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JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK
1906
’Twas my fault. I tried to grab the boy’s wrist, but he saw us, taking off down the alley as fast as a cellar rat chased by a cat. Isaac Bell and I raced after him. When we emerged from the alley to the street beyond, there was no sign of the child.
Isaac, certain he couldn’t have gone far in that time, drew me back into the alley, insisting we wait, in his words, “for however long it takes.”
We hunkered down near a refuse pile, the smell of soured trash almost overpowering at first, then fading as our senses dulled. Isaac and I both wore heavy overcoats and gloves, protecting us from the cold. The child had neither, and the quick glimpse of his arm I’d seen at the shop told me that the patched sleeve of his threadbare coat was far too thin to offer much warmth.
As the cold permeated through my heavy layers, I felt certain the child must have escaped or was freezing to death somewhere because of our presence. About to suggest that we split up and begin a search, Isaac pointed to our left. The child emerged from an alcove across the street, where stairs led down to a basement door of the mercantile building. He hovered at the top of the stairs, edged his way out, raced ’round the corner. Isaac and I followed as the boy ran toward the railroad tracks . . .
* * *
—
“WE HAVE HIM,” Isaac said, bolting down the street.
I could scarce keep up with the detective as he raced after the child, cornering him beneath the stairs of a factory about midway down the block.
By the time that I caught up with them, I was completely out of breath. “We mean no harm,” I said, my chest heaving.
The boy cowered against the wall, his eyes wide with fright, as he regarded us. He lingered on me, as he slowly stood, edging away from Isaac. Suddenly he darted past me.
Isaac was faster. He grabbed the boy, lifting him in the air and holding him out, as the urchin squirmed and kicked.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” the boy cried. “You can have the bread. I won’t do it again. I won’t!”
“Hush,” Isaac said. “We don’t care about the bread.”
“Let me go!”
“Information. We’re willing to pay.” Isaac looked over at me. “Show him the money.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. I quickly reached for my coin purse, holding out two shillings for the boy to see. “Yours,” I said, “if you’ll talk to us.”
He eyed the money, his demeanor changing from scared to suspicious. But then he looked at my face, his eyes going wide. Suddenly he struggled harder, shouting, “I won’t tell. I won’t. I promise! I promise! Please let me go.”
Isaac nearly lost his grip on the boy. “Won’t tell what?”
The boy refused to look up again, this time angling his eyes downward. Which was when I recognized him. My father had insisted I attend a meeting at the orphanage to learn why there was a shortage of money. It had been that day. “I saw you at the children’s home.”
Tears sprang to the lad’s eyes, and he seemed to crumple in Isaac’s arms, the fierce wildcat turning into a trembling mess. “Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything.”
I was about to reassure him when Isaac asked, “What didn’t you see?”
“That man what killed them blokes. I didn’t see. I didn’t.” He buried his face into Isaac’s chest, struggling to breathe as loud sobs wracked his chest.
Isaac held him tight, as he loo
ked at me over the top of the boy’s head. “I believe we have found our witness.”
* * *
—
WE TOOK THE BOY to Isaac’s suite of rooms at the Midland Hotel, where we discovered that food was a far better motivator than any amount of money. Isaac questioned him as he ate, and, with each answer, I felt my world crashing in.
“He’s mistaken!” I said, unable to believe the child’s words. “There’s no other explanation.”
