“Tonight. Now.”
Drayman swore. “Who’s it from?”
“How the hell would I know? Certainly not the boy.” She turned to go, then swung back as her gin-raddled memory made a discovery. “Johnny, he said.”
A slow smile began to curl Drayman’s lips. It seemed he didn’t have to look for Johnny after all. Johnny had found him, only he was too scared to come in. Not that Drayman could blame him for that. There were trapdoors and spikes and blades all over the building—Drayman had almost lost an arm once in this bloody place. “Did he say that? Good old Johnny. What else, Rosie, my love?”
Rosie gave a derisory snort. “He says he needs paying to keep you safe. And gold will do.”
Drayman began to laugh. Sure, he’d give Johnny the brass watch after he’d killed him—and then the law would be off Drayman’s back. It couldn’t have worked out better than this.
He sobered again quickly, though. “Here, Rosie, got a job for you. You need to go out.”
“I need to work if I’ve got two bleeding mouths to feed!” she said furiously.
Drayman didn’t have to say anything, just look.
And inevitably, she dropped her gaze first. “What?” she asked aggressively.
“Fetch a couple of my lads to meet me outside…”
*
Constance did notmind particularly that she had been given the easy job to keep her out of danger. She was quite happy to summon the police to the Crown and Anchor—and to accompany them to that less-than-salubrious establishment. Accordingly, she set off to Scotland Yard in a hackney that she instructed to wait for her.
She gave the sergeant at the desk her best smile and told her tale—a servant had overheard that the perpetrator of the murder outside the Crown and Anchor last week was there again now, and that it was Constance’s duty to pass the word along.
The sergeant eyed her skeptically. “That a fact, madam? Well, you’ll be glad to know we already have a police presence at the Crown and Anchor, and if any murderers turn up, we’ll be sure to catch them.”
Constance raised a haughty eyebrow. “I don’t believe you’re taking me seriously, sergeant.”
He scowled back. “I don’t believe you’ve took me seriously neither. Thank you for your information, ma’am, now please leave the matter to the police.”
She waited, but he neither moved nor called anyone. “Sergeant, one tired man wilting in the cold and the rain is not going to be enough! Drayman will be with friends.”
“And you know this how, madam? More overheard conversations?”
“Yes,” Constance declared.
“Go home, ma’am,” the sergeant said wearily.
“I wish to speak to Inspector Omand. Or failing that, Inspector Harris.”
“Do you? Well, you’re out of luck, ’cause they’re not here. And they deserve their beauty sleep.”
“Sergeant Flynn, then! Anyone who will take me seriously.”
The sergeant straightened and looked her over with undisguised contempt. “Madam, return in the hours of daylight. Now please go before I’m obliged to have you removed.”
“Imbecile!” Constance exploded, which was hardly wise, but she’d had enough of his scorn and his superior manliness and wanted to scream in frustration.
Two large constables were advancing upon her. She walked in the direction of the door and, while they accompanied her, told the story to them again and requested they do something about it for the sake of their careers.
They shut the door in her face while she was still talking.
Stunned, Constance was temporarily flummoxed.
It had been a long time since any man had dismissed her, and she truly hadn’t expected it now, at the worst possible time, when she needed the police to save Solomon and arrest the murderer.
