Chapter 23

At the Black Lion, Blathers was having a brandy, compliments of Clara Barkis. I also had a glass of brandy in front of me. “Go ahead and drink it, Mr. Duff. It’ll help with the pain. I know how attached you were to Joe. He’s with his maker now, and all his aches and pains are over.”

I know Blathers understood how I felt, but as usual, he focused on the business at hand. “We is sorry we isn’t able ta deliver the jewelry, but the feller never showed up. O’ course, there were so many Bobbies around he were probably scared off.”

The door opened and Charles Dickens and John Forster strode in. “Good evening, Mrs. Barkis, and good evening to my two favorite detectives. Barkis, himself, is off again this evening, I presume.” Dickens noticed Clara had her hands wrapped around a pint mug.

“He is. He has a hauling job tonight. He just can’t seem to get away from that calling and settle down as an innkeeper. That leaves a lot of work for me, but then again, the carting pays well, and it’s all money, I always say.”

Forster said, “Indeed, I think he was born a carter and will always be a carter.”

Dickens said, “That may well be true, but then carting is an honorable profession, as is inn-keeping, Mrs. Barkis. Of course, Forster and I prefer an innkeeper who will see we are provided with a couple of brandies.”

“Coming right up, Mr. Dickens.”

“Now, Mr. Duff, your face is longer than usual this evening. What’s the difficulty?”

Blathers explained about Joe’s death, and my plans to help him. Dickens offered his condolences and added, “It’s very laudable of you to care about someone in such circumstances. Most of our society turns away from the plight of the poor, which has been occasioned by the development of industry in our fair nation. It is difficult to understand how some can ignore the suffering of their fellow man.”

Forster put his index finger along the side of his nose and said, “There is more to it than that. It is a dangerous society where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Indeed, witness what happened in France.”

I said, “Some are saying that Sir Robert only founded his Metropolitan Police force to protect the rich from the poor. They say, if the French had Bobbies, there wouldn’t have been a revolution.”

Blathers expressed his opinion. “Them Bobbies isn’t much good at nothin’. There has been two murders in that house now, and nobody knows a thin’ about either one o’ them.”

Dickens agreed. “Look at the number of young women slain in the streets each year. The police seem helpless in those cases.”

“They needs ta nab that young Squod. He’s probably the one what’s doin’ it. I is sure he is around here somewhere. If’n they’d put out a good reward for the rascal, Duff and me would get him.”

While this conversation was going on, the hostler came to the door and signaled to Clara. She set the drinks for Dickens and Forster on the table and went to him. He handed her a folded piece of paper. She read it and looked over at the benches near the fire. “Mr. Blathers and Mr. Duff, could I speak with you in the parlor for a moment? Mr. Dickens, Mr. Forster, we’ll only be a short time.”