“Why?”
Lifting his head, he eased his hold on her, setting her back on her feet but keeping her facing him. He studied the three men who’d come out of the hovel. “Unless I miss my guess, Sid Lewis is looking to shore up his position with God. Unlikely he’d be running a burglary school while entertaining the local vicar.”
She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, then faced him again. “Sid Lewis is the short bald one.” She’d extracted a description from one of the stallholders. “He looks ill.”
“Which explains his sudden interest in religion.” The man was leaning heavily on a cane. They could hear his wheezing from where they stood.
“Come on.” Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he nudged her out of the doorway and started back up the lane. “Let’s find Stokes. We’ve still got three others to investigate today.”
They came up with Stokes and Griselda close to the southern end of the market. On hearing their report on Sid Lewis, Stokes grimaced. “Figgs is out of contention, too. He’s in Newgate. That leaves us with Jessup and Joe Gannon in this area. Jessup, by all accounts, is a dangerous customer.”
He met Barnaby’s eyes.
“In that case, we’ll just have to exercise greater caution.” Penelope was glancing around. “Where should we try next?”
Stokes looked at Griselda. “How about stopping at a tavern for some lunch?”
The suggestion met with approval all around. Griselda suggested a public house she knew of on the corner of Old Montague Street and Brick Lane. “It’s supposed to have more reliable food, and we have to head up Brick Lane anyway—the market stalls there are the most likely place for us to learn about Jessup and confirm Gannon’s address.”
They trooped back to Wentworth Street and cut across to Brick Lane, to the Delford Arms. The door to the taproom was set wide; after one glance inside, Stokes and Barnaby drew Griselda and Penelope on a few paces past the door. There were rough-hewn trestles with benches set on the pavement on either side of the entrance; most were occupied, but people were coming and going constantly.
“You two wait here,” Stokes said. “We’ll get the food and come back.” He looked at the tables. “With luck, one will be free by then.”
Griselda and Penelope nodded and dutifully waited, watching as their two cavaliers turned and entered the pub. Having seen the jostling throng in the tap, neither had been keen to brave it. Nevertheless…“They seem to share a penchant for giving orders,” Penelope observed.
“Indeed,” Griselda replied, distinctly dry. “I’ve noticed.”
They both smiled, and continued to wait.
Having spent the last hours immersed in a constant babel of East End accents, Penelope’s ear had improved significantly. She was indulging her skill, idly listening to the conversation of the four old but still hulking men hunched over the nearest trestle, empty plates spread before them, pint pots in their gnarled hands, when she heard the name “Jessup.” She blinked, and listened harder.
After a moment, she nudged Griselda. When Griselda glanced at her, she indicated the table with her eyes. Griselda looked, then looked back at her, brows rising; the men were still talking, but no longer about anything relevant.
Penelope was about to turn and whisper when Barnaby reappeared, two plates piled with steaming shells in his hands. Just behind him, Stokes balanced a jug and four glasses on a tray.
At that moment, two men who’d been seated at the table next to the men who’d mentioned Jessup rose and shuffled away. Two others, in the dark, dusty coats of clerks, were still seated close by the wall.
Penelope grabbed Barnaby and steered him to that table. He glanced at her, but did as she wished. While he set down the plates and then slid along the bench, leaving the open end for her, she turned to Stokes and Griselda and whispered, “Those men”—surreptitiously she pointed at the next table—“mentioned Jessup. They were talking about something illegal, but I couldn’t make out what.”
Griselda glanced at the men again, then looked at Stokes. “I know one of them. I think he’ll talk to me. Don’t interrupt, or even look across. He’s a leery sort, but he’s known me and my family all my life.”
Stokes hesitated, then, features hardening, nodded. He went to the bench and slid along it, opposite Barnaby, leaving the position at the end, closest to the men in question, for Griselda.
Both she and Penelope sat.
Griselda glanced around as she settled her skirts, as if checking who was at her back. She started to turn back, but then stopped. Leaning to the side, she openly peered around the man directly behind her at the older man sitting opposite. “Uncle Charlie?”
The man she’d addressed stared at her for a moment, then his face creased in a smile. “Young Grizzy, ain’t it? Haven’t seen you in a good long while. Heard tell you’d moved up town and taken up making hats for the nobs.” Shrewd eyes took in her less-than-prosperous attire. “Not doing so well these days?”
Griselda grimaced. “Fashions come and go. Turned out it wasn’t such a good lark as I’d thought.”
“So you’re back home, then. How’s yer da? Heard he’s not so well these days.”
“He’s so-so. Doing well enough.” Smiling easily, she asked after his family—the perfect way to ease into the world of local crime. The other men joined in, throwing information her way when she explained she’d only recently returned to the area; talking about crime was a local sport.
She bided her time; if at all possible, she didn’t want to ask about Jessup directly. Remembering the man’s reputation, his status among local criminals, and the fact they’d mentioned him at all, she eventually ventured, “So have there been any changes among the bigger villains recently?”
Charlie scrunched up his face as if thinking. “Only recent change would be Jessup. You’ll remember him. Used to be big in burglary and such like. Taken himself off to Tothill Fields, he has, and set himself up in the usual trade.” The “usual trade” in Tothill Fields meant prostitution.
