Page 36 of An Artful Dodge
Or was she a bouncer herself?
It was a simple matter to find out.
I dropped my reticule and stooped to retrieve it, meanwhile putting a bit of snuff into my glove. I sniffed and as I stood, I began to sneeze, violently, in a manner that could not be feigned. I had a handkerchief in my reticule, but instead of taking it out, I pressed my fingers against my nose. Instantly, the clerk offered me his linen square. “I beg your pardon,” I managed between sneezes. “This London air. Sometimes this comes over me.”
“Goodness! How dreadful!” the woman said. But there were still four bracelets on the black velvet.
Not a thief, then.
I set my reticule on the counter, close to the black velvet board upon which the bracelets lay, and dabbed at my nose. The woman picked the bracelets up one by one, trying them on, and as she asked for two more, one of them slid under my reticule and vanished. Slowly, I moved away and out of the shop and headed for home, south and west as usual, and soon Fanny caught up. Her right hand slipped a necklace into my left, under cover of her coat flapping.
“See you home,” she said and walked on.
The necklace went into my thieving pocket.
The bracelet remained in the palm of my glove. I wasn’t sure what I could do with it—I couldn’t use one of our usual fences; and a fence who didn’t know me wouldn’t trust me. I couldn’t give it to James or Mary or Sarah for safekeeping. Amelia had vanished without giving me her address.
But I wasn’t sorry I had it. The future felt damned uncertain.
Chapter 13
Breaking one of Amelia’s rules, I stopped in my room on the way to the inn.
I knew better than to hide the bracelet anywhere here; our rooms had no locks, and because the ring paid for our rooms, if Maggie suspected me of hoarding, she could search every drawer, every inch of mattress, every stitch of clothing down to the hems. Amelia had done it once, catching a girl named Leonora with a pair of cufflinks worth twenty pounds, easily four months’ rent in a decent boardinghouse. I held the two chains in my left palm, the little heap of gold, one yellower than the other, but both shining. The bracelet was probably fifteen carat, with thick curb links, probably worth twelve pounds. Fanny’s necklace was more delicate but longer, with bits of turquoise inlaid and finer workmanship; likely fifteen. If I had to bet, that jeweler would not let another day go by without hiring a private detective for his shop. I wrapped the bracelet in black paper and tucked it into my pile of hair, clipping it with pins inside my hairnet. I used the mirror to check; it was invisible.
After dropping off Fanny’s necklace in the goods room and changing clothes, I started for Mayfair to walk Sarah home. She might not like me coming for her, but I wanted to talk privately.
The church bells struck six as I reached the northern end of Waterloo Bridge. I’d reach Mayfair long before Sarah could leave, and I decided to take a roundabout route toward Willits House.
What would it be like to live in this world?I wondered as I looked about me. Aside from the gilt-wheeled carriages and shining new hansom cabs on the street, the traffic on the pavement had a wholly different quality than in Southwark. It was a decorous parade of bell-shaped skirts and parasols, well-heeled boots and silk hats that would be ruined if it rained. There seemed to be no urgency, for no one hurried; indeed, there seemed to be a purposeful languor, a slowness with these people. Their days weren’t measured by the time it took to get from their rooms to their place of business, to the baker before it closed, to Mayfair to collect their sisters. Human activity meandered in the open streets rather than hurrying down alleys that provided shortcuts.
My own roaming eventually brought me to the corner of Brook Street, where the Fairleigh house stood, the white front of Willits House visible in the distance. The gas lamps were already ablaze farther down the street, and I watched as the lamplighter made his way toward me and then passed by, though it wasn’t anywhere near dark yet. Trust West Enders to have light when it wasn’t even needed, I thought. Gazing at the Fairleigh house and the crowd of spectators across the street, I paused under a plane tree whose branches extended beyond the gated park behind me.
The daily crowd of spectators had diminished, but it was curious how people behaved a fortnight later. Some pedestrians took pains to cross the street, hurrying along with their eyes averted out of decency or perhaps fear that the violence might infect them, like one of the Thames miasmas. Others slowed their steps to look, while others stood boldly at the gate, their hands, gloved or bare, curling around the wrought iron bars, and stared at the house as if it might reveal some truth about what happened there.
“Strange, isn’t it?” said a man’s voice.
I turned to find a man to my right. I’d missed him in the shadow of the plane tree.
He was a head taller and a few years older. Wheat-colored hair, a pleasant face, clean-shaven, brown eyes, an air of calm steadiness. A good overcoat, tailored to fit his shoulders; neat turnups without frays on his trousers; well-heeled leather boots, though dusty, as if he’d spent the day walking; an ordinary black umbrella, without an ivory or silver handle, resting with its metal point on the stones. Despite everything, I felt my mouth twitch. If he’d appeared at Elephant and Castle as a traveler, he would have been led to the fire, settled in a comfortable chair, fed wine laced with laudanum, and woken the next morning wearing nothing but his shirt and underthings.
However, we were here, he was no traveler, and the way he stood and surveyed the house sent a warning heat down my nerves.
If I had to guess, this was a Yard man.
“What’s strange?” I asked.
“People’s fascination with death,” he replied. When I said nothing, he added, “Do you know what happened in that house?”
“Anyone who’s seen a newspaper knows what happened in that house—and they haven’t caught him yet.”
His jaw sagged. “I know,” he said heavily.
I felt unexpectedly sorry for him, but this confirmed my guess about his profession.
Two carriages rolled past, temporarily blocking our view, and by the time they passed, a young newspaper boy had appeared. “Latest news on the murders!” he croaked, and the crowd pivoted toward him as one.
The Yard man’s eyes narrowed, and he went still the way Amelia did when she was angry. As pleasant as his countenance was, I would not want to be on the wrong side of him. Together we watched the boy distribute his papers, pocketing his coins cheerfully.
