Free The Society of Thirteen by Gareth P. Jones

take more than his fair share, and yet, Tom had changed in these months since they left the orphanage. He had hardened. The old Tom would never have betrayed her, but she didn’t know about this new one.
    â€˜Come on, let’s get this over with,’ she said.
    Brewer opened the door to them and smiled. ‘Ah, two lost little orphans,’ he said.
    â€˜We’re no less orphans than you,’ said Esther.
    â€˜And no littler neither,’ added Tom.
    â€˜You two are still fresh on the street. I’ve been out here for over a year now.’
    â€˜Yeah, well, we still remember those beatings old Mother Agnes used to give you,’ said Tom.
    â€˜I’d like to see her try that now.’ Brewer held his knife up. ‘I’d cut her up good and proper. Anyway, you’d better come in. Max don’t like people hanging around outside.’
    The house was dark and grubby. In a small downstairs room with the curtains drawn, Worms and Stump sat playing cards. Seeing Tom, Stump went to go for him but Hardy appeared at the top of the stairs and said, ‘Why, if it ain’t Hansel and Gretel?’
    â€˜We want our money, Hardy,’ said Esther.
    â€˜So very blunt,’ he replied. ‘No nice to see yous. No thanks for what I done for you.’
    â€˜What’ve you done for us?’ demanded Tom. ‘It was me that told you the house to rob.’
    â€˜And it was me what robbed it,’ replied Hardy. ‘Now come on up and we’ll talk cuts.’
    Brewer joined the card game and the orphans followed Hardy upstairs into a room where Max Bloodstone sat behind a desk piled high with candlesticks, snuff boxes, ornaments, jewellery, hats, umbrellas and all manner of other items from Lord Ringmore’s house. Bloodstone, an old man with more wiry white hair on his chin than on his head, looked up at the orphans with a mistrustful glance.
    â€˜I know you,’ he snarled.
    â€˜These are them orphans I told you about. They’re the ones who told me about the place.’
    â€˜Good tip-off,’ said Bloodstone, begrudgingly. ‘All sorts of intriguing objects our lads come back with from that place. Rare, a lot of ’em. Of course, rare often don’t make them any easier to sell. ‘
    â€˜So how much, Max?’ asked Hardy. ‘I said I’d split it fair and square with these two.’
    â€˜Five pounds for the lot,’ said Bloodstone.
    â€˜Five pounds?’ exclaimed Esther. ‘We cleared out this man’s house and you say five pounds?’
    â€˜That’s two pounds, ten shillings for you two,’ said Hardy.
    â€˜Come on, Est. That’s more money than we’ve ever had,’ said Tom.
    â€˜Don’t be such an idiot, Tom,’ said Esther. ‘You see what he’s doing? These two have already agreed a price and then he’s told him to say something lower for us.’
    â€˜You want to be careful what you’re saying,’ said Bloodstone. ‘I always treat my clients fair.’
    â€˜That’s right,’ said Hardy. ‘This is business, not one of your street games.’
    â€˜It’s a good price,’ said Tom. ‘It’ll keep us fed for a while.’
    â€˜We sold a man’s life for two quid ten?’ said Esther.
    â€˜You didn’t tell me they’d be trouble,’ said Bloodstone. ‘Hollerin’ away like this. You know these walls ain’t exactly thick. I can’t have no hollerin’ in here. You know that, Hardy.’
    â€˜There’ll be no more trouble, Max.’ Hardy turned on the orphans. ‘I tell you what, we’ll make it three quid and be done.’
    â€˜Three quid, Est,’ said Tom, pleadingly.
    Esther didn’t reply. She had noticed a book on the desk amongst the other things. A black scarf prevented her from seeing the whole thing but she could make out the curve of a number three on the