from “No one.” He let his gaze scan the galleries fronting the second-story chambers that ran along two sides of the yard. “I’ll find out, you know.”
Poole took a menacing step toward him, his big head thrusting forward as his lips pulled back from his teeth in a sneer. “Ye reckon ye scare me? Because if that’s what yer thinkin’, yer thinkin’ wrong, yer lordship.” He accentuated the title in a way that turned it into an insult. “People who know what’s what, they’re afraid of Titus Poole. Not the other way around.”
Sebastian met the man’s gritty gaze. “Is that a threat?”
“Just some friendly advice.”
“Ah.” Sebastian gave the man a hard smile of his own. “Then in the spirit of friendship, I have some advice for you: If you’re smart, you’ll come clean sooner rather than later. Because I’ll be back.”
Chapter 24
A rriving at Tower Hill a short time later, Sebastian found Paul Gibson on the stoop behind his surgery emptying a basin of bloody water into the yard. He looked haggard, his face unshaven, his eyes sunken and almost bruised.
“You look like the devil,” said Sebastian.
“Thank you. I’ve finished your dead tea gardens owner, if that’s why you’re here,” growled Gibson, slapping his hand against the bottom of the upturned basin. “Did it late yesterday evening. And it’s a good thing too, given that I spent all of last night and most of the morning stitching up stab