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Tom gurgled his appreciation. He was not absolutely sure, but he rather thought this agreeable young fellow might be either a rozzer or someone who fed the rozzers judicious bits of information. He would not be above doing that himself, if he had any—for a reasonable consideration, of course. Nothing about ordinary thievery, which was a way of life, but about strangers on the patch, or nasty things that were likely to bring a lot of unwelcome police attention, like murders, or arson, or major forgery, which always upset important gents up in the City. It made things hard for the small business of local burglary, street robbery, petty forgery of money and legal lett
ers or papers. It was difficult to fence stolen goods with too many police about, or sell illegal liquors. Small-time smuggling up the river suffered—and gambling, card sharping, petty fraud and confidence tricks connected with sport, bare knuckle pugilism, and of course prostitution. Had Evan asked about any of these Tom would have been affronted and told him so. The underworld conducted these types of business all the time, and no one expected to root them out.
But there were things one did not do. It was foolish, and very inconsiderate to those who had their living to make with as little disturbance as possible.
“Wot bad business is that, sir?”
“Murder,” Evan replied seriously. “Very important man’s daughter, stabbed in her own bedroom, by a burglar. Stupid—”
“I never ’eard.” Tom was indignant. “W’en was that, then? Nobody said!”
“Last night,” Evan answered, drinking more of his cider. Somewhere over to their left there was a roar of laughter and someone shouted the odds against a certain horse winning a race.
“I never ’eard,” Tom repeated dolefully. “Wot ’e want ter go an’ do that fer? Stupid, I calls it. W’y kill a lady? Knock ’er one, if yer ’ave ter, like if she wakes up and starts ter ’oller. But it’s a daft geezer wot makes enough row ter wake people anyway.”
“And stabbing.” Evan shook his head. “Why couldn’t he hit her, as you said. Needn’t have killed her. Now half the top police in the West End will be all over the place!” A total exaggeration, at least so far, but it served his purpose. “More cider?”
Again Tom indicated his reply by shoving his mug over wordlessly, and Evan rose to oblige.
“Willie wouldn’t do anything like that,” Tom said when Evan returned. “ ’e in’t stupid.”
“If I thought he had I wouldn’t want to warn him,” Evan answered. “I’d let him swing.”
“Yeah,” Tom agreed gloomily. “But w’en, eh? Not before the crushers ’as bin all over the place, an’ everybody’s bin upset and business ruined for all sorts!”
“Exactly.” Evan hid his face in his mug. “So where’s Willie?”
This time Tom did not equivocate. “Mincing Lane,” he said dourly. “If’n yer wait there an hour or so ’e’ll come by the pie stand there some time ternight. An’ I daresay if’n yer tells ’im abaht this ’e’ll be grateful, like.” He knew Evan, whoever he was, would want something in return. That was the way of life.
“Thank you.” Evan left his mug half empty; Tom would be only too pleased to finish it for him. “I daresay I’ll try that. G’night.”
“G’night.” Tom appropriated the half mug before any over-zealous barman could remove it.
Evan went out into the rapidly chilling evening and walked briskly, collar turned up, looking neither to right nor left, until he turned into Mincing Lane and past the groups of idlers huddled in doorways. He found the eel pie seller with his barrow, a thin man with a stovepipe hat askew on his head, an apron around his waist, and a delicious smell issuing from the inside of containers balanced in front of him.
Evan bought a pie and ate it with enjoyment, the hot pastry crunching and flaking and the eel flesh delicate on his tongue.
“Seen Willie Durkins?” he said presently.
“Not ternight.” The man was careful: it did not do to give information for nothing, and without knowing to whom.
Evan had no idea whether to believe him or not, but he had no better plan, and he settled back in the shadows, chilly and bored, and waited. A street patterer came by, singing a ballad about a current scandal involving a clergyman who had seduced a schoolmistress and then abandoned her and her child. Evan recalled the case in the sensational press a few months ago, but this version was much more colorful, and in less than fifteen minutes the patterer, and the eel stand, had collected a dozen or more customers, all of whom bought pies and stood around to listen. For which service the patterer got his supper free—and a good audience.
A narrow man with a cheerful face came out of the gloom to the south and bought himself a pie, which he ate with evident enjoyment, then bought a second and treated a scruffy child to it with evident pleasure.
“Good night then, Tosher?” the pie man asked knowingly.
“Best this month,” Tosher replied. “Found a gold watch! Don’t get many o’ them.”
The pie man laughed. “Some flash gent’ll be cursin’ ’is luck!” He grinned. “Shame-eh?”
“Oh, terrible shame,” Tosher agreed with a chuckle.
Evan knew enough of street life to understand. “Tosher” was the name for men who searched the sewers for lost articles. As far as he was concerned, they, and the mudlarks along the river, were more than welcome to what they found; it was hard won enough.
Other people came and went: costers, off duty at last; a cab driver; a couple of boatmen up from the river steps; a prostitute; and then, when Evan was stiff with cold and lack of movement and about to give up, Willie Durkins.
He recognized Evan after only a brief glance, and his round face became careful.
