Read Chapter 30: Aftermath in the Manor

The vault door had barely sighed shut behind them when the first siren cut the night, distant but closing fast. Arthur stood in the narrow passage beneath the manor, the canvas sack of notes heavy against his hip, the Baron's ledger tucked inside his coat. Eddie was already moving, torch beam dancing ahead, his men filing past with the disciplined silence of men who knew the sound of approaching law.

"Move," Eddie hissed. "There's a service gate at the end of the tunnel. Car's parked in the lane beyond."

Arthur followed, boots scuffing on damp brick. Eleanor had stayed behind in the vault, and he hadn't argued. She said she had her own way out, her own account to settle with what remained of her brother's empire. He didn't trust her—couldn't afford to—but she'd given him the one thing he needed: the truth, and a head start.

They emerged through a rusted iron door into a narrow lane choked with weeds. Eddie's Humber saloon sat beneath a dead lamp, engine already ticking over, one of his men behind the wheel. The rear doors opened before they reached it, hands pulling Arthur inside, the sack shoved onto the floor between his feet. Eddie slid in beside him and the car pulled away without headlights, rolling down the lane before the engine note rose.

Through the rear window, Arthur watched the manor's floodlights carve the sky. Police cars were pulling up the gravel drive, their blue lights smearing across the stone. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"How much did we get?" Eddie asked, not looking at him.

Arthur lifted the sack onto his knees. The notes were bundled, banded, heavy—more than he'd ever held. "Enough. More than enough."

"Then we're rich."

"We're wanted."

Eddie turned to face him, and in the dim light of passing street lamps Arthur saw the calculation in his old friend's eyes. "We're wanted either way, Arthur. The difference is, now we're wanted with money."

The car crossed the river at Tower Bridge, the city sprawling dark and indifferent around them. Arthur said nothing until they'd pulled into a bomb-site car park off Commercial Road and killed the engine.

"What now?" Eddie asked.

Arthur looked at the sack. The money was real, this time. Not the counterfeit rubbish from Baron Private Press, but the genuine proceeds of the train robbery Foley and his crew had pulled off—and that Arthur had helped make possible. It was blood money, and it had his fingerprints all over it in every way that mattered.

"We turn it in."

Silence. The two men in the front seat exchanged a glance. Eddie's jaw worked.

"Turn it in," he repeated, flat.

"It's evidence. The Baron's ledger, the notes—they prove Preece was innocent. They prove I was coerced. Maybe they prove enough to clear my name."

"Your name." Eddie laughed, short and bitter. "Arthur, your name is on a murder warrant. Preece is dead. Foley is dead. The Baron is dead. There is no one left to blame but you."

"That's the point." Arthur's voice was steadier than he felt. "If I hand it over—all of it, the money, the ledger—maybe someone in authority sees the truth. Maybe I get a chance to tell my side."

"And if they don't?"

Arthur was quiet a moment. The engine ticked as it cooled. Beyond the windscreen, a cat picked its way across the rubble-strewn lot.

"Then I'm no worse off than I am now. But if I keep the money, I'm a thief. A murderer. And Victor's men will never stop hunting me, because I'll always be the man who took what they wanted."

Eddie dragged a hand down his face. "You want to hand a fortune to the police."

"I want to hand it to the right police." Arthur pulled the ledger from his coat. It was leather-bound, the Baron's crest embossed in gold, now dull with dried blood. "There's a name I remember from the investigation into Victor—a detective inspector. Lestrange. She was the one who shut down his rackets in Soho, before the corruption complaints sidelined her."

"The woman who hunted Victor?"

"She did it clean. No bribes, no blind eyes. If anyone in the Met can be trusted, it's her."

Eddie stared at the ledger. Then at the sack. Then out the windscreen at the dark city.

"I've known you since we were boys, Arthur. You were always the one who thought things through. But this—" He shook his head. "You hand that money over, and you're handing over the only leverage we have. If the police want you, they'll take the money and still put you away."

"Maybe. Or maybe they'll see the whole picture." Arthur set the ledger on the seat between them. "I'm not asking you to trust the police. I'm asking you to trust me."

Eddie was silent for a long stretch. Then he let out a slow breath.

"All right. We hide it. Tonight. Somewhere no one will find it until we decide who to trust."

Arthur nodded. "I know a place."

The warehouse off Wapping High Street was derelict, its windows boarded, its roof half-collapsed at the rear. Arthur had used it once before, in the days after the robbery, to hide from the men hunting him. The lock on the side door was rusted, but it yielded to a firm shove, and the interior smelled of damp wood and river mud.

Eddie's men waited by the car while Arthur and Eddie carried the sack and the ledger inside. The floorboards creaked beneath them. A patch of moonlight fell through a hole in the roof, illuminating a stack of rotting crates that had been there decades, maybe longer.

Arthur cleared a space beneath the crates, pried up a loose floorboard, and revealed a shallow cavity. Damp earth. He laid the ledger inside first, then the sack of money. The notes were heavy, dense, and for a moment he hesitated.

"Once this is under, we can't touch it," Eddie said quietly. "Not until we've decided."

Arthur placed the money beside the ledger. "That's the point. If I can't access it, I can't be tempted."

He lowered the floorboard back into place, ground it down with his heel, and rearranged the crates over it. When he stepped back, the hiding place was invisible. Just another pile of rot in an abandoned building.

Eddie lit a cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating his tired face. He'd lost weight since the shooting. The gunshot wound had healed, but the memory of it was still there, in the way he favoured his side, in the way he didn't make sudden movements.

"You realise what you're doing," Eddie said. "If Lestrange won't hear you out, you're giving yourself up for nothing."

Arthur brushed the dust from his hands. "She'll hear me out. I've got evidence of a cover-up that goes to the top of the Met. And I've got the name of the man who was pulling Victor's strings."

Eddie's eyes narrowed. "The Earl."

"The Baron," Arthur corrected. "Same man. He was the one buying off the police, the one who ordered my father's death. If I can prove that, then everything—the robbery, the murders, all of it—starts to look different."

"You want to bring down the establishment."

"I want to walk the streets without looking over my shoulder." Arthur met his friend's eyes. "I want to go home."

Eddie smoked, considering. Then he nodded, slowly.

"When do you see her?"

"Tomorrow. I need to find her first." Arthur pulled the collar of his coat up. "She was re-assigned after the Victor case. Internal affairs, word was. She might be anywhere."

"I'll ask around." Eddie dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot. "Careful, Arthur. Victor's men are still out there. And now that the Baron's dead, there'll be a scramble for his operation. Men like that don't just disappear."

Arthur looked once more at the floorboards, at the hidden fortune beneath. Then he turned toward the door.

"I know."

They left the warehouse, Eddie's men closing the door behind them. The night air was cold, tinged with the smell of the river. Arthur breathed it in, letting it steady him.

He had money he couldn't spend, evidence that could save him or condemn him, and a single name to trust—a name that might not even let him through the door.

But he was alive. Preece's ghost would have to wait a little longer for justice. And Victor's men would have to find him first.

Tomorrow, he would find Lestrange. He would tell her a version of the truth—as much as she needed to hear. And then he would see if the system that had failed him could, for once, work in his favour.

The car pulled away from the kerb, heading east toward the boarding house where he'd left his few belongings. Eddie drove in silence, and Arthur watched the streets slide past, each one familiar and foreign at once.

This city had taken everything from him. His father. His name. His peace of mind.

He meant to take something back.