31

Thursday, June 17, cont.

When James stepped outside into the warm spring sunshine after leaving the bar, he had a clear mission. Stop the assassin, with or without a badge. He thought back to his days as an inspector under Abberline in Division H in the East End. He’d learned the truth of the old saying, “It takes a thief to catch a thief.” Ott wasn’t a thief, but perhaps he was hiding with one.

I wonder if he’s still alive? James thought. Last he’d seen Billy “Peg Leg” Fisher, his liver was giving him fits, and he’d had to cut back on the gin. That’d been, what, three years ago? Well, nothing ventured . . .

Peg Leg had once been a sailor, but a leg crushed by a falling mainsail years ago before steam engines took over had left him with a wooden leg and a powerful thirst, though perhaps the thirst had always been there. Now Billy was a fence, and a good one, for three young burglars who were loyal to him due to their blood relation. They were his sons.

Little happened in the East End that Peg Leg wasn’t aware of, or had a hand in. Though he would steal the crown jewels given the chance, he was careful to never spill blood, and he and James had an armistice of sorts. There were criminals far worse than he and his progeny, so in return for the odd bit of gossip, he’d been left alone. Time to renew old acquaintances.

When James had first been assigned to the East End, he’d been surprised how much business took place inside pubs. On reflection, however, it made sense. Rooms were usually crowded, and two men surrounded by loud, drunk customers could carry on a conversation in greater privacy than was possible back at their digs. Besides, it allowed both sides to keep their residence concealed from the other party.

James was relieved to see the old salt in his favorite corner of the Ten Bells, his wooden leg propped up on a chair while he smoked his pipe and chatted with his three sons, who were between seventeen and twenty-one. The difference in their hair color told James no two had shared the same mother.

Billy looked up sharply as James approached. The inspector wasn’t surprised by the fatherly advice the fence was giving his boys. “Aye, lads, while the bands a’playing and the crowds ’re cheering, ’twill be a fine time to . . .”

“Hello, Billy. Glad to see you’re such a patriot.”

“Inspector! Good to see you!” he said, raising his pipe in mock salute. “I’d heard you’d moved on to higher things than us poor lot ’ere in Whitechapel. You here to sweep the streets before Her Majesty rides around the town? If so, you’re off your map, shipmate. Her course is charted far from ’ere.”

The three sons smirked but remained silent. They knew of the truce their father had with the inspector and, having no stolen property on them, they sipped their ales and listened.

“Do you see a broom in my hand, Billy? No, I haven’t been transferred to the sanitation department, but this visit does concern the queen. Did you see the paper today?”

Billy nodded, stroking the stubble on his chin. He could smell a deal a mile away, and knew one was coming. “I might ’ave at that. And?”

“Did you see the sketch of a man?” He pulled out the police drawing of Ott. “This man?”

“Aye, I did. Took a shot at one of yours, I believe.” He winked. “Missed.”

“Not by much. I was the target.”

Billy clucked his tongue. “Ah, as popular as ever, Inspector. Well, you can’t expect a man to change his ways just ’cause he got a bigger badge. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“I think he’s hereabouts, and I want you to help me find him.” Billy spread his hands out in front of him. “And why should I help you? What’s in it for me?”

“Because I believe he’s here to kill the queen. If he does that, and if he were hiding here . . .”

Billy sighed. “Every constable in London will sweep in here and tear the East End apart. Aye.” He rubbed his forehead. “I still recall how I had to scramble when you lot were looking for the Ripper. Bad for business, that. Not to say it was good for the ladies either, mind you.” He gazed fondly at the three wooden figures sitting around him. “But I had hungry mouths to feed, so had little time to mourn their troubles, you understand.”

“Then, if you don’t want bad times again, you’d be wise to look about, Billy. We don’t have much time, the ceremony’s next Tuesday.”

“You’re no more fun than before, Master Ethington. All right. I’ll sic my boys on his trail. What can you tell me to help us find this poor marksman? I’m sure you know more than’s in the paper.”

“He’s German. He’s an electrician, and he uses an air rifle that makes very little noise. He’s dangerous, Billy. If your boys find him, leave him to me.”

“My boys can take care of themselves, sir. But thank you for the concern. Where should I send word if I learn something?”

“Here.” James wrote down his address, hoping he wasn’t extending an invitation to be burgled at a later time. “Any time at night. During the day, send word to the station at Spitalfields and they’ll telegraph my office.”

Billy extended his hand. “I’ll see what I can find out, Inspector. Oh, and the conversation me and my boys were ‘aving when you came in . . .”

“I didn’t hear a thing, Billy, as long as no one’s harmed.”

“A pleasure as always, Inspector, and proud to do me civic duty. Good day.”

James appreciated the relatively cleaner air of the London streets after the close confines of the pub. He reflected that he now had the best sleuths in London on his side. Billy had a nose for profit and whom to profit from. If someone in the East End was being paid off to shelter the killer, Billy and his lads would hear it on the wind. If Herr Ott’s benefactor was a believer in his cause and not sheltering the German for pay, then it was hopeless, and James would just have to do his best on the day of the ceremony.

Let’s hope greed wins out over politics.