Chapter 12

The next day was like every day for the past fortnight. A cold fog blew up the river. Blathers and I met at a coffeehouse about half way between our separate lodgings. We both live on Thames Street. I have two rooms on the first floor rear, in a very nice house, overlooking the embankment near Blackfriars Bridge. Blathers lives in a ground-floor room, facing the street near Southwark Bridge.

“Me feet is killin’ me this mornin’,” Blathers complained. “It’s a good show we has young Joe ta do some o’ the legwork.”

“As soon as we are done, we should walk back to Spitalfields and look in on young Joe. The only reason he is doing the following is the stranger would recognize you or me. If the stranger catches on to him, the boy could be in some trouble.”

We finished our breakfast and, accompanied by much complaining on Blathers’ part, headed off to see how our junior associate was doing. In Spitalfields we walked down the street where Joe said the stranger had rooms. In order to reduce the possibility the suspect might see us and become aware he was the object of surveillance, we hurried down the side of the street opposite the house. “I doesn’t see no Joe,” Blathers said.

“He must be off following the suspect, at least I hope so.”

“I doesn’t think so, for here he comes now.”

“Joe?”

“No! The stranger.”

“Keep walking, and don’t let on we are doing anything but passing by. Is Joe anywhere in sight?”

“I doesn’t see him anywheres. Either he’s real good at follerin’ or he’s still in his bed.”

“Or he has met some disaster.”

“Good morning, sir.” I nodded at the stranger as he passed in the street. “Well, at least that gives us a good look at him.” The stranger was tall and muscular through the chest and shoulders, like a blacksmith. He was not wearing a hat. His light blond, almost white hair was parted in the middle and combed back on both sides. He gave me a confident smile as he acknowledged the greeting. He had happy-go-lucky gray-blue eyes and a mouth full of shining teeth.

“I don’t think we was recognized,” Blathers speculated. “What did ya make o’ him?”

“I think he’s Irish.”

“As Irish as Paddy’s pig.” Blathers’ people were originally from Ireland, and he knew what his countrymen looked like. “Then it’s them Catholics as is mixed up in this.”

“But aren’t you Catholic yourself? I mean, you are Irish, you know.”

“Me people were o’ the Church o’ Ireland, good Protestants. We had people what fought wi’ Cromwell.”

“Well, nonetheless. It’s not only Catholics who want changes. Most of the Parliament supported the Emancipation Act.”

“It’s true, but there’s a bunch o’ them popish Irish still wants to fight wi’ guns and bombs. It’s them murderin’ rogues what we needs ta fear.”

I nodded agreement. Blathers looked around. “I still don’t see Joe. It seems like he takes our money, and he’s not a-doin’ the job.”

“I don’t think he would do that. I’m worried.”

“Maybe you is right there. He seems ta likes bein’ a detective. I hope nothin’ has happened ta him.”

“We should go to the gin shop to see if he has been around there. We’re dealing with some dangerous people. If Joe got caught spying on them, he might get hurt.”