They were trudging away from the city, Aldgate and Whitechapel at their backs, Stepney ahead of them, in pursuit of one Arnold Hornby. On Friday, after distributing the printed notices among the stallholders of both Petticoat Lane and Brick Lane, they’d “visited” the addresses they’d been given for Slater, then Watts, in each case watching long enough to be sure neither man was involved in anything illegal.
Stokes had considered interviewing Slater and Watts, but the risk that even if they knew nothing they’d mention the interest the police had in whatever school was currently running, thus indirectly alerting the schoolmaster, who would then shift his school and hide the boys, was too great.
“And,” Griselda had said, “we’ve still got names to chase.”
Which was what they were doing today, Saturday—chasing down Arnold Hornby.
They seemed to be trudging awfully far, into increasingly dangerous territory. He glanced at Griselda, but if she was uncomfortable or growing nervous, she gave no sign; even though they were both once more in disguise, in the slums into which they were heading, they were starting to stand out as too well dressed.
But she kept walking confidently on. He strode beside her, at her shoulder, constantly scanning, alert, and growing ever more tense as the potential for danger increased.
He was very aware that had he been alone, he wouldn’t have felt anywhere near the same tension.
They reached a fork. Without hesitation, she took the lane on the left, still heading away from London.
“I thought,” he grumbled, “that the East End was defined as within hearing of Bow Bells.”
She chuckled. “It is—but that depends on how the wind is blowing.”
After a moment, she added, “It’s not far now. Just beyond that next alley on the left.”
He glanced ahead. “The building with the green door?”
She nodded. “And how convenient—there’s a tavern directly opposite.”
He took her arm and they made for the tavern, barely glancing at the green-doored hovel. Lowering his head, Stokes murmured in Griselda’s ear, “We might be able to learn all we need while we eat.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment, and let him steer her inside.
There were three bruisers lurking at a table toward the rear, but otherwise the small tavern was empty. It was nearing midday; presumably others would soon arrive. A table stood before the front window. The wooden shutters had been set wide, giving an unimpeded view of the residence opposite. Griselda headed for that table; Stokes followed.
There were rough chairs; he nearly pulled one out for her but stopped himself in time. She claimed a chair and sat, facing the window. He pulled out the one beside her, angled it half toward her and sat, draping his arm along the back of her chair. It was a gesture that screamed his view of her as his. He glanced at the bruisers in the shadows to make sure they’d got his message. They shifted their gazes away.
Satisfied, he turned to Griselda and the view beyond the window.
She leaned toward him, patted the arm he’d rested on the table, and whispered, “No need to scare the locals.”
He met her amused eyes, then humphed and looked across the road. He left his arm where it was.
A wan waitress came out from the rear; barely beyond girlhood, she asked what they wanted. Beyond growling an order for a pint pot of ale, he left the girl to Griselda. Somewhat to his surprise, she didn’t angle for information but confined herself to ordering food for them both.
When the girl went off, he turned to Griselda and raised a brow.
She grimaced lightly. “She was looking at my clothes. We may as well eat and give her time to decide we’re no threat.”
He grunted and looked away. Reflecting that through most of the days they’d spent together, she must have heard more grunts than anything else from him, he cast about, then ventured, “She’s right—you don’t belong here.”
He looked at her.
She inclined her head. After a moment, her gaze on the green door, she said, “I left. I knew if I stayed there was a good chance I’d turn out like her”—with her head she indicated the waitress—“with no real hope of anything better.”
“So you worked, and left, and worked still harder to establish yourself outside the East End.”
She nodded, lips curving. “And I succeeded. So now”—she glanced at him, met his eyes—“I’m betwixt and between—not of the East End any longer, yet I don’t belong anywhere else, either.”
He saw beyond her easy smile. “I know how that feels.”
She raised her brows, not disbelieving so much as curious. “Do you?”
