Chapter 27 #2
“What?” He drew himself up and scanned the street, palming the side pocket of his trousers, where he kept his truncheon. “That one, there?”
Billy came to a quick halt. Sarah nodded and pointed—her little finger was as effective a weapon as a gun—and Billy melted back into the alley.
“Can you take us to the nearest police station?” I asked through gasps. “Please?”
“That’ll be the Yard,” he said. “Come with me, ladies,” he added gallantly. He offered his elbow to Sarah, and she tucked her hand inside, as if she’d done it a dozen times. I wondered where she’d learnt that bit of manners. From someone at the Willitses’ house perhaps.
“Thank you. We’re ever so grateful. You may not hear it often enough,” Sarah said earnestly, “but many of us girls are very glad you’re patrolling the streets.”
He halted and looked down at her, askance at first and suspicious that she was teasing him, but then genuinely pleased as her eyes remained on his. “You’re right. We never hear that.”
“Well, it’s true, even if the papers don’t print it.”
I fell behind and let Sarah chatter to him the entire way to the Yard. She was clever, yes, but she was also sincere. I couldn’t have done it as well. For my part, I was content to be silent and follow where they led.
Our constable took us through a heavy stone arch into a cobbled yard, where clumps of hay lay scattered about and the smell of horse piss was sharp in the air.
Half a dozen boys lurked near the back entrance, fidgety as hungry cats.
A plainclothesman appeared at the door, wagged a finger at one, and handed over a folded note and a coin.
The coin slid into a pocket and the boy trotted across the yard and through the stone arch, and vanished into the street.
The door opened four more times as we crossed the cobbled yard, with people going in and out. You could tell the Yard men, in their plain clothes and tall top hats. Rumor was their brims were reinforced with enough cane to break someone’s nose.
As we reached the entrance, our constable swung the door open with a flourish and gestured for us to enter.
Yet another thing I never imagined doing, walking into Scotland Yard of my own volition. This was indeed a fortnight for unlikely events.
The constable took us straight to a sergeant, whose wooden desk faced the door. There was a ledger before him of roughly the same shape and size as our thieving one, along with several morning newspapers. As he saw us, he picked up his pen and his eyebrows rose slightly. “What is it?”
“These ladies have something to report,” the constable said.
“Very well.” He nodded an abrupt dismissal to the constable, whose face fell. To console him, Sarah gave him a warm smile, and he touched his hat to her and left.
I said to the sergeant, “I’ve been told to ask for Mr. Stiles. Is he here, by chance?”
“He is, mum,” the sergeant replied. His eyebrows crept higher. “What’s this regarding?”
“The Fairleigh murders,” Sarah said.
His bristly eyebrows rose another notch. “All right, then. I’ll fetch him fer ye in a moment. Yes, sir?” Waving us toward a bench, he turned to a red-haired plainclothesman who was tapping his boot impatiently beside the desk.
From our wooden seat, Sarah and I watched the bustle of activity in the main room, with desks in three tightly packed rows, extending across the entire floor, some occupied by plainclothesmen, others by only stacks of papers.
Apparently the men who belonged to those desks were out detecting clues.
Dim sunlight fell in rays through dirty windows overhead, catching on motes of dust, and the air smelled of cheap tea.
Several sergeants and inspectors glanced at us as they passed, and I found myself recalling that Mr. Fuller said my sketch was here at the Yard.
I wondered if I might be recognized, but so far no one had given me more than a passing glance.
And why would they? No one would expect a known thief to be sitting bold as brass on this bench hoping to speak with an inspector.
Having finished with the impatient plainclothesman, the sergeant made his way to one of the occupied desks at the far end of the room, where he spoke to a young man with fair hair, interrupting him in his writing.
The inspector turned, and I peered at his profile.
Yes, it was the Yard man I’d seen at the Fairleigh house.
Mr. Stiles. He turned to look at us, then nodded, rose, and put on his coat—a gesture of politeness he needn’t have made, as his shirtsleeves appeared quite crisp and fresh.
“You only have to tell them what you saw in Mayfair,” I said to Sarah quietly.
“I know. Don’t worry, Kit.” Her triangle chin lifted and set.
“Oh, I won’t,” I said. “You’re managing young men just fine this morning.”
“Of course I can,” she said. “I’ve been watching you for years.”
I hid my smile.
Mr. Stiles came forward. He had no umbrella this time, and he’d had his dusty boots shined.
I stood and he met my gaze. “Why, you’re—” he began.
“I didn’t give you my proper name before,” I interrupted. “It’s Kit Jimeson.”
“Ah.” He looked at my sister and then back at me. “I understand you have information about the Fairleigh murders.”
I gestured to Sarah. “This is my sister, Sarah, and she does. But we need to wait for Mr. Fuller before we tell you.”
“Ed Fuller, the newspaperman?” A frown of mistrust creased his brow. “What has he to do with this?”
“A friend of ours vouched for him, and it was he who vouched for you. We wouldn’t be here, telling you what we know, if it weren’t for him.”
The crease eased. “Very well. Is he coming shortly?”
“I asked him to meet us at eleven o’clock. But I’d like to speak to you alone first,” I said.
“Kit,” Sarah murmured in protest.
“Just for a moment,” I said. “Anyone touches you, scream bloody murder.”
She nodded.
The clock showed twenty minutes before eleven. Twenty minutes to gain a better sense of how far I might trust Mr. Fuller and Mr. Stiles both.
“Very well. Come with me.” Mr. Stiles led me to an ugly, windowless whitewashed room, with one table and three chairs. It smelled of mold and fear. “Would you like tea?”
“Yes, please.”
He returned with cups for us both and took the seat opposite, his brown eyes pleasant but shrewd. “When we met the other night, you told me you’re a needlewoman. I believe you might be something else.”
“I am a needlewoman,” I said. “I was sent out at age ten. I’ve worked in a dressmaker’s shop for years.”
“In Elephant and Castle?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Although Sarah and I won’t be there much longer.”
Mr. Stiles sipped at his tea. “I’d like you to trust me. The last thing I want is any harm to come to either of you.”
Why would he, after all? “I believe you,” I said.
He set the cup in its saucer. “May I ask, who vouched for Mr. Fuller?”
“I’d rather not say,” I said, and at his look of disappointment, I added, “but at my insistence, Mr. Fuller did tell me something of himself, and why he fell out with you. He said he made a mistake, and it ruined one of your investigations. Is that true?”
“It didn’t just ruin the investigation,” he said soberly. “Three people died because of it.”
“He told me about the hansom cab driver.”
“Yes, well, after the counterfeiter killed him and fled this part of London, he broke into a house and killed the two sisters who lived there because he needed a safe place to stay,” Mr. Stiles said.
“I don’t think he knows about the two women,” I said. “But he feels rotten about the driver. Bringing us to you is his way of trying to make amends.”
His expression softened. “Well, God knows, we all make mistakes.” Despite my wariness of a Yard man, I felt my heart tip toward trust.
A knock at the door was followed by the appearance of the desk sergeant’s face. His eyebrows were as high as they could go. He was having quite a morning.
“That jackanapes Mr. Fuller’s here, sir, and he says you’re wanting to see him!” He shook his head in disbelief. “I told him you wouldn’t—”
“But I do, Jurgens. Thank you.”
Jurgens blinked in bewilderment.
“And please send my sister in with him. She’s sitting on the bench,” I added.
No doubt Jurgens felt even more surprise at receiving a command from me, but the poor man’s eyebrows couldn’t go any higher up his forehead.
The surprise settled in his nose instead, which scrunched up so high that dark nose hairs emerged.
“Good lord,” he muttered. Then, at Mr. Stiles’s gentle cough, he said, “Yes’m,” and vanished.
A moment later, Mr. Fuller and Sarah entered the room together.
Mr. Stiles saw that Sarah was nervous, and after greeting Mr. Fuller, civilly but with restraint, he asked Sarah if she’d like some hot tea and drew out a chair for her, trying to set her at ease. She nodded and thanked him, and he left.
I pulled my chair closer to Sarah and took her hand.
With a glance at Mr. Fuller, she gently drew it away and clasped her hands in her own lap.
“I’m Mr. Fuller,” he said, his voice subdued. “I heard about your ordeal. Are you all right?”
“I am,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Fuller.”
I’d never been so proud of Sarah as I was at that moment. She held herself with dignity, waiting until Mr. Stiles returned with her tea. She thanked him and took a sip, then set the cup in the saucer with nary a jitter.
Mr. Fuller remained silent as Mr. Stiles settled in his chair.
“Now, Miss Jimeson,” he began, his voice kind.
“I understand you have something to tell me. I’m going to take notes so I don’t make mistakes, and please take your time in answering.
There’s no hurry.” He took out a piece of foolscap and a pen from a drawer in the table, then asked her name, her age, where she lived, and where she was employed—simple questions, which Sarah answered with growing confidence.
At last, Sarah explained what she’d seen that night in Mayfair and where exactly she’d been when she saw Billy Winston and Tommy Finch.