Chapter 22
At four o’clock in the morning, Elephant and Castle was dead silent except for the bells of Newington Church. The pubs and brothels were shuttered, the nightsoil men come and gone, the earliest costermongers still two hours from rolling across the cobbles.
I slid out of bed and stole along the streets, empty aside from the scurrying of rats, the bang of a broken shutter, the soft howl of the wind around the corners.
I picked the lock of the back door of Elephant and Castle and slipped inside.
In the darkness, I felt my way up the stairs to the costume room, lighting a candle only long enough to filch what I’d need for a disguise—the fair-haired wig, two moles, spectacles.
Together with my feigned limp, these were traits quickly noticed, easily described, and utterly at odds with my true appearance.
Still in darkness, I locked the door of the inn behind me and returned to my room, where I stashed my disguise, together with the stolen bracelet, in a satchel, concealed it under the floorboards, and lay down again, combing through all that was to come during the next four days, as the morning light crept across my ceiling.
At last, it was time to go to Mr. Ardle’s shop.
I arrived at the back door and knocked as usual. Mr. Ardle let me in with his eyes averted and an air of apology. So he knew enough about this dodge—and my role in it—to feel guilty.
And so he should, I thought. I gave him a bitter look and stalked past him into the workroom.
He’d prepared a collection of paste stones, and using my loupe, I separated them into two piles: those that could pass for diamonds and those that could not.
Paste, made of lead glass, wasn’t as hard as diamond, and some stones had scratches on the surface and chipped or rounded facet edges, as if they’d been nibbled.
Once I’d found twenty stones that satisfied me with respect to cut and size and brilliance, I began practicing on a necklace, taking the stones out and putting them into settings with different sizes and numbers of prongs.
Three hours later, I’d already become quicker—from seventeen minutes each down to eleven.
I needed more practice, but at least I knew I could improve my speed.
Mr. Ardle came over and dropped a few more stones onto the black velvet, separate from the two piles I’d made. “Here are four more, if you need them.”
I looked up to find his gaze on the stones, avoiding mine.
“Do you know what she’s done? And what she intends?” I asked. “Why are you helping her?”
He raised his pale blue eyes to mine. “She did what she had to,” he said simply. “And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her, if she asked.”
Even involve himself in a dodge that might require murder?
I felt a wave of scorn until I thought of what I was willing to do for Sarah.
Who was I to cast stones at Mr. Ardle, paste or real?
By three o’clock, my neck ached from bending over the bench and my eyes felt grainy.
I showed Mr. Ardle which paste sparklers to set aside for use, then left the shop, returning briefly to my room to pick up my satchel.
I walked to the railway station, losing myself in the crowd to evade a tail, donned my wealthy watch-buyer disguise in the ladies’ washroom, and hired a hansom cab to Hatton Garden.
At Simonson’s, I adopted my limp and put the gold bracelet—with a newly broken clasp—into the hands of a clerk I didn’t recognize.
I requested that it be mended within two days, to which he nodded agreeably.
Then I departed, limping on, with a few quick checks for a tail, until I found a quiet alley where I could remove the pieces of my disguise before I continued on to Fleet Street.
To do the most unlikely thing I could imagine.
I’d once have believed it would be a cold day in hell before I offered to tell a newspaperman anything—much less a newspaperman with ties to the Yard.
But here I was, walking of my own volition to a coffeehouse where Mr. Fuller should be waiting for James and me.
James met me two streets away with his hand out for mine, an old signal of ours that meant he saw no one following me.
While we walked the remainder of the way, James told me that he’d go into the tunnels just before midnight.
“Amelia has spoken with her friend—his name is Art—who can manage the locks and the safe.”
“Will we meet him beforehand?” I asked.
James nodded. “Tomorrow night. Amelia will bring him to my rooms.”
“She doesn’t want him knowing where she lives?” I asked.
“I think it’s more that she doesn’t want me knowing where she lives,” he replied. “I don’t mind—and I don’t blame her. Besides, I have the feeling she won’t be there long.”
“Why?”
“Just a feeling.” He squeezed my hand. “There’s Croom’s, up ahead.”
My stomach tightened, for this was the part of the plan I felt least sure of. I’d never met this man Fuller; we’d be giving him very little and asking for a promise in return.
I drew James to a halt. “How much did you have to tell him?”
“Nothing, as we planned,” James said. “In my message, I only said I wanted to speak to him about the Fairleigh murders and to meet me here. Given what he did for the information about the boathouse murders, I’m guessing he’ll do just about anything for this, short of giving up his children.”
“He has children?”
“Two, I believe. And a wife.”
Illogically, the thought of Mr. Fuller having a family made me feel better. “All right.”
“Stay out here. Let me be sure he’s inside.
” He pulled open the door and vanished, while I dawdled before the shop window next door, surveying the writing papers, pens, and French postcards of scantily clad women in wholly improbable poses—the Society for the Suppression of Vice would be outraged—all the while keeping my eye on the door.
When it opened and James nodded, I approached. He looked troubled.
My every nerve tightened. “What’s the matter?”
“He looks like he’s been ill,” he said.
“Oh.” I stepped inside and the smell of coffee and chocolate, bitter and smoky, filled my nose.
“Corner table, left,” James murmured. “He hasn’t seen me yet.”
He led me toward Fuller, weaving between the well-worn rectangular wood tables, where men—and a few women of a sturdy sort—sat, engrossed in newspapers, conversations, or their cigars.
Mr. Fuller was partly turned away from us, so I first saw his right shoulder, his arm, his hand resting near a coffee cup, and a plate with two thick slabs of bread untouched.
I had a peculiar feeling as I moved toward him.
The round head, the reddish hair that flopped over his forehead, the beakish nose, and the pasty complexion: I recognized him from somewhere, and it only took a moment to remember.
He’d been outside the Fairleigh house when I’d been talking to the Yard man.
Had they been there together? Or had the Yard man been observing him?
My every nerve was pulled taut as James and I approached.
As Mr. Fuller’s brown eyes caught sight of James, he gave a look of recognition that had some pleasure in it, but upon seeing me, a resentful frown formed a single furrow, sharp as a knife cut, between his gingery brows.
He’d guessed I knew how they met, and he didn’t like it.
“It’s been a fair while,” Mr. Fuller said to James.
James nodded and drew out a chair that would put my back to the room, so anything I said would be imperceptible to others. James nudged a third chair to where he could keep an eye on the room for us both.
Mr. Fuller turned to me. “And who is this?”
“A friend,” James said easily.
Mr. Fuller’s lips pursed irritably. “Ah. Well, hello, friend.” I nodded a greeting, and he turned back to James. “Are you still at the Custom House? Is it working out?”
“It is,” James said.
Mr. Fuller relaxed visibly, and his gaze grew keen. “And do you really have information for me about the murders?”
“I do,” I said shortly.
Mr. Fuller’s hand raised in a gesture meant to placate me. “Where are my manners? Some coffee or chocolate for you?”
“Coffee,” I said, and James nodded.
Mr. Fuller turned, caught the eye of the server, and pointed to his own cup, raising two fingers. At the table beside us a man flapped the Telegraph open and refolded it into a manageable rectangle.
I assumed that Mr. Fuller would lean forward, eager to have me relate what I knew about the murders.
To my surprise, he sat back and studied me, so I did the same, absorbing details that told me a bit more: The suit was once a good one of fine wool, but was now worn, shiny at the elbows, and looked slightly too large for him, as if he’d lost a stone or two; the cuffs of his shirtsleeves were frayed, though the threads had been trimmed.
His hands were squarish, and the second finger on his right hand bore a formless gray ink stain beside the top knuckle; the third finger had a narrow gold band, the sign of his aforementioned wife.
James leaned in. “Begging your pardon, Fuller, but you don’t look yourself. Have you been ill?”
“Influenza,” he said soberly. “My daughter nearly died of it last month.”
I felt a poke of sympathy, and James said, “I’m sorry to hear it.” The server brought our coffee, together with tin spoons not worth stealing and a silver plate sugar bowl, much dented.
Fuller’s eyes flicked between us. “Before you tell me anything, you should know that if you’re trying to get information to the Yard, I don’t have their ear. They don’t trust me anymore.”
James stilled, and his face registered dismay. “Is that because you helped me?”
Fuller’s mouth tightened, as if he wished it were only that, but he shook his head. “No.”
“Then why?” I asked.
The look he gave me was coolly assessing. “If you must know, I’ll tell you, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t spread it about.”
“Of course.”