A Matter Of Delicacy

The Safe

     Three days later and I was limping my way towards the grotty butcher's shop on the corner of Scotch Lane and Denning Row. The day felt like a dirty handkerchief pressed over my mouth, leaving my lungs full of grime and filth and grease. All around me Vauxhall was recovering from another night of vice and sedition, with people from all walks of life hurrying down the streets towards, or away from, the rest of the day.
     I crossed over toward the alleyway running behind the butcher's, avoiding a pile of sewage and a lost shoe.
     Willoughby was leaning against the back wall of the alleyway as I rounded the corner. His eyes flicked across my whole body, taking in every bruise on my face and neck that had deepened to a mottled purple and black. The stripes on my wrists had scabbed over, starting to heal but still prone to splitting under any sudden movement. He looked away quickly. 'How's your knee?'
     I wiped my hands on the loose-fitting breeches I'd pulled on this morning, anticipating some physical exertion, 'it'll do. The ice helped, so thank you.'
     'You're welcome.'
     There was silence. A horse neighed on the street behind us. A woman shouted something in the distance. The stench of warm meat wafted over from the shop.
     'So,' I pressed my hands together and looked up at the floors above us, 'you said third floor, yes?'
     'Yes,' Willoughby seemed relieved to get on with it. 'That large window with the brown shutters. It's just the one large room, with a door that leads down to the communal entrance. Both he and Paulette headed to Carlton House two hours ago.'
     'Do they suspect anything?'
     He shook his head, 'they seemed content enough with my story.' He glanced over and a slight smile flitted across his face, 'I made sure to add spurious details of your valiant last efforts. Lots of fruitless fighting and vows of eternal damnation.'
     'Well, I wouldn't want to make it too easy for you.'
     'It was truly a battle to go down in legend.'
     The corner of my mouth twitched, 'where am I buried?'
     'Epping, along with an honourable line of criminals and highwaymen and murder victims.'
     'I do keep the best company.'
      He chuckled and, when he bent to dig through the satchel at his feet, the silence wasn't as awkward.
     'I think I should climb up first, then hoist you up with this,' he pulled out a thick coil of rope and started twisting it around his hand, examining the wall up to Beresford's rooms. After a moment he looked over and frowned at my face, 'what?'
     'You want to hoist me up?' I grimaced, 'I'm not a sack of flour, I can climb a couple of floors of wall.'
     'You're injured - you're in no state to be scaling walls.'
     'I'm fine, which you would know if you'd asked my thoughts on our way in.'
     'Miss Wentworth,' he stopped fiddling. 'I know you can climb walls. I know you can scale mountains and fight giants and rescues damsels in distress.' I scoffed but he carried on, a rueful smile on his face, 'But you have only had three days to heal, and we all need you in top form. I can send a rope down for you and that way you'll be in better shape in case anything goes south in the next few days.'
     I couldn't argue the logic, no matter how much I scowled at him. 'I don't need your help,' I grumbled.
     'I know you don't, but I think you should still take it. Just this once.'
     I pursed my lips, considered, then nodded once. He grinned and turned away, plotting his route up. It was a relatively simple wall to climb, with some convenient pipes and exposed brickwork. Willoughby shrugged out of his coat and slung the rope across his chest. His pistol, the same one he'd held pressed against my neck just a few days before, shone in its holster at his belt. He paused for a moment, then, as if it pained him more than I would ever know, pulled it out and handed it to me.
     'Don't want to drop this on the way up.'
     I took it wordlessly and tucked it into my waistband, next to my knife. He smiled and started his climb.
     It took about five minutes – three minutes longer than if I'd done it myself, which I decided not to mention. At one point I warned him not to rest his foot on an old brick, then laughed as it crumbled away under his weight and nearly sent him back down to the ground. He scowled down at me, but was soon through Beresford's window and lowering the rope. I tied a loop at the end and jammed my foot in, carrying Willoughby's bag and coat up with me like an acrobat.
     Scrambling through the window, I landed in a room that would not have given anyone a single clue as to who lived there, unless you'd spent months obsessing over their every move. Beresford and Paulette were everywhere and nowhere in this room. The bed was neatly made with blue blankets and the table was clean, but a coat was slung over the back of one of the chairs that had been left at a slight angle, as if the seater had surged up and out of the door at a moment's notice. There was no art on the shelves or plants on the windowsill, only a map of London pinned to the wall with tacks.
     A small safe sat in the corner, coming up to my knee and acting as an impromptu surface for a pewter jug of water and a set of two cracked whiskey glasses. I crossed the room and ran my fingers over it, feeling into the crack, digging my thumbnail into the hinges, and peering close into the keyhole.
     'What do you think?' Willoughby asked.
     I pressed my lips together, 'I can do it, but it'll take some time.'
     'I'll have a look around.'
     My fabric pouch of lockpicks felt comforting, and I quickly found the exact ones I was looking for. It was a tricky safe, one of the newer models with interlocked mechanisms. I needed two picks to start off, finding the right angles to push in, then would need a third to add the final pressure once the trigger point was found. I pressed my ear to the metal and started easing the picks around inside the keyhole.
     Willoughby pulled open a faded chest of drawers and started rummaging around inside. Our silence was companionable, with both of us working contentedly beside each other.
     My lockpick slipped and I cursed – this was going to take longer than I thought.
     'Try filling that glass with some water,' Willoughby said. 'You'll be able to see the vibrations.'
     I frowned, 'sorry?'
     He leant over me and moved one of the whiskey glasses so it was central on top of the safe, then poured a few inches of water into it. I raised my eyebrow at him, but he gestured for me to try again. Inserting the lockpicks into the keyhole, I watched as each shift sent tremors through the water.
     'Well, that works too.'
     He chuckled and went back to the drawers, 'a friend of mine from the army taught me that one. I was never good at lockpicking – my hands shake too much. But I always remembered that trick of his.'
     'Why did you leave?'
     He sighed, long and slow, 'it was time. There was only so much marching and drills and weapon cleaning I could do before I realised I wasn't actually doing anything important.' There came a short, hollow laugh, 'ironically Napoleon started up a few months after I left. I did some undercover work for private companies, but it was all pretty sordid stuff, unfortunately. Lots of failed marriages and jealous rivals.'
     'So, how did you end up with Grenville?' A strong ripple shook through the water in the whiskey glass and I grinned, holding the two lockpicks steadily in their notches with one hand, and fumbling for the third.
     'Desperation, really. I had walked out of the army with nothing, and I had no family to go back to. I remembered him being kind to me when I was a boy and had seen his name in the papers so I hoped he'd lend me a little money to get started in a job somewhere.'
     'You must have made quite the impression.'
     He chuckled, 'in hindsight most of it was dramatics. Turn up at anyone's door in the middle of the evening begging for sanctuary and it strikes a certain chord. But Grenville's always been one for the underdog.'
     'So he took you in? Just like that?' The third pick slid in like a knife through butter and I began manoeuvring it into what I hoped was the correct place, keeping an eye firmly on the water glass.
     'Honestly, I think he saw something of himself in me – a slightly scrappy young man with a sharp mind and a desire to do good through unconventional means.' Willoughby closed the drawers and turned to me, 'perhaps that's why he likes you so much.'
     I snorted, 'I'm not sure how much Grenville likes – '
     The lockpick clicked into place and a loud thunk shook through the safe and sent the glass juddering off centre.
     Willoughby and I both froze, staring in terrified trepidation at the door to the safe. The silence around us was total and heavy.
     I breathed slowly, forcing my stiff fingers away from the lockpicks and taking hold of the handle. It clicked open with one gentle tug and the door swung out towards me, sending waves of clean, oil-scented air wafting out.
     We stared.
     Horrified.
     'What?' I bit out.
     It was empty.
     A sharp voice sounded from behind us, 'we wondered how long it would take you to come digging.'
     Paulette stood looming in the doorway, a pistol trained directly at Willoughby's head.