The Passionate Friends. Meg Alexander

him?’”

      Even Perry was forced to join in the laughter.

      “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted. “I’d best leave it to you.”

      “I think you had. It should not take above a day or two.”

      “Don’t be too sure,” Elizabeth warned. “That snake will cover his tracks.”

      “Yet even snakes may be trapped and destroyed, my dear.” With these words from Sebastian the rest of the company had to be content.

      Unwittingly, Elizabeth had hit upon the truth, but the past life which the preacher had been at such pains to conceal was, at that moment, in danger of being revealed to the world.

      Truscott had, that very morning, been approached by a filthy urchin in his own church.

      “Out!” He’d eyed the ragged figure with distaste. The child was little better than a scarecrow. “You’ll get no charity here.”

      “Don’t want none, mester. I been paid. I wuz to give you this.” The child held out a grimy scrap of paper, but his eyes were wary. He kept his distance, as if ready to dodge a blow.

      “What’s it about?”

      “Dunno. I was to fetch you with me.”

      A discreet cough drew the preacher’s attention to a small group of ladies advancing down the nave towards him.

      “My dear sir, do you never rest?” one of them asked tenderly. “We’d hoped that you’d take tea with us today. We are raising funds for the Foundling Hospital.”

      “God bless you! Sadly, this little chap is in some kind of trouble.” The Reverend Truscott considered resting a benevolent hand upon the urchin’s spiky hair, but he thought better of it.

      “You ain’t read the note,” the child accused.

      “My little man, you have given me no time to do so.” With the eyes of the ladies upon him, he was forced to open the paper. Drat the child! Had they been alone he would have been well rewarded for his impertinence.

      The words were ill-spelt, and formed in an illiterate hand, but the message was all too clear. As its full enormity sank into his consciousness the colour drained from his face. He swayed, and held himself upright only by clutching at the back of the nearest pew.

      “Bad news? Mr Truscott, you must sit down. Let me get you a glass of water.”

      He could have struck the speaker. What he needed at that moment was a glass of brandy. If only these ridiculous old biddies would go away! He raised a hand to cover his eyes.

      “Thank you, pray don’t trouble yourself,” he murmured. “This is but a momentary faintness.”

      “It is exhaustion, sir. You do too much. This child must not trouble you today.” She tried to shoo the boy away. “Your bride-to-be will scold you.”

      “Let him be! The Lord will sustain me in his work. I will accompany the child. I fear it is to a deathbed.”

      If only it were, he thought savagely. So many of his problems would be solved. With a brave smile he ushered the ladies from the church. Then he returned to the vestry to draw on a voluminous cloak, and cram a wide-brimmed hat low on his brow.

      The boy’s eyes never left him. A child indeed! There was cynicism in that look, and a quick intelligence which, he knew well enough, stemmed from a life of survival on the streets.

      He spared no sympathy for the lad. The strong survived, and the weak went under. He’d been lucky. No, that wasn’t true! Luck had played no part in his rise to fame. Say rather that a ruthless streak had helped him climb the ladder to success.

      And was he to lose it now? The words of the message burned in his brain like letters of fire.

      “‘My friend seen your notice in the paper, Charlie. Time yore pore old mother had a share. The boy will fetch you to me. Best come, or you’ll be sorry.’”

      It was unsigned, but no signature was needed. The letter was authentic. Only his mother had ever called him Charlie.

      “Is it far?” He spat out the question to the boy.

      “Not far. I allus walks it, rain or shine.” The child inspected him with critical eyes. “Best hide that ticker, guv’nor, and the chain. You’ll lose it, certain sure.”

      The preacher said nothing. He never walked abroad without his knife, a long and narrow blade, honed to razor sharpness. As a child, he’d learned to take care of himself. His lips drew back in a snarl. He was more than a match for any ruffian.

      Now anger threatened to choke him. It was sheer ill-luck that had revealed his whereabouts. The Gazette, which had carried the announcement of his betrothal, was unlikely to fall into his mother’s hands. In any case, she could not read. He’d thought himself safe. Yet some cruel trick of fate had given her a friend who was sharper than herself.

      He glanced about him, and was not surprised to find that he was being led towards the parish of St Giles. He knew the area well, but he had not thought to enter it again.

      Preoccupied with the scarce-veiled threat contained in the message, he was unaware that he was being followed. Even so, he pulled his cloak close, sinking the lower part of his face deep within its folds. Then he glanced about him before he entered the maze of alleys which led far into that part of London known as “The Rookery.”

      Behind him, Dan prepared to follow, but his way was blocked by a thick-set individual wearing a slouch hat and a rough jacket out-at-elbows.

      “Not in there, sir, if you please! You wouldn’t come out alive.”

      Dan stared at the man. He was an unprepossessing individual. His broken nose and battered ears suggested a previous career as a pugilist. When he smiled his missing teeth confirmed it.

      “Out of my way, man!” Dan snapped impatiently. The figure of the Reverend Truscott had already disappeared.

      “Now, sir, you wouldn’t want me to plant you a facer, as I must do if you intend to be a foolish gentleman? I has my orders from his lordship…”

      “Who are you?”

      “A Redbreast, sir.”

      “You mean you are a Bow Street Runner?”

      The man threw his eyes to heaven, and dragged Dan into a doorway. “Not so loud!” he begged. “You’ll get my throat slit.”

      “I’ll go with you.”

      “No, you won’t, young sir. You’ll slow me down. This ain’t the place for you. Now be a good gentleman, and leave this job to me.” His tone was respectful, but extremely firm.

      Dan thought of pushing past him, but the Runner was already on his toes, ready for any sudden move. “We’re wasting time,” he said significantly.

      “Then I’ll wait for you here.”

      “Best go back to Mount Street, sir. I may be some time.” He turned quickly and disappeared into an alley way.

      Wild with frustration, Dan retraced his steps. The delay had lost him his quarry.

      Damn Sebastian! Why must he always be one step ahead? Then common sense returned. At least his lordship had wasted no time in setting enquiries afoot. The Runner had seemed competent enough. His very appearance would make him inconspicuous in that nefarious area.

      Dan himself was unarmed. It hadn’t occurred to him to carry a weapon. Now, on reflection, he knew that the Runner had been right to stop him.

      Always a poor parish, in the previous century the Church Lane rookery had reached the depths of squalor with its population of hawkers, beggars and thieves. Every fourth building was a gin shop, where the verminous inhabitants could drink themselves into oblivion for a copper or two. Stupefied with liquor, they could forget the