Ben felt for Badger. He could see how silent he’d become, how angry. Here he was, thinking he’s a man and doing for himself, and then the guv – a man whom he’d come to think of as a father figure, a man he respected – was hovering over his shoulder all this time like he didn’t trust him. It had to gall.
Still. Mister Holmes’s interference meant that they had good lodgings, good food, and servants for the first time in their lives. An occasional push in the right direction wouldn’t go amiss either, as far as Ben was concerned. But he knew how it hurt Badger’s self-worth.
He wanted to say something but he didn’t know what. They both kept silent as they walked.
Long shadows followed them through the streets of London, passing churches, pubs, cook shops, blocks of solemn-faced tenements, boarding houses and shops, until they arrived – fifteen minutes later – on Drury Lane. Watson knew of only one gin shop on the street, the Princess Beatrice Tavern, and quickly made his way to it. It was a brick structure of tall windows and gables. They could already hear the noise within, once they were only a few paces from the door. He began to wonder how he was going to keep Badger from the bar, since he knew he’d try to drown his sorrows in gin or bitter, but the man wore a different sort of determination on his face today that Ben hadn’t seen before. Maybe he’d leave off for once.
When they got inside where it was warm and stuffy, they stood near the doorway, scanning the room. Maybe we should have come disguised, he thought with a warm, embarrassed flash to his chest. Surely she’d bolt the moment she saw them. They hadn’t thought that through. That’s what comes of emotions coming into it. He gathered himself. Think, he admonished himself. What to do right now?
He elbowed Badger and spoke quietly. ‘If she sees us—’
‘She’ll run,’ he answered. So at least Badger had thought of that too.
‘Let’s split up,’ said Ben. ‘Move stealthy-like along the edges and keep our hats down.’
Badger nodded and made his way left, leaving Ben to move right.
The place was bright with gaslight, shining on cheery faces, reddened noses and cheeks, toffs drinking next to tradesmen. A piano and a violin played off to the side, and there was the smell of bodies and sweat and spilled beer, the rustling of clothes, clinking of glasses, and the occasional uproar of laughter and backslapping before it died down again to a loud buzz of conversation.
The big-bellied gin barrels were lined in a row behind a sumptuously carved wooden bar, with dividers for a bit of privacy while tippling. Even the polished tin of the ceiling caught the light and made the inside all the merrier, drastically different from the dreary slums of Drury Lane outside the tavern’s walls.
Ben pushed his hat down over his forehead and glanced up now and again from under the brim. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed …’ There she was, tray in hand and dealing out glasses of gin and little cakes to the customers as they sat at their tables.
As stealthily as he could among the crowds, Ben kept one eye on her, and another on making his way in a wide circle toward her. He managed to get in behind her and, while she was busy pushing away the hands of a drunken customer in a boiled shirt and topper, Ben closed his hands on her arms. He got in close and hissed into her ear, ‘Don’t make trouble.’
She stiffened.
‘We’re going to walk out of here arm in arm, you get me? And then we’re going to have a little talk about séances and throwing knives and you trying to kill me partner. Nod if you understand me.’
Slowly, she nodded.
‘Right. Then let’s go.’
He whistled a particular signal, which he knew would bring Badger running, and pushed his way – with his hands holding tightly to her – through the throng of people, mindful of her trying to kick him.
He got her outside and stood with her on the pavement, not letting up one inch.
‘You’re hurting my arm,’ she said in a soft Irish intonation.
‘I may very well be doing so. But you have a nasty habit of escaping. If you keep getting away, that innocent man will be done for murder.’
‘He didn’t do it.’
‘Yes, that I know. Because you did.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I think you did. And there’s no more use denying it. It’s all about you,’ he said, parroting Holmes’s words.
Ben felt a presence behind him when the door to the gin shop opened – releasing the noise and music like a dam bursting – and then closed in the sounds once again.
‘You got her!’ said Badger.
‘I did. Now. Take her to the Yard?’
‘No!’ she cried, trying to twist away.
‘Here now!’ warned Badger, coming around to face her. ‘You tried to stab me in me sleep. I don’t take kindly to that.’
‘I wasn’t going to kill you.’
‘And how do I know that’s the truth?’
‘We need a quiet place to talk,’ said Ben. Now she was trying in earnest to fight him off.
Badger curled his hand into a fist, showing her. ‘If you don’t still yourself, I’ll have to punch you one. And I don’t want to punch a woman.’
‘I didn’t kill Quinn.’
‘Why were you there?’ urged Badger. ‘How did you get to that séance?’
She smiled, showing missing teeth at the side of her mouth. ‘Ask Mary Brennan.’
‘Are you not Mary Brennan?’ hissed Ben.
She gave him a sharp look and then tried to wrench away from him.
‘Stop fighting!’ he shouted.
She pushed her face toward him. ‘I’m Josie Williams. Have been a good long time.’
‘That don’t answer anything,’ said Badger, still brandishing his fist.
‘What goes on here?’
Ben swung Josie around toward the voice. A man with pushed-in features, like a prize fighter, scowled at them. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his waistcoat was open, revealing his braces and a stained shirt. The door was just swinging closed behind him, and he pulled his brimmed cap down over his forehead. ‘I asked you lads what’s going on here? Why are you holding this good woman?’
‘We are private detectives,’ said Badger, raising his chin. ‘And this here “good” woman is a murderess. We’re taking her to Scotland Yard.’
The man looked to the woman. ‘Is that so, Josie?’
‘I didn’t do nothin’, Alf. They’re not who they say they are.’
The man took a step toward Badger, who held up his hands. ‘Whoa there, man. Look. I got a calling card—’
‘Stuff your calling card.’
Before Badger could reach into his coat pocket, the man was upon him, crumpling both lapels in his beefy fists.
Everyone stilled at the sound of a cocking revolver hammer. Even Josie stopped wriggling. Ben had the Bull Dog nearly pressed to the burly gentleman’s temple.
‘It’s as my partner says,’ said Ben. ‘We are detectives and we are bringing this woman to the police. And I suggest you don’t try to stop us.’
Josie jerked in Ben’s one-handed grip and he suddenly cried out as a searing pain shot through his foot where she’d stomped good and hard on it with the heel of her boot. His fingers opened and she darted out of his grasp.
Badger dived for her but, as slippery as she was, she dodged him, ducked around Ben’s reaching arm, and managed to twist around behind him, using the man in the doorway to block them from nabbing her again. Off she ran. Ben grabbed his sore foot. Badger lurched forward to give chase, when the man grabbed the scruff of his coat and yanked him back, throwing him to the ground.
‘Look what you gone and done!’ Badger cried to the man who was standing over him with bared fists. ‘She’s a fugitive from justice and you just let her escape!’
Alf’s fists were still at the ready, but his face didn’t seem so sure anymore.
Badger got to his feet and brushed at his trousers and coat. ‘Blimey. And we worked hard finding her.’
‘Are you … are you really detectives?’ the man asked, his arms lowering.
Badger thrust his hand into his coat pocket and yanked out a card, shoving it into the man’s face. ‘See?’
The man labored over reading each word, but he finally lowered it. ‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘You should be! You awright there, Ben?’
The deep throbbing in his foot had subsided only slightly. ‘Gor blimey,’ he hissed, and fumbled the Webley back inside his coat. ‘Just maimed for life.’
Badger waved his words away. ‘You’re fine.’
Ben gestured to his foot. ‘I’m not. I’m maimed for life, I tell you.’
‘What are we gonna do now?’
‘Sorry, gents,’ said the man in the doorway. ‘I feel badly about not trusting you. It’s just that … I know this lass. Can I buy you a gin to ease the pain?’
Ben thought about it, saw the eagerness on Badger’s face, but ultimately decided against it. ‘I thank you, mate, but we’d better not.’
‘Aw, Ben …’
‘How long have you known her?’ said Ben, ignoring Badger.
The man rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘Oh, a fair bit. Used to see her round the funfair. We both worked it back in the day. She did fortune telling. I did the high-striker.’
‘Was her name always Josie Williams?’
He seemed perplexed at the question. ‘Yes, as far as I can remember. That would be some twenty or so years I known her.’
‘Did she have a kid with her?’ asked Badger.
He shook his head. ‘Not her.’ He looked them over. ‘Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink?’
Ben sensed Badger was readying to go back inside with the tall stranger. ‘Ahem. Aren’t you forgetting you’ve got a date to fill tonight? And her without a chaperone.’
‘Oh! I almost forgot.’ He tipped his hat to the man. ‘Sorry, mate. We can’t stay. Here, you invalid. Let me get you home.’ He took up one of Ben’s arms and allowed him to lean on his shoulder.
‘What a damned stupid thing to have happened,’ Ben grumbled as they made their way slowly back to Dean Street. The roads grayed with the dying light. Funny how streets in the East End seemed to sport little color, and those on the West End seemed to sparkle with it. Even when the sunlight left it. The streetlights, winking on as the lamplighter did the job on his ladder, couldn’t seem to offer the cheeriness of the better thoroughfares of London. Ben couldn’t fathom why.
‘I wonder if she’ll scarper for good from there,’ said Badger, interrupting his musings.
‘Would you go back?’
‘She might have to pick up a few things. But there’s little hope of finding her there again.’
Ben sighed. ‘Now what’ll we do?’
‘I suppose … I could ask Mister Holmes—’
‘No, Tim. I can’t stand the thought of it. Of you askin’ him. You and me, we can do this. I’m sure we can. We’ve just got to employ his way.’
‘I’m thinking,’ muttered Badger. But Ben could clearly see how relieved he was.
‘Don’t stay out too late,’ admonished Ben as Badger, all bristled up with a frock coat and tie, smiled at himself in the looking glass by the door.
‘What are you, my nanny?’
Ben stiffened. That was just how he felt sometimes. ‘Awright,’ he said, waving him off and sitting himself a bit abruptly in his chair. He snatched up the evening paper and flicked it hard to straighten it. ‘Why should I care? You’re just going out with a she-devil, a slippery snake of a reporter. Nothin’ to fear there, eh?’
‘Ben, Ben.’ He wagged his head and adjusted his tie. ‘I’m onto her game now. I might try to feed her the wrong information, get her off our backs for a change. That’s my smart thinking.’
‘You and smart thinking? That’ll be the day.’
‘You gotta have more faith in me, old son. G’night, Ben. Don’t wait up!’ He pushed his hat down over the side of his face at a jaunty angle and sauntered out the door.
It wasn’t that Ben had no faith in Badger. It was that he trusted Miss Littleton least of all. And they with a murder to wrap up sooner rather than later.
‘Good luck, Tim,’ he muttered, and commenced reading every article in the small, tight text in The Daily Chronicle, scanning the pages for the name Ellsie Moira Littleton.