Chapter Four

Squod spent the rest of the evening as he always did, being a good host and joining most of his customers in a drink. When his son came home, the landlord of the Black Lion was in his usual state.

“Ah, Father, look at you. Once again, you’re your own best customer.” The lad had learned to speak properly at the theater.

Squod staggered to his feet and pulled his son aside. “Them detectives were here earlier, and they wants to talk to ya. They wants to know if ya was mixed up wi’ that there Little Liz. I were a wee drunk last night, but I thinks I knows more than I wants to. Just ’cause your mum walked out on us, it don’t mean all women, even them tarts, is so bad. Does ya understand me, Jack?”

The door of the taproom banged open, and Blathers strode in, followed by Duff. “We wishes ta talk wi’ your lad, Squod.” Jack Squod jumped from his chair and dashed into the back room. He ripped out a back door and went over the fence.

“We only wants ta talk wi’ him. Where’s he goin’?” By the time Blathers and Duff realized the boy was running away and began pursuit, young Jack was lost in the dank, dark, dangerous maze that was nineteenth-century London.

****

From time to time, over the years, the corpses of “professional ladies” decorated the brothels, sordid inns, and slimiest street corners of London. Except for the occasional arrest of an angry pimp, the murders went unsolved. A Jack of Spades was often found at the scene.