Chapter 22 #2
Fuller drained his coffee cup, leaving some dark grounds stuck to his upper lip.
He licked to remove them. He settled his palm on the table, tapping his thumb several times, then stilled it with an air of having decided where to begin, and looked up at me.
“I once had the confidence of a Yard inspector. He’s young and grew up outside of London, and frankly, he was a bit at sea when he arrived at the Yard.
But he has an amiable manner that made me want to throw him an oar, so to speak, so I shared with him certain .
. . insights about the underworld, gangs, docks, corruption in Whitehall, and so on.
In return, he sometimes shared information with me.
Naturally, if he asked me to hold a story back for a time because it would compromise his detecting, I would.
” His eyes dropped to his coffee cup, and his mouth twisted into a regretful line.
“Six months ago, I was working on a story about counterfeiters here in London—it’s a rampant problem—and I had discovered a coin man in a basement not far from here.
I trusted someone I shouldn’t have, and that evening, the story appeared, complete with the counterfeiter’s address, in another paper.
The counterfeiter was tipped off. He gathered his belongings, stole a hansom cab, killed the driver, and left London hours before my inspector was going to arrest him. ”
“So he doesn’t trust you anymore,” I said.
“No,” Mr. Fuller replied. “Not that I blame him.”
“And you want to get back in his good graces.”
“No, I’m genuinely bloody sorry,” he said shortly, his eyes blazing.
“I’d make amends, if I could.” He set a forearm on the table and leaned toward me, close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath.
“The duty of every decent newspaperman is to tell the truth and bring unknown stories to light, to improve our city, to make it safer, to uphold justice, to help those in need. We do make a difference.”
That’s true enough, I thought, recalling the Canterbury orphanage that had burned down and been rebuilt because of a sympathetic story in the paper.
“It’s the whole reason I came today. If I can help solve the Fairleigh murders”—Mr. Fuller tapped his thumb in that restless tattoo—“it could save the Yard, which is of crucial importance for London.”
“What do you mean, save the Yard?”
“A majority in Parliament has been trying to close the Yard for over a year, since that scandal with those four corrupt inspectors. Every failure wins more MPs to their side. They want to send the detectives back to the separate divisions—a decision that would hamper the entire enterprise! The detectives need to be in the same building, talking among themselves, because crimes in London don’t stay confined to Mayfair or Bethnal Green or Whitechapel.
Criminals cross those boundaries, which are wholly artificial, as any fool knows. ”
“This matters to you,” I said, surprised by his ardent tone.
“It should matter to anyone who gives a damn about keeping our citizens safe,” he said shortly.
He was prickly, but I rather liked him.
James reached over and squeezed my hand. His expression was encouraging. After a moment, I nodded.
“You did me a great kindness once,” James said to Mr. Fuller. “It made all the difference. We have a favor to ask, but we also have information that could lead straight to arrests.”
“In exchange for what I’m telling you, I will need something from you in return,” I said, “and unfortunately, I can’t tell you much.”
A snort flared his nostrils. “You haven’t told me anything yet.”
“I’m about to,” I retorted. “I have a younger sister who is fourteen. She recently took a position as a scullery maid in Mayfair, not a quarter mile from the Fairleigh house. On the night of the murders, she was walking back to Elephant and Castle to spend the night with me, when she recognized two men walking on the other side of the street—”
“Two?”
“Yes, two,” I said firmly. “Castle men, dressed as gentlemen.”
“So as to appear they belonged,” Mr. Fuller said and sat back. “What are their names?”
I gave him a look.
He spread his hands. “I can’t use any of this without confirmation, and neither can the Yard—”
“Because it’s hearsay,” I interrupted. “I know. But my sister can bear witness.”
“Then why isn’t she here?”
“Because she’s been kidnapped.” My hands knotted in my lap.
His jaw sagged with dismay. “By the Castle men?”
“No. By someone else, for a different reason. They’re separate matters. The people who took my sister want me to do something for them, which I will. Once it’s reported in the newspaper, they will let her go. Then, she can be your witness. She can come to the Yard, so you get the goodwill.”
“I see.” His expression softened. “How old did you say she was?”
“Fourteen.”
He groaned. “Damn. Poor girl.” He drew a long breath and blew it out in a huff. “So I write the story, your sister is released, and she gives me the names of the men she saw. But how do you know she’ll talk to me? To the Yard?”
“She will, if she understands that you’ve helped me free her.”
“I know her,” James interjected. “She’s a sensible girl, with courage. She’ll do it.”
I sent James a grateful look.
Mr. Fuller cocked an eyebrow. “Will it be true? The story I print?”
“What I tell you will be true,” I said. “What you write is up to you.”
He looked wary. “But I’ll have only your word.”
“And mine,” James said. “I’ll be there, too.”
Mr. Fuller frowned and folded his hands over his waistcoat. “What are you doing? Can you tell me anything?”
“No,” James said. “Not yet.”
I held my breath, waiting.
At last, Mr. Fuller’s face screwed up with regret, and his eyes met mine. “I’m truly sorry about your sister. You should go to the Yard. They can help.”
“No, they can’t,” I said between gritted teeth.
“Well, I can’t print something I can’t verify. Last year, a newspaperman was thrown in jail for six months over a false story. I can’t risk my family going to the workhouse.”
My hands tightened on the arms of the chair as I felt him slipping away.
But I’d seen pain on his face when I told him about Sarah being kidnapped.
This was a man who cared. I made one last desperate attempt.
“Please, Mr. Fuller,” I said, my voice cracking.
“She’s my only family. She nearly died of whooping cough, and I can’t lose her.
She’s all the things I’m not—kind and gentle and sweet.
She makes people love her. What I’m doing could get me killed, but if I don’t do it, they’ll certainly . . . kill her.”
Mr. Fuller looked at me for a long minute. Then he turned to James. “Is this true?”
James nodded.
Mr. Fuller’s gaze roamed the coffeehouse while James and I waited in anxious silence.
“All right,” Mr. Fuller said to James. “I’ll do it. When will you get me this story I’m to write?”
I let go the breath I’d been holding, too relieved to speak.
“Within the next week,” James said. “To be put in as soon as you can.”
“Naturally.”
Mr. Fuller placed a small pile of coins on the table. As our business seemed concluded, I began to rise, but he put out his hand to prevent me.
“Miss, wait,” he said, and I sat down again. His voice lowered. “I believe you’ve played fair with me, so I’ll play fair with you. I know who you are.”
James stiffened with alarm.
“Who I am?” I echoed.
“I don’t know your name. But you’re one of the women thieves from the ring out of Elephant and Castle.”
I didn’t acknowledge it or deny it, and I didn’t even glance at James. But I could tell he was as shocked as I was.
“Why do you think so?” I asked.
“There’s a sketch of you at the Yard. In it you have spectacles, but otherwise, there’s a strong resemblance.”
My heart thudded sickeningly, and heat razored down the veins of my arms.
“One of the Yard men has been investigating the ring—”
“What does he look like?” I interrupted.
“About my height, with a paunch—”
“Brown wavy hair, clean-shaven, perhaps just under forty years of age? Owns a brown suit?”
He sat back, his eyes keen. “Yes. His name’s Maynard.”
It was the man at Pickford’s. My heart thudded again over my narrow escape with Mary. “Go on.”
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, and Reynolds prints 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.”