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“I’d like to think it’s the price of ale,” Jealous said. “But if Ross’s information is correct, Grimsby may have called a meeting.”

Samuel’s tension increased a notch. A meeting of criminals offered them the potential of capturing several wanted men at once. It also meant that he, Clarke, and Jealous would be severely outnumbered.

“Have you recognized anyone?” Samuel asked.

He sensed rather than saw Jealous shake his head. “The light is too poor and the distance too great. Once we are inside, however, I imagine there will be several familiar faces.”

“If we’re entering a den of thieves, Ross is the only one of us who stands a chance of being unknown to them,” Clarke said.

“Unless Grimsby’s there,” Samuel said. “He knows me.”

“Even if he’s in the building, he won’t be in the front parlor,” Clarke said. “The first rule of lying low is to stay hidden from public view.”

“Agreed,” Jealous said. “And so we divide. Clarke, you and I will go in first. If we’re fortunate, we’ll quickly spot an acquaintance—ideally one who has squealed before—and we’ll invite ourselves to his table. Ross, give us five minutes to situate ourselves inside before you enter. Take note of where we’re sitting, and choose a table on the other side of the room but within earshot of other customers. I want to know what they say when they see us talking to one of their own.”

Samuel could find no real fault with the simple plan, except perhaps that he was going in alone. “And if any of us encounters trouble?”

“We respond in kind,” Jealous said grimly.

Samuel caught the glint of metal at Clarke’s waist as the principal officer checked his weapon. They were each armed with a knife and a pistol. Samuel prayed they would not need to use either of them.

“I am ready,” Clarke said.

Jealous grunted his approval. “Five minutes, Ross,” he said, and then both men stepped into the alley.

Samuel watched until they entered the public house. Then he waited, his ears strained for any sounds of altercation. Five tense minutes later, when he’d heard nothing more violent than the yowl of a territorial cat, Samuel followed Jealous and Clarke inside.

He spotted his associates immediately. They were sitting together at one of the tables in the far corner of the shabby parlor, both facing the door. Though they had undoubtedly seen him enter, they made no acknowledgment of it. The man they were questioning had his back to Samuel. Given that his threadbare jacket and shoulder-length hair matched almost every other man in the room, it was unlikely that Samuel would know him again.

Turning away, Samuel swept the rest of the room with his gaze. Wooden beams traversed the low ceiling. The walls were bare, save for one faded painting of pigs in a pigsty above the counter—the merry piglets, presumably. A fire burned in the fireplace, and the wooden tables and chairs that filled the parlor were almost all occupied.

There was one seat open at a table where three men were playing cards and two seats at another table where the sole occupant appeared to be well into his cups. At the table just beyond the cardplayers, two men sat together, their heads low, except when they raised them long enough to drink from their mugs and eye the table where Jealous and Clarke sat. The broad-shouldered, bearded one on the left muttered something, and his companion—taller and with thinning hair—­narrowed ­his eyes and nodded his agreement. It was a simple exchange that could have been nothing more than a comment over the fellow’s ale. Samuel’s instinct, however, urged otherwise.

Taking a seemingly aimless path, he wove his way around three tables until he reached the one immediately behind the broad-­shouldered man. Its current occupant was a wrinkled, white-bearded fellow, who had seemingly succumbed to the influence of the contents of the five empty mugs in front of him and was fast asleep with his head on the table. Samuel slid into the chair across from him. It placed him with his back to the broad-shouldered man. A perfect position so long as the slumbering codger did not take to snoring.

“Ale, sir?” A short, stout woman whose wispy gray hair was escaping her mobcap stood at his side, a mug in each hand.

“Yes, I thank you,” he said.

She set one of the mugs on the table before him and, with a brief nod, continued on to the next table. Samuel raised the cup to his lips. The ale was lukewarm and smelled of fermented barley and hops. Its unexceptional taste offered no reason to believe the majority of men sitting in this parlor had come in for the ale alone. That left associating with like-minded individuals and the passing of information as the most probable reasons for their presence. Turning slightly so that his uninjured ear was toward the table behind him, Samuel leaned back in his chair. If the men were here for conversation, he was more than happy to listen in.

“Ya ’ave t’ be sure, Wallace.”

Samuel guessed it was the balding man who spoke.

“I’d be willin’ to bet me last shillin’ on it,” the other replied. “I saw Jealous bring in Elwick all them weeks ago. Ya can’t mistake that ’ooked nose.”

“Ya think ’e’s on t’ Grimsby’s plan?”

Samuel sat completely still, scarcely daring to breathe.

“Nah. If ’e was, ’e wouldn’t be ’ere,” the broad-shouldered one said. “’E’s just sniffin’ around, like an ’ungry dog.” He gave a coarse laugh. “Old Norris might drop ’im a few scraps, but that’s all th’ thief taker’ll get outa ’im. Norris don’t know th’ first thing ’bout ’ow Grimsby plans t’ steal th’ lady’s big pier.”

The balding man snorted. “Since when did ya start usin’ such fancy words?”

“That’s what Grimsby calls it. An’ seein’ as Grimsby’s no better ’un th’ rest o’ us, I reckon I can too.”

“Can’t argue w’ that.” The balding man’s scoffing words carried equal measures of approval and derision. “Yer in on the job, then?”