Griffin let out his breath and moved his hand from the pistol’s grip to Rambler’s neck, patting the horse. “Not much farther now, boy.”
He rode down the lane and then turned into a slightly larger street, lined with brick and plaster buildings, some with overhanging upper stories. A nondescript door stood in a tall brick wall, hiding a courtyard beyond. Griffin pulled Rambler to a halt by the door. Taking the pistol from the saddle holster, he used the butt to knock upon the wooden door.
Almost immediately a gruff male voice called, “ ’Oo’s without?”
“Reading. Let me in.”
“ ’Ow’m I sure ’tis you, m’lord?”
Griffin raised his eyebrows at the door. “Because I’m the only one who knows about that night at the Lame Black Cockerel when you drank a dozen pints of ale and—”
The door flew open, revealing shifty black eyes in the ugliest face Griffin had ever known, in London or without. The nose was mashed nearly flat, causing the lipless mouth to always be parted so the man could breathe. Stubble perpetually dotted the lined cheeks and chin, like some spreading mildew, broken by old pox marks and scars far less benign. The man was of average height, but his arms and shoulders were disproportionately large, ending with hands that hung like great slabs of ham by his side. Most who saw him assumed he was either a professional boxer or a murderer for hire.
They’d be right on both counts.
“I’m that glad to see you, m’lord,” Nick Barnes said. “Me and the boys ’ave been staking out the place, but we could sure use your ’elp.”
“Have there been any more attacks?” Griffin swung down from Rambler but kept the gun in his hand and his eyes sharp as he led the horse through the door. Inside, the small courtyard was paved with cobblestones. Buildings rose up on three sides. Griffin had purchased the buildings to either side just last year as a precaution. Now he was grateful for the forethought.
“Some lads tried to come in night afore last, but we beat ’em back right smart,” Nick said, heaving a solid oak bar across the courtyard door.
Griffin led Rambler to an ancient stone water trough to let him drink. “Do you think he’s given up?”
“The Vicar won’t give up until ’e’s dead, and that’s a fact, m’lord,” Nick said soberly.
Griffin grunted. He’d not held high hopes that Charlie Grady, otherwise known rather blasphemously as the Vicar of Whitechapel, would give up so easily. The Vicar had a dirty finger in most of the illegal trades east of Bishopsgate, but recently he’d begun expanding his empire west into the Seven Dials area of St. Giles.
And that had impinged on Griffin’s interests.
Griffin gave a last pat to the gelding and turned to Nick. “You’d better show me, then.”
The other man nodded and led the way into the building directly across from the courtyard wall.
He opened a stout wooden door reinforced with iron and shouted, “Oy, Willis! You and Tim come ’ere and guard the courtyard.”
Two men lumbered out of the building, touching their hats as they passed Griffin. One held a cudgel, the other a long knife that looked suspiciously like a saber.
Nick watched as they took up positions by the courtyard door and then nodded at Griffin. “This way, m’lord.”
The lower floor of the building was one large, cavernous room, broken here and there by massive brick pillars, holding up the upper floors. Four large hearths smoldered under great covered copper kettles nearly as large as a man. Various copper pipes sprouted from the kettles, leading to slightly smaller copper pots, which were in turn connected to oaken barrels. The smells of smoke, fermentation, juniper berries, and turpentine were heavy in the humid air. A dozen more men were in the warehouse, a few tending the fires or the contents of the kettles, but most stood about, hired merely for their muscle.
“I’ve brought in all the other operations,” Nick said, gesturing to the copper kettles. “All but the one that the Vicar’s boys blew up on Abbott Street.”
Griffin nodded. “You’ve done well, Nick. One position is more easily guarded than many.”
Nick spat at the stone floor. “Aye, that it is, but we’ll ’ave another problem when the ’arvest grain comes in.”
“What’s that?”
Nick tilted his head in the direction of the courtyard. “The outer door. It’s too small to bring in a wagon full of grain. We’ll have to toss the bags over the wall, and while we do, the cart, the boys, and the blasted grain’ll be sitting like pullets awaitin’ pluckin’ for Sunday supper.”
Griffin grimaced, not bothering to reply to Nick’s succinct analysis of their position. He watched the men stoking the fires beneath the huge copper kettles. Most of his—their—capital was sunk into this operation, and the bloody Vicar was set to destroy it all. For the Vicar had declared that he would smash all other gin distillers and make himself king of gin in London.
And as it happened, Griffin was the biggest gin distiller in St. Giles.
SILENCE HOLLINGBROOK WOKE to little baby fingers poking at her eyelids. She groaned and opened her eyes. Big brown eyes framed by an extravagance of lashes met her own. Mary Darling—the owner of the eyes and the baby in question—sat up and clapped pudgy hands, crowing her delight in having woken Silence.
“Mamoo!”
Silence grinned back at her tiny bedmate—it was quite impossible not to, really. “How many times have I told you not to poke at Mamoo’s eyes, you little imp?”
Mary Darling giggled. At little over a year old, she had but three words to her vocabulary: “Mamoo,” an emphatic “no!” and “Soo” for Soot the cat—who was not nearly as fond of Mary Darling as she was of him.
Silence glanced at the tiny window to their attic bedroom and sat up in horror. The sun was shining brightly. “Oh, no. You should’ve poked me in the eye earlier. I’ve overslept again.”
Hurriedly she did her morning ablutions, feeling a vague sense that she was forgetting something important. She changed Mary Darling’s diaper and dressed them both—and only just in time. A firm knock came at the door. Silence pulled it open breathlessly and looked into the worn face of her elder brother, Winter.
“Good morning, sister,” Winter said gravely. He rarely smiled, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked at the baby in Silence’s arms. “And to you, too, Miss Mary Darling.”