Charles Shapland sat with his back to the window, silhouetted against the morning sun. He tasted the coffee, screwed up his face and placed the cup on the scarred table. “This is a strange place to meet,” he said.
“It’s not a place that John Smith would frequent,” Mr Jay said.
“For once, I agree with John Smith.” Shapland nodded to the coffee house customers. Most were broken-down businessmen hoping fate would favour them, clerks who had embezzled from their masters, or servants without a position. “It’s not a place that any respectable businessman would frequent,” he said.
“Indeed not,” Mr Jay said, tapping the pistol at his belt. “I also made some other precautions.” He nodded to the two men he had recently recruited. One watched Shapland while the other inspected the clientele. “Thes
