Page 51 of Murder in Blackfriars

“Tell the lady,” Mr. Fielding said.

Mr. Patterson adjusted his collar. “These aren’t names you want to bandy about. They were mean lads when they lived with Mrs. Kerr, and they’re mean blokes now.”

“Even so.” I let my pencil hover over the page.

“Eddie Barlow.” Mr. Patterson said it so softly I had to lean to catch it. “Fergus Draper,” he whispered the second. “But you didn’t hear about them from me.”

I wrote the names carefully into my book. “Anyone else?”

Mr. Patterson shook his head. “That’s all I remember. As I say, most were Toms and Janes. Even Jess didn’t know their real names. She didn’t try to find their families, or anything, because what they came from was probably bad places.”

True enough. Desperate families sometimes sold their children to brothels or madams to feed the rest of the household, or else they turned them out to scratch for their own livings at an early age. I’d been terrified when I’d had Grace that such things would happen to her.

“Don’t talk to Draper or Barlow,” Mr. Patterson went on. “They ain’t good men. Would make short work of a vicar, not to mention a ladyship and a respectable missus.”

“They won’t make short work of me,” Mr. Grimes said with good humor. “I’ll find them and have a chat.”

“Not if you’re from South London,” Mr. Patterson warned. “Very territorial are those lads.”

“I’ve heard of Draper,” Mr. Fielding said. “Runs a gaming place in Shoreditch, near Hoxton Square.”

Mr. Patterson regarded him sullenly. “What does a vicar know about gaming rooms?”

“Quite a lot.” Mr. Fielding gave him a brief smile. “I keep an eye on what goes on near my parish. Never know when I’ll need to rescue sinners.”

Daniel said nothing, but I could see that he was taking in all the information and storing it for later use, as was his way. I took time to enter the details into my book, not having the ability to keep it all in my head as Daniel did.

“What happened to the rest of the children?” I asked when I’d finished writing. “You were the one to empty and close down Mrs. Kerr’s house, were you not?”

“Who told you that?” Mr. Patterson bristled. “Yes, I moved her things out for her, and sold a part of them. She told me to. She needed the cash more than the belongings, didn’t she, poor lass?”

“And the children she looked after?” I repeated. “If you were the last to leave the house, what became of them?”

They might have all run away once their benefactress was gone, but I wanted to hear it from Mr. Patterson, without handing him a plausible lie to tell us. The youngest ones, like the boy called Robbie, couldn’t have run, in any case.

Mr. Patterson took in our stares, all of them watchful or belligerent, except for Mr. Grimes, who waited calmly.

“Took ’em to a workhouse,” Mr. Patterson mumbled. He shrugged as Daniel’s scowl turned formidable, and Mr. Fielding, without changing expression, became palpably more dangerous. “What else was I to do? Jess were dying, and the kids was nothing to do with me, were they?”

16

“What workhouse?” Mr. Fielding asked quietly.

Mr. Patterson shrank into himself. He must be in his seventies at the very least, and he seemed to age under our gazes.

“Run by the church around the corner,” he answered. “I couldn’t keep ’em, could I? Didn’t have no money and had to work for a living. What little I’d managed to keep, I gave to Jess to run her house, and it beggared me. Anyway, most of ’em, like Barlow and Draper, were awful. I worried for Jess when they were around.”

My hand shook as I wrote the information. “What did you tell Mrs. Kerr?” I asked. “I assume she wished to know what had become of her charges.”

Another shrug. “Told her they’d be looked after.” He balled his fists in exasperation. “It were the truth. She didn’t live long after that. She never knew.”

“Of course.” Mr. Fielding’s voice was hard. “That makes itall well and good. Did you happen to look in on the children at any time, or did you simply abandon them once Mrs. Kerr was gone?”

“I did.” Mr. Patterson eyed him defiantly. “Told those what ran the place I’d be back, because I was feeling a bit anxious about them and all. Weren’t able to go until a couple months after Jess died. I had a living to make, didn’t I? By then most of them had legged it, the ungrateful sods. A few of the girls were there, all prim and proper and learning a trade. But the others were gone. No, I don’t know where. I only ever heard of Draper and Barlow again.”

“Even little Robbie?” I asked.

Mr. Patterson looked away. “Told you, I don’t recall him. But he’d have been gone too. The workhouse guvnor said the littlest ones had gone with some of the other lads and were nowhere to be found.”