Page 82 of An Artful Dodge
He opened his mouth as if to ask a question but thought better of it. “The Yard has had a few tips and sightings of the thieves”—No small thanks to Maggie, I thought—“but no success in apprehending them. First, only one man was assigned to the case, then two, then three—until the Fairleigh murders, when all available inspectors were reassigned to that. But they’ll be back eventually because the thefts are a matter of concern for influential people, and there’s an election coming.”
“I know. Shopkeepers are leaning on the elected officials.”
He scratched his head above his temple. “It’s not only the shopkeepers. The Society for the Suppression of Vice is advocating for harsher prison sentences, several of the wealthier churches have taken up the cause, claiming thieves shred the moral fabric of the city, andReynoldsprints up handbills openly mocking the Yard men. Have you seen those?”
“Of course.” I’d laughed at the illustrations of the Yard men with holey nets, haplessly chasing rats dressed in fine dresses and jewels.
“The police feel humiliated. It’s firing their desire to shut the thieves down.” He sniffed. “I would strongly advise you to leave off. The newspapers may depict Yard men as fools, but they’ve solved more cases than the papers report. They can’t reveal their methods.”
The room had become more crowded, and the server hovered.
I swallowed down the fear Mr. Fuller’s warning had stirred, for this was a matter for another time. But he’d played fair with me, and I would with him. “I saw you the other night outside of Fairleigh House. There was a Yard man under one of the plane trees across the way, watching everyone. I don’t know if it matters, but I’m sure he saw you there.”
His face went quiet. “What did he look like?”
“A head taller than I am, fair-haired, brown eyes, about twenty-three years old, speaks well, like he had public schooling, and good shoes. Was this your inspector?”
His eyes sparked. “It sounds like Stiles. And yes, it matters that he’s on this case.” A pause. “Quid pro quo.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I said.
“A fair trade,” James said.
But Mr. Fuller’s expression told me this had been more than a fair exchange of favors. It was the start of a small piece of trust.
At last, we rose from the table. Before we’d even stepped away, the server had stacked our saucers, cups, and spoons and swept the coins into his pocket.
We walked out together, and on the pavement, I gave Mr. Fuller my hand, genuinely grateful that he’d promised to help. “Thank you.”
His hand was steady, but his face was full of warning. “Be careful, miss.”
Chapter 23
The following night, Wednesday, when I went to James’s rooms, he greeted me at the door with the news that the tunnel was exactly what he’d hoped, so the only piece of the plan yet to be fixed was the locksmith, who was being brought by Amelia. Not ten minutes later, they arrived.
Amelia embraced me warmly and introduced her friend.
Art was a slender man of Far Eastern descent, about forty years of age, with shining black hair, unreadably dark eyes, and a raised scar under his jaw that suggested a blade had once been held just below his ear. It reassured me to know he’d had the skills to evade it.
I was keenly on edge, but he greeted me calmly in a tone that was soothing, even mellifluous. Did he have any nerves at all?
My gaze went to his hands. Long, delicate fingers.
“You’re Kit,” he said, theTstuck in the back of his throat, pure Cockney. “Wi’ the wee sister ’oo’s been taken.”
“Yes.”
“Amelia tol’ me the plan, but let’s go over i’ again, all together.”
Amelia’s map was already open on the table, and James bent over, pointing to the wharf with a boathouse that was poorly secured as the place we would begin. “It’s an old padlock, easy to pick.” He glanced up at Art, who nodded. “We’ll row along here, and into the Fleet. There’s no foot access, and the water is fairly deep and fast.”
“Remember, I can’t swim,” I said.
“I can swim like a fish,” James said, for Art’s benefit.
“So can I,” Art said.
“The tunnel is the third one up,” James said. “The water was chest height when I went last night, but so long as it doesn’t rain, it’ll be down far enough we can wade from where the side tunnel branches off. It’s about two hundred yards to the metal ladder that leads up to the trapdoor we need.” He tossed me a ball of red yarn. “This is the distance from where we’ll park the boat, and I marked the ladder with anXon the third rung, in case the yarn breaks, because there are two others not far away. You don’t want to climb the wrong one.”
