Page 4 of An Artful Dodge
“That was neat,” I said as she looped her hand through my elbow.
“Except for Sid, the little wretch. Another few minutes and I was going to call it off.”
“We’ll box his ears tonight,” I said.
She let out a groan. “It’s the bloody dice, Kit. He’s running a game on Water Street. He probably lost track of time.”
My steps slowed. “What? He’s running a game?Here?”
Southwark was Silas Pike’s patch, not just for gaming but for gambling, extortion, and receiving stolen goods. For Silas Pike, Sid running a game meant he was old enough to be punished for it, no matter if he was only twelve.
“I’ve tried warning him, believe me,” Mary said.
“How much is he bringing in?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Two or three pounds a week. Now he won’t leave off it, and with my ma gone, he doesn’t mind me.”
It gladdened me to catch Mary slipping in the mention of her ma. She’d done it several times lately, as if testing her ability to say that syllable without her voice breaking. The first month after her mother died, Mary had folded in on herself with grief, sobbing so hard in my arms that I begged her to breathe. Eventually, her grief had softened, along with her need to know why her mother was killed. A murdered woman from this part of London didn’t hold the attention of detectives for long.
Not like us thieves.
I drew Mary into the alcove doorway of an abandoned shop with the glass panes broken, the empty window frames covered by splintered wooden planks. “Mary, there was a detective in Pickford’s.”
Her jaw sagged in dismay. “What? I didn’t see—”
“There’s no way you could’ve,” I interrupted. “He was in plainclothes and out of sight until you fell.”
Her eyes darted as she retraced the shop in her head. “The wide pillar in the back corner, by the table linens.”
I nodded.
“Damn.” She bit her lower lip white. “How didyousee him?”
“He stepped in front of the pillar. He wasn’t watching you. He was looking for me.”
Mary drew a breath. “You’re sure he didn’t make you?”
“I was staring at you by the time he turned in my direction.”
“Bloody hell,” she whispered, and her gaze drifted across the muddy rutted road toward the Three Boars pub, with its crooked shutters and a two-bit boardinghouse on the upper floor. I kept silent until she nodded, slowly at first then more firmly. Her eyes returned to mine. “You didn’t keep it from me.”
“You said you were ready. That means I tell you, like we always do.”
Her look of gratitude pinched at my heart.
“I amnot, however, telling Amelia,” I added. “There was no harm done, and I don’t want her wondering if you should’ve seen him.”
“Thanks for that.” She looped her hand through my arm, and we walked on to the corner. We paused, waiting for two carriages to pass, and she gave a little shake of her head, as if to put the detective out of her mind. “Sarah’s home tomorrow night, isn’t she?”
The sudden shriek of a railway engine made us press our hands to our ears.
As the noise subsided, Mary spoke over it. “We could have tea together before she goes back, with Sid.” Sid and Sarah had grown up together, and they got on. He never mocked her for the wine-colored birthmark by her temple like other boys did. “I could make a cake for us, special,” she added as we paused at the corner of Granby Street. “Mrs. Jonas has me baking pound—”
The screech of railway brakes drowned the rest of her sentence. Again, we covered our ears, I nodded agreement, and we hurried south to leave the noise of the station behind. To St. George’s Circus and onto London Road; past Marshall Street, with Seamus Ardle’s pawn shop where I worked, and the Trunk Lodging House in York Street, where Mary and I roomed together since Sarah went out in service two months ago.
At the end of London Road sprawled the cobblestoned quadrangle where six old stagecoach roads coming from as far as Dover and Canterbury met in front of the Elephant and Castle. Together Mary and I approached the square front of the inn with the famous motif above the door: a left-facing elephant with the crenellated tower on its back.
Dusk had fallen, and the light from the windows feathered onto the cobbles. To the side of the inn lurked a few Castle men—Billy, Tommy, Jake, and Nick—in a rough scrum, talking in low voices. If the Castle men were dogs, always scavenging for more, these were the four most dangerous, the sort who would maul a mark half to death if he fought back. Some of the younger ones, standing slightly apart, were friendlier with us, more like pups, all horseplay and boasting talk. Although even pups could cause trouble, as any woman knows.
