The next time William ventured out, it was to purchase new clothing. When he
returned, his purse was substantially lighter; the pilfered money was not going
to last him long at this rate. But he had a plan. And it was a good one. If
the bank demanded William have an adult to vouch for him, then, by golly, he’d
produce one. Even if it meant wandering the Inns of Court until he spotted a
familiar door. He was fairly sure he’d recognise Mr. Brace’s offices
when he saw them.
“Master William?” called out Mrs Sawyer as she hauled her not insubstantial bulk along the hallway after him. William turned and paused, wondering what the woman wanted now. He was certain that helping himself to extra portions of food, however inedible, was acceptable.
The landlady leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, and gestured at William for his indulgence. He gave it, waiting for her with hands thrust into his pockets and foot tapping impatiently. Now he’d decided what to do, he was eager to be off.
“There are charges, Master William,” the woman wheezed. “Twelve and sixpence for coals. And the bootboy expects a least a farthing a day. I trust that won’t be a problem.”
William winced but produced the money anyway. After all, what choice did he have; there were still ten days to run on his agreement with Mrs. Sawyer. However the extra costs made discovering Brace’s whereabouts more and more urgent.
Unfortunately, that turned out to be easier said than done.
“Excuse me,” William said, smiling as the harassed young clerk he’d targeted stopped and glared at him. “Could you direct me to Mr. Brace’s chambers please.”
“Brace, White and Crookstaff? Brace who works for Pitton and Brown? Or Brace at Chancery?” William didn’t answer. This was the third person he had stopped and each of them had identified several possible Braces.
“I don’t know,” he admitted finally, and then added, “I’m sorry to have troubled you.” He turned away, hope becoming desperation when faced by so many potentials.
“For goodness sake, boy,” the clerk snapped, “which Brace are you looking for?”
“My mother’s solicitor,” William said, deciding that maybe a little more information could provide the identification he needed. “We visited nigh on five years ago. And I seem to recall a green door.”
“A green door.” The clerk turned in a slow circle and then pointed, “There’s a green door. I suggest you try there and stop bothering people on the street.”
“Is that Brace, White and -” William began, but it was too late. The clerk was already heading off across the yard.
The green door it was then. William rang the bell and waited. The plaque on the pillar read Whitcombe, Somerby, Peasebody & Ptnrs., which didn’t sound like Brace, but he had to start somewhere.
“Yes?” a bored sounding voice said through the grill.
William stood on tiptoe and said, “I’m looking for a Mr. Brace. Please, does he work here?”
“Not here, son. Try the next place over, I seem to remember them having a Brace there.”
And so it continued. William went from door to door searching for a man he was becoming increasingly convinced he would never find, and without whom the twenty pounds would never be cashed. There was no one else in London who could vouch for him, except for Mr Fletcher and William was even vaguer about Fletcher’s location than Brace’s.
*
Goddard glared at the letter and then at Roger ‘Cropper’ Ballard, who was seated at the other side of the desk. Personally he detested the boy, however the headmaster had given strict instructions for Ballard be given free rein – within reason – so Goddard kept his opinions to himself. As deputy head, his word carried next to no weight, especially when the boy in question came from the family who had reputedly saved St. Peter’s from certain bankruptcy.
“Is it absolutely essential the younger ones go with you?” he asked, gambling that there may be a way around this extracurricular visit to London. Whatever the older boys got up to was, frankly, beyond his ability to control, but Goddard liked to think he had some influence over the fate of the youngsters.
A complacent smile spread over Ballard’s face and Goddard found his palm itching with the need to smack it away even before the young chap answered. “That’s what the letter indicates, I believe. Price, Munro and Rayne will accompany Farrell and myself on Thursday. Bartlett is, unfortunately, too unwell to make the trip, however Mr. Craven has kindly agreed to see to the poor boy whilst we’re away.”
The letter creasing under his shaking fingers, Goddard forced himself to meet Ballard’s gaze. “This sudden ague, is it related to his short absence from school last week?”
“Yes. The brat went swimming and then lost his way. A chill perhaps, or something of the kind. He has now has taken to his bed and is determined not to be disturbed. Matron promised to send a bottle of cure-all up if he is not fit within the week, so I have no doubt William will be up on his feet in no time with that threat hanging over him.”
“I’ll be sure to drop by the moment he gives word,” Goddard tried. “Give the lad some books to keep him amused.”
“I’m sure Craven will be delighted to deliver them,” Ballard – no, Cropper – dead panned, and Goddard knew he was beaten. In this battle at least. He was not yet prepared to concede the war.
*
It was starting to get dark when William knocked at what would prove to be his final door of the day. The hand that opened it belonged to a kindly looking old gentleman who took one look at William’s pale face and shaking hands and invited him inside.
“Here, lad. This will warm you.”
William looked up from the fire. Mr Bartholomew, or so he had introduced himself, was holding out a large bowl of something which smelt heavenly.
“Thank you, sir,” he said and cradled the drink in his hands, inhaling the rich sweet scent appreciatively. Between the fire, the hot chocolate and the blanket around his shoulders, William was starting to feel human again. Collapsing on a stranger’s doorstep had been so humiliating, as had been confessing all – at least about his reason for going from door to door. Luckily the old man had taken pity and not summoned the police.
Bartholomew took a seat in the large leather chair next to the mantle and proceeded to light his pipe. “This ‘Mr. Brace’ you’re looking for,” he said through small clouds of smoke. “Is there anything further you remember?”
William thought for a moment and then shook his head. “No more than I’ve already told you,” he said. “He was a large florid gentleman with dark hair and his office lay behind a green door.” Realising the inadequacy of the description, William added, “I’m very sorry not to be of more help, but I was only a child when I met him. To be honest, I remember Mr Fletcher much better.”
“Fletcher?”
“My father’s business partner,” William explained. Warming to his subject, he placed the bowl carefully on the rug in front of him and shrugged the blanket closer around his shoulders. “He had rooms in Holburn, though we didn’t visit them. He met mother in a coffee shop near Cannon Street, if I recall correctly.”
Bartholomew gestured for him to continue, so William racked his brain for every detail he could recall. They had spent the day in Mr. Fletcher’s company visiting the zoological gardens. “He was tall and had fair skin and hair. His clothes were smarter than Uncle Quentin’s but he was younger. About forty, perhaps? Oh, and no moustache. I remember thinking how strange that was.”
“What about his business?” Bartholomew asked. “Have any details stayed with you?”
“He was in sugar, with father. After the market collapsed, he moved into the Indian market. I remember him mentioning the routes between India and the Far East, and importing silk and tea.”
“Humph.” The old man leaned forward and tugged on the bell rope. “I’ve no time for those who peddle dreams to savages, but it does mean that finding the man should be easy.”
“You rang, sir?” a footman asked from the doorway.
“Ah, Francis. Fetch me the London Directory from my office would you? It’s on my desk.”
“Can we not use that to find Mr Brace?” William asked once the book
was safely delivered.
Bartholomew flicked through the pages, stopping at the ‘B’s and ran his finger down the page. “There are five listed,” he said. “And none of them at the Inns of Court.” He looked up and smiled at William. “Do you remember if he was registered in London?”
William shook his head. He didn’t. He wasn’t even certain whether the office they visited had actually belonged to Mr. Brace. There was no memory of a company plaque outside the door as there had been on all the buildings he had visited today.
“Then Fletcher will be easier.”
Pages rustled again and William sat in silence drinking his chocolate until Bartholomew announced, “Fletcher, Robert Bryce, esquire, wholesale tea importer. 63 Cornwall Road, Lambeth. Interesting.”
“Lambeth?” William exclaimed. “Why, that is where I’m lodging. To think the very man I need could well be staying in the same house.”
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows and returned to the book. “As I thought,” he said a moment later. “The address is that of a coffee-house.” He closed the directory with a snap and sighed. “I’m very much afraid, young William, that your Mr. Fletcher must be something of a rogue if all his dealings take place in such establishments.”
William wasn’t listening. The blanket was already on the floor and he
was tugging on his shoes preparatory to leaving. To have Fletcher so close…
Excitement burned inside him. The plan would work. He would get his twenty pounds.
He would find the people he needed in Belgravia. And then he would bring Cropper
down and rescue Elijah and himself from the wolf, the ram and the hart.