Chapter 11

“Me feet is startin’ ta kill me. All this walkin’.” Even though the day was cold and damp, perspiration was showing on Blathers’ forehead. He struggled to keep up with my long stride. I am quite a bit taller and, I must say, very much thinner that he is. “Can we slows down just a wee bit, so as I can get me breath?”

“We’re almost there now. Just around the next bend. You didn’t need a second pint to wash down your bangers and mash, you know.”

As we approached Conway’s gin shop, I saw Joe the Dip hanging around on the corner. Blathers went over and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What does ya have ta tell us now, Joe?”

“Le’ me see da sovereign.”

Blathers tightened his grip. “Joe, we needs ta hear your story afore ya see any cash. Come on, out wi’ it.”

Joe had a bent spine and a twisted left leg, like many of the young people in Spitalfields. These deformities usually resulted from spending years in a textile factory, standing in front of a machine for thirteen hours a day at an early age. “Awr, your breakin’ me back, now.”

Blathers hauled Joe into an alley beside the gin shop. I followed and said, “Blathers, let the lad go. You’re hurting him. Joe, tell what you know, and the sovereign is yours.”

“I done likes ya said. I follered da gent ta ’is lodgin’s. It’s only in da next street, number 28, first floor front, least dats where da shade went down right arter ’e goes in da ’ouse. I ’angs round a bit and out ’e comes, but I ain’t able ta foller ’im cause I ’as ta meets ya. Dat’s all I knows.”

I said, “Good lad. Here’s your money. Now, you can earn another one if you’ll watch the gent tomorrow and report back here. But be careful.”

“T’anks much. I’ll stick to ’im like dung ta me shoe.” Joe limped off to follow his mark and his new, lawful, well-paying career as an assistant detective. It never occurred to him that he was following danger.