Samantha (Barrett 2)

"But I scrutinized every damn page of—"

"Not at his office. At home. Anders is involved in something illegal. I'd stake my life on it. Do you understand what I'm saying, Templar? Get into his bloody house and find something to implicate that son of a bitch."

"What about Summerson?" Boyd interjected.

"I'm willing to bet that whatever Templar finds on Anders will incriminate our friend Summerson as well. If I'm wrong, Templar can check Summerson's house next. But if I'm right, there's no need to put Templar at risk twice."

Boyd nodded, then gestured toward the front of the brothel. "Harris just got here." A long silence followed. Suddenly Boyd's eyes narrowed. "He's not alone, Rem."

On the heels of Boyd's announcement, Harris made his way over to their table, a ruddy-faced man with thinning gray hair by his side. "Sorry I'm late," Harris began, guiding the older man forward. "But under the circumstances, it was unavoidable."

"So I see." Rem kept his expression carefully unreadable. But the piercing look he shot Harris clearly stated that the Bow Street man had best know what he was doing.

"Are you with Bow Street as well?" the stranger blurted out to Rem, his voice and hands shaking.

"No." In one unblinking second, Rem assessed the obviously terrified newcomer. Ruddy complexion, work-roughened hands, rope and wind burns. "My name's Gresham. This is Hayword and Templar. Templar works with Harris at Bow Street. My friend Hayword and I are ex-navy men. We help Bow Street out when we can."

A spasm of relief crossed the other man's face. "So you're working with Harris on this case?"

Rem had guessed right. This man was a sailor running from danger. "We are." He indicated a chair. "Have a seat, sir. I'll have Annie bring you a mug of ale. You look like you need one."

With a terse

nod, the stranger sat, rubbing the back of his neck fitfully until his ale arrived. He tossed it down in two swallows. "I could be killed for what I'm about to tell you." He gave a harsh laugh. "Unfortunately, I was almost killed anyway. So I have little to lose."

"You've been aboard a ship for ... let's see, ... a fortnight, possibly more. For whatever reasons, you've returned. Why?" Rem finished his ale and lit a cheroot.

The sailor's mouth fell open. "How on earth did you know that?"

Rem shrugged. "By your color. You've been exposed to sun. And wind—your face is raw from its force. Also I recognize the signs of a man who's recently handled rigging. I assure you, it takes neither a mind reader nor a genius to notice obvious clues such as those. Now, are you prepared to tell me your name?"

"My name's Towers." As he spoke, Towers inclined his head in Harris's direction. "No wonder Bow Street calls on your friend Gresham. I would, too."

"Lucas Towers," Rem realized aloud, visualizing Briggs's list in his mind's eye. "Captain of the merchant ship the Bountiful, reported missing from the English Channel, together with its cargo and crew, three weeks ago."

"That vessel, as I recall, was en route to the West Indies," Boyd added.

"It was also part of Anders's fleet." Rem exhaled wisps of smoke. "Good to have you back, Towers."

First amazement, then panic, flashed on Towers's face. Anxiously, he scrutinized the crowd milling about Annie's brothel, as if to ascertain that he was not being overheard. At last he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You're astoundingly accurate, gentlemen. I am—was—the captain of the Bountiful. My ship did vanish and she did belong to Anders Shipping."

"Now, the next question is, did Arthur Summerson have cargo aboard that vessel?"

"No." Rather than pondering the question, Towers shook his head immediately. "He didn't."

"How can you be so certain so quickly?" Rem demanded.

"Because there was no real cargo aboard my ship."

"What?" Harris's eyes widened.

"The records indicated that there were valuable goods being carried: furniture and jewelry. But as I later learned, the boxes in my hull were filled with stones and rags."

"And whoever the alleged cargo belonged to collected an enormous amount of money for goods he never sent," Rem concluded, grounding out his cheroot "Now all we need to know is, which merchant's name was on those records?"

"I have no doubt it was Summerson's," Towers replied, again without hesitation.

Rem started. "No doubt? Why?"