Page 61 of King's Man

Nate could only guess what that meant.

Cole made a face. “Well, when I say friends, I ain’t. Exactly. But that’s not the point. The point is: what the bloody hell areyoudoing here? Hutch wants to wring your scrawny neck.”

“Does he?” Nate swallowed. “Well. I want to talk to him, that’s all. Explain some things.”

“Like how you’re a conk for the Yankees?”

“A what?”

“A nose. A snitch.” He rolled his eyes at Nate’s incomprehension. “Aninformant.”

“An agent of the Department of Foreign Affairs, in fact,” Nate said. “And one losing patience. Look, it’s late and I’m tired. Is Sam here?”

Cole sat back in his chair, rocking it onto its hind legs. “Maybe I don’t want to let you see him.”

“Let me?” Nate pushed to his feet. “How do you think — ?”

“Oh, get off your high horse, Tanner, and sit down.” Cole sighed. “Jesus wept. The way Hutch is bleating on about you I expected a fire-breathing demon or an angel of the bleedin’ Lord, not a prickly little bugger like you.”

Nate stared. He had no idea what to say to this man, so he sat back down.

“Truth is,” Cole went on, “I reckon it would be best all round if you got on a ship and sailed on home, and Hutch gave up on the idea of ‘dear friends’ and all that bloody molly nonsense. Never got men like us nowhere but hanged.”

“Iamgoing home,” Nate said, meeting Cole’s eye. “That’s why I’m here. I want to set things straight before I leave, that’s all. I —” It hurt to say it, a physical twist in his chest. “I know it’s over between us. I’m not here to plead my case, only to tell him the truth about why I’m in London. And then I’ll be gone. I won’t return.”

Cole rubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking. “God knows the bugger’s in a state right now. Maybe he does need to hear your truths and make peace with them.” He leaned forward and snatched Nate’s wrist, pinning it to the table. He wasn’t smiling. “Hutch is a decent cove and a good friend. You say your piece to him and leave. Understand?”

“Yes.” He licked his dry lips. “Yes. That’s all I want.”

“Right then. Suppose I better take you over to the Brewery.” He released Nate’s hand and grinned crookedly. “Welcome to St. Giles, Mr. Tanner.”

Chapter Twenty

The Brewery turned out to be a forbidding building lurking at the back of an untidy yard, its windows dark. Nate’s skin crawled with the sensation of unfriendly eyes watching from the shadows. Even Cole hesitated. “I ain’t going in,” he said. “Me and Hal, we’re not exactly on speaking terms just now. But I sent a runner from the Bowl. You’re expected.”

Expected, in this den of thieves and cutthroats? “You could be sending me to my death.”

A flash of white teeth was all he could see of Cole’s smile. “I ain’t no crook, Mr. Tanner. I happen to believe in the law of the land. Unlike you Yankees, eh?”

“We —”

He held up a hand. “Don’t fret. You’re under the protection of Hal Foxe tonight, ain’t nothing happens in St. Giles without his say so. Now get in there and say your piece.”

Squaring his shoulders as best he could while still carrying his portmanteau, Nate stepped into the dark. He was aware of flitting shadows and then two boys appeared on either side of him, grubby but spared the pinch-faced urgency of hunger. “This way, mister,” said one of them, shepherding Nate through a door into a large room smelling strongly of hops. It was terrifyingly dark. He flinched at every sound as the boys hustled him along, expecting a blow at any moment despite Cole’s assurances. But then another door opened ahead of him and behind it rose a flight of stairs, light streaming down from above. One of the lads scampered up and Nate followed on legs not a little wobbly. God only knew what he’d find in this place.

“You’re to wait in there,” the boy announced as he opened another door. Nate squinted in the bright light as he stepped into a surprising room. Several shabby but deep armchairs were scattered about, a couple drawn close to an empty fireplace. A table, for cards or writing, stood near the curtained window and — most surprising of all — a bookcase lined one whole wall, crammed with volumes softened and worn from much use.

It was not at all what Nate had been expecting.

The boy disappeared and he was left alone with the slow tick of the clock on the mantel. A minute passed, two. Five. He perched on the edge of one of the chairs, too weary to stand, too tense to relax. He heard the distant sound of raised voices, a door slamming, and then the slow tread of reluctant footsteps. Nate rose, watching the door. The footsteps stopped outside and for a long time nothing happened. Nate’s heart beat heavy in his throat. He wiped his sweaty palms on his coat. And waited.

Finally, with a squeak, the handle turned, the door opened, and there stood Sam. He looked as wretched as Nate felt, bruised shadows beneath his eyes, shoulders tensely squared. Nate opened his mouth to speak but found he had nothing to say. He’d not rehearsed this moment.

Sam’s gaze flitted away as he pushed the door shut behind him. “What do you want?”

“To talk. You left before I could —”

“Lie to me?”

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